The following are videos we made together.
After our first ever attempt at stop animation for our friends Lisa Christy and Karen Hite of Weiden + Kennedy who came down and talked with the U of Oregon Advertising Society (of which we're co-presidents), we made this video for Ian Cohen and Bryan Chackel from The Wexley School for Girls. We made this in 15 straight hours. This video also made the rounds around Wieden + Kennedy--they posted it on their top secret blog. Don't tell anyone.
This video we made to take with us to Wexley. They invited us up to check out the agency and we thought we'd try to showcase our other abilities with this video. The song was written and performed by Matt while the lyrics were written and sang by both of us. For some reason, this video took way longer than the previous one clocking in at about 60 hours of production time and over 6500 frames.
These videos are our first attempts at creating commercials. We made them for the Dorito's Super Bowl contest. We didn't win. But we didn't lose either!
Monday, May 7, 2007
Stuff Matt does
This is the cover letter I wrote for the Wexley School for Girls. Don't feel bad, I can write a different one for your agency if you want.
To The Wexley School For Girls (including the dog, but not the cosmonaut in the box),
Just now, as I was looking over my life trying to pull out something really impressive to impress you with, I remembered this kid I used to live with named Neal. I always thought Neal was a weird name in the first place, like it should be short for something like Jerneal or Nealsworth, but coupled with this particular human the combination was just dumb. Neal did too much coke, which I think is why he thought it was ok to have a flat top with a little rat tail in the back. Anyway, one of the only things I ever remember him saying to me was, “I think you might have schizophrenia.” This would have worried me if I hadn’t known that a.) Neal had no idea what schizophrenia was and b.) he meant to say amnesia because I was tearing apart the house looking for my keys.
Neal may have been smelly, but I think he was also a witch because in a way he kind of predicted the future: after all I’ve done, it does feel like I’ve lived with multiple personalities. It would be too hard (for me) and too boring (for you) if I tried to recount those different lives (often simultaneously, in true schizoid fashion) in a letter where I’m trying to prove that I’m good at writing succinct ideas in clever ways. That sentence wasn’t succinct—I meant to do that.
Well, now that I’ve crapped that all up, what the hell...
In high school I was the student body president and the jerk who got too stoned at lunch then passed out in front of the vice principal. I was the kid in the mosh pit at the Van’s Warped Tour staring up at Tim Armstrong thinking, “I can do that.” So I taught myself to play the guitar and five years later was on that stage staring down on the Warped Tour mosh pit wondering whom out there would replace me some day. Someone gave me a scholarship for having a low GPA and the first things I bought were candy and tequila. I’ve lived my dreams and lost them and regained them but will never live those particular ones again. My close friends think I’m the luckiest person they know, but that’s because I never tell them about the unlucky times or how much I’ve given up to get where I am. I taught Dennis Miller’s son how to drop into a half pipe and have fallen 20 feet onto the cement in completely separate incidences. I live for making people happy, and want to die when they’re mad at me. I’ve shot guns in houses, belly-flopped off roofs into bushes, and lied to the police. I’ve seen horses being born, saved a friend’s life after she ate all those pills, and barely escaped some S.H.A.R.P.’s who tried to stab me in a San Francisco bar. One time a bum broke into my car and stole my favorite shoes. Later that day I saw that bum and took back my shoes—while he called me a thief. My father showed me that if you work hard enough, you can get what you want. Now that I finally know what I want, I’m working as hard as I can to get it.
Well, there you have it. Just a few of the highlights. And as I’m rereading, I can’t help but think what Neal would say if he knew I was writing about him in a cover letter to an ad agency I hope to work for someday. I see him sitting there staring into his crystal ball being a creepy witch, happy that things are working out for me. I hope he’s in a good place. And if he’s not, then at least I hope it’s not a crystal ball he’s staring into but the worlds biggest, druggy-est, most narcotic-y crack rock ever.
Next we have some songs I wrote when I played music. I sang, played guitar, and was the song writer in a pop-punk for about five years. We had a pretty good go of it, I guess. We were signed to a label, had managers in San Francisco and L.A., and played the Vans Warped Tour before we decided to go our separate ways. Needless to say, that experience shaped my life. I draw so much from playing music and apply it towards my new passion of advertising. I learned how to work well and lead a small creative group, how to market my band, and how to apply strong strategy to not only the songs but every aspect of the band. We released a full length album in 2003 called the Positionary Mission and the following are just a few of the songs.
Dirtbox
Northworst
Goodbye Mr. Tickles
The Closing Statement
This is a brand story I wrote for Darigold Sour Cream.
