Last year, Iran issued a directive banning the printing and distribution of any goods promoting Valentine’s Day, including cards, gifts and teddy bears. “Printing and producing any goods related to this day including posters, boxes and cards emblazoned with hearts or half-hearts, red roses and any activities promoting this day are banned. Outlets that violate this will be legally dealt with.” This got me thinking. We should drop hearts, half-hearts, teddy bears and roses on Iran. Just a thought. -ES

Remember cursive? It’s that squiggly, loopy form of handwriting you learn in 3rd grade.

I still remember when I learned cursive. It was a landmark moment. Going from a classroom with the Alphabet in print letters above the blackboard to one with cursive made me feel so cool and mature. I wouldn’t have that feeling again until I got my driver’s license.

Well, one day last week, I decided to spend an entire day writing in cursive again.

It. Was. A. Blast.

As someone who hates wasting time, I loved not having to pick up my pen from the paper as often. It’s so much more efficient to connect the letters. And you know what else? I wrote more that day than usual because I was getting such a kick out of writing in cursive again. It ranged from work stuff to nonsense. I wrote the name Theodore 12 times and I don’t even know any Theodores.

And it was nostalgic. Memories came flooding back — like how much I hated cursive G’s or the time my 7th grade teacher told me she couldn’t distinguish my o’s from my a’s from my e’s and I told her to try using context clues.

Why did I stop using cursive?

Do they even teach cursive anymore?

Is there anything more beautiful than a cursive Theodore? -HF

The first time I ever played 18 holes, I shot a 75…over par. And that’s not counting the dozens and dozens and dozens of times I swung and missed. It’s not that I’m uncoordinated. There’s a youtube video of me playing indoor office baseball where I used a long wooden spoon for a bat and a kumquat for a ball and I freaking crushed that thing (on my second try, but still).

I’m just not wired for golf. I don’t like it. I’m not good at it. And yet, I’m one of those guys who swings an imaginary golf club all the time – in elevators, in line at the salad place, standing around the office.

It’s a problem. But the weirdest part about these imaginary golf swings?

I’ve been keeping score.

It turns out that I’m an incredible imaginary golfer. No, I’m better than incredible. I’m the Tiger-Woods-Before-His-Divorce of imaginary golf. First of all, I never swing and miss. Ever. My imaginary drives are 300 yards, right down the middle of the imaginary fairway. I do need to work on my imaginary short game, but come on, who doesn’t?

My imaginary handicap is 2, which in case you’re not a golf fan, is awesome. Next month I will compete for a spot in the Wells Fargo Imaginary Invitational, in which I hope to win an imaginary trophy and get sponsored by an imaginary company that makes imaginary golf shorts, gloves and visors.

I even watch imaginary golf on TV. Usually while playing air guitar. -HF

Every Christmas season, Doug sits down and decides to make music with the black and white printer. It usually happens when a paper jam occurs and he has to clear it. For Doug, the Thom York of the advertising world, it’s the perfect time to sit on the floor, relax and fiddle with the Xerox sound machine. He plays by ear — like my grandfather — never by the error manual. Its a gentle seasonal song indeed, with spices of oaxacan wood güiro, sitar, and a tad bit of Hurdy Gurdy. When Doug’s in a zone like this, our studio executive, Wayne, halts all printing to that machine. Productivity doesn’t stop completely, though. We do have other printers. – TN

No one has ever called the elevator in our building “fast.” It’s also never been called “decent” or “okay” or “an elevator that moves at a perfectly acceptable speed for an elevator.” There are mornings when one might wait upwards of FOUR minutes for the elevator to arrive at the lobby. And when it does arrive, it’s another TWO minutes to reach the 7^th Floor. I know. Unacceptable. But it does give you a lot of time to think.

Here are just some of the random thoughts I’ve had while waiting for and/or riding in New York’s slowest elevator:

Pretty sure Banksy is behind planking.

Technically, you don’t NEED a jump rope to jump rope.

The tagline for the movie Under Seige, in which Steven Seagal plays a Navy cook who is also a Navy SEAL, should have been, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking some legs.”

Former Presidents are forever referred to as Mr. President. Former boxing champs are forever referred to as Champ. I’m glad it doesn’t work that way for former employees of Blockbuster Video.

Sun-dried tomatoes have great marketing people. If raisins had the same people, they’d be called sun-dried grapes.

I’d sell a lot of books if I changed my name to J.P. Salinger.

-HF

The moment the iPhone 4 came out in 2010, my beloved iPhone 3GS became my stupid iPhone 3GS, an inferior piece of plastic crap. And now that the iPhone has been upgraded again, my stupid iPhone 3GS feels even more ancient and obsolete. But instead of buying the new 4S, I decided to design some apps that are made specifically for the things I can still do with my stupid iPhone 3GS.

iCoaster: This handy app turns your stupid iPhone 3GS into a coaster simply by putting a beverage on top of it.

iLevel: Wobbly table? iLevel will balance it out. Just stick your stupid iPhone 3GS under the offending leg.

iRuler: Use the side of the stupid iPhone 3GS whenever you need to draw a straight line. Works on almost all four sides.

iFilter: This app lets you pretend that the barbaric 3 MegaPixel camera on the stupid iPhone 3GS is actually a vintage photo filter from 2008.

iPuck: Did your Street Hockey puck go down the sewer again? iPuck transforms your stupid iPhone 3GS into a  hockey puck with a simple drop to the ground.

(Note: My stupid iPhone 3GS, though stupid, is still hands down the greatest thing I own. RIP Steve Jobs.) -HF

The TRUTH behind the influence for American Apparel is becoming more and more apparent with each walk by their store on 7th Ave and 30th St.

Be on the lookout for these upcoming fashions:

-JM

Adweek recently reported that, “Jersey Shore helped lift Viacom to double-digit growth in fiscal year Q3.” Looking back on the collective cultural response to the show’s initial debut – shock, embarrassment, national despair – I can honestly say that its rampant success has surprised me more than the scene in One Day where Anne Hathaway gets hit by