The waitress definitely dropped your plate of French fries on the table. If pressed, she would claim she “plopped” it down. But why argue with her for the sake of the six fries that fell off the plate as said delivery took place? No, no she dropped it. You know it, she knows it, and her challenging glare is just begging you to say so. Six fries, on the table, inedible—innocent victims of a needless, worsening confrontation.
Tanya. Her nametag says Tanya and she smacks her gum at you with defiance in her eyes. After several moments you drop your gaze in silent, mock submission—to her, they’re just a few fries. Besides, you didn’t come here to argue. And a sly, triumphant smile curls the corners of your mouth.
You already saw the ketchup in Tanya’s apron, it’s familiar red cylinder sticky and coagulated: you know she’s going to give it to you. Then, as if reading your mind, she pulls the bottle from her pocket and slowly reaches it toward the table. In an act of childish retribution, you wait for the moment just before the ketchup touches the table to reject her offer. No, six fries may have already died in vain this day, but the rest shall not fulfill their destinies in tandem with a sub-standard, base condiment.
Now confused and off balance, Tanya looks almost afraid of your next move. The angle of her head pleads to know how you could possibly resist this staple of the American diet. Surely, one wouldn’t dare eat dry fries, she seems to ask. In her now fragile state, you see Tanya as the self-conscious teenager that she is and you pity her. How better to commemorate those six fries than to soothe your once recalcitrant waitress with the answer to this riddle? Nay, gentle Tanya, no ketchup. Not these fries, not today—not ever.
You again lock eyes with her. Searching her face, you no longer see apathy, only uncertainty tinged with fear as if the very core of her world hangs by a delicate thread.
And then, you speak: “You folks have that Darigold Sour Cream here?”
As if knowing the answer has once again anchored Tanya to reality she regains her composure and replies, “Yup.”
“Well shoot, why don’t you go on and get me some of that?”
“But… you don’t have a baked potato,” she stammers.
“I know.” You pause, just for a breath in time… and then level the blow, “It’s for muh fries here.”
At that precise moment the whole world seems still but for the gum as it rolls out of Tanya’s gaping mouth over her tongue and, like a feather, falls in slow motion to the floor below. She will get you your Darigold Sour Cream. It’s her job. That you had the insightfulness to see that a potato is still a potato, no matter the shape, has forever changed this waitress’ life. She will never forget the day when one man, you, defied conventionality and introduced a new vessel for the world’s most perfect sour cream: The French fry. And though there were six that never completed their intended path, they sacrificed all so that other fries, henceforth, could know the joy of coupling with this sour cream. This condiment of condiments. This topper of toppers. This white gold. This… Darigold.
So, yeah... a few writing samples, a few songs, you get the point. Wanna see more? Check out my personal blog: www.mattheath.typepad.com. Thanks for lookin' around.
To The Wexley School For Girls (including the dog, but not the cosmonaut in the box),
Just now, as I was looking over my life trying to pull out something really impressive to impress you with, I remembered this kid I used to live with named Neal. I always thought Neal was a weird name in the first place, like it should be short for something like Jerneal or Nealsworth, but coupled with this particular human the combination was just dumb. Neal did too much coke, which I think is why he thought it was ok to have a flat top with a little rat tail in the back. Anyway, one of the only things I ever remember him saying to me was, “I think you might have schizophrenia.” This would have worried me if I hadn’t known that a.) Neal had no idea what schizophrenia was and b.) he meant to say amnesia because I was tearing apart the house looking for my keys.
Neal may have been smelly, but I think he was also a witch because in a way he kind of predicted the future: after all I’ve done, it does feel like I’ve lived with multiple personalities. It would be too hard (for me) and too boring (for you) if I tried to recount those different lives (often simultaneously, in true schizoid fashion) in a letter where I’m trying to prove that I’m good at writing succinct ideas in clever ways. That sentence wasn’t succinct—I meant to do that.
Well, now that I’ve crapped that all up, what the hell...
In high school I was the student body president and the jerk who got too stoned at lunch then passed out in front of the vice principal. I was the kid in the mosh pit at the Van’s Warped Tour staring up at Tim Armstrong thinking, “I can do that.” So I taught myself to play the guitar and five years later was on that stage staring down on the Warped Tour mosh pit wondering whom out there would replace me some day. Someone gave me a scholarship for having a low GPA and the first things I bought were candy and tequila. I’ve lived my dreams and lost them and regained them but will never live those particular ones again. My close friends think I’m the luckiest person they know, but that’s because I never tell them about the unlucky times or how much I’ve given up to get where I am. I taught Dennis Miller’s son how to drop into a half pipe and have fallen 20 feet onto the cement in completely separate incidences. I live for making people happy, and want to die when they’re mad at me. I’ve shot guns in houses, belly-flopped off roofs into bushes, and lied to the police. I’ve seen horses being born, saved a friend’s life after she ate all those pills, and barely escaped some S.H.A.R.P.’s who tried to stab me in a San Francisco bar. One time a bum broke into my car and stole my favorite shoes. Later that day I saw that bum and took back my shoes—while he called me a thief. My father showed me that if you work hard enough, you can get what you want. Now that I finally know what I want, I’m working as hard as I can to get it.
Well, there you have it. Just a few of the highlights. And as I’m rereading, I can’t help but think what Neal would say if he knew I was writing about him in a cover letter to an ad agency I hope to work for someday. I see him sitting there staring into his crystal ball being a creepy witch, happy that things are working out for me. I hope he’s in a good place. And if he’s not, then at least I hope it’s not a crystal ball he’s staring into but the worlds biggest, druggy-est, most narcotic-y crack rock ever.
Next we have some songs I wrote when I played music. I sang, played guitar, and was the song writer in a pop-punk for about five years. We had a pretty good go of it, I guess. We were signed to a label, had managers in San Francisco and L.A., and played the Vans Warped Tour before we decided to go our separate ways. Needless to say, that experience shaped my life. I draw so much from playing music and apply it towards my new passion of advertising. I learned how to work well and lead a small creative group, how to market my band, and how to apply strong strategy to not only the songs but every aspect of the band. We released a full length album in 2003 called the Positionary Mission and the following are just a few of the songs.
Dirtbox
Northworst
Goodbye Mr. Tickles
The Closing Statement
This is a brand story I wrote for Darigold Sour Cream.
The waitress definitely dropped your plate of French fries on the table. If pressed, she would claim she “plopped” it down. But why argue with her for the sake of the six fries that fell off the plate as said delivery took place? No, no she dropped it. You know it, she knows it, and her challenging glare is just begging you to say so. Six fries, on the table, inedible—innocent victims of a needless, worsening confrontation.
Tanya. Her nametag says Tanya and she smacks her gum at you with defiance in her eyes. After several moments you drop your gaze in silent, mock submission—to her, they’re just a few fries. Besides, you didn’t come here to argue. And a sly, triumphant smile curls the corners of your mouth.
You already saw the ketchup in Tanya’s apron, it’s familiar red cylinder sticky and coagulated: you know she’s going to give it to you. Then, as if reading your mind, she pulls the bottle from her pocket and slowly reaches it toward the table. In an act of childish retribution, you wait for the moment just before the ketchup touches the table to reject her offer. No, six fries may have already died in vain this day, but the rest shall not fulfill their destinies in tandem with a sub-standard, base condiment.
Now confused and off balance, Tanya looks almost afraid of your next move. The angle of her head pleads to know how you could possibly resist this staple of the American diet. Surely, one wouldn’t dare eat dry fries, she seems to ask. In her now fragile state, you see Tanya as the self-conscious teenager that she is and you pity her. How better to commemorate those six fries than to soothe your once recalcitrant waitress with the answer to this riddle? Nay, gentle Tanya, no ketchup. Not these fries, not today—not ever.
You again lock eyes with her. Searching her face, you no longer see apathy, only uncertainty tinged with fear as if the very core of her world hangs by a delicate thread.
And then, you speak: “You folks have that Darigold Sour Cream here?”
As if knowing the answer has once again anchored Tanya to reality she regains her composure and replies, “Yup.”
“Well shoot, why don’t you go on and get me some of that?”
“But… you don’t have a baked potato,” she stammers.
“I know.” You pause, just for a breath in time… and then level the blow, “It’s for muh fries here.”
At that precise moment the whole world seems still but for the gum as it rolls out of Tanya’s gaping mouth over her tongue and, like a feather, falls in slow motion to the floor below. She will get you your Darigold Sour Cream. It’s her job. That you had the insightfulness to see that a potato is still a potato, no matter the shape, has forever changed this waitress’ life. She will never forget the day when one man, you, defied conventionality and introduced a new vessel for the world’s most perfect sour cream: The French fry. And though there were six that never completed their intended path, they sacrificed all so that other fries, henceforth, could know the joy of coupling with this sour cream. This condiment of condiments. This topper of toppers. This white gold. This… Darigold.
So, yeah... a few writing samples, a few songs, you get the point. Wanna see more? Check out my personal blog: www.mattheath.typepad.com. Thanks for lookin' around.
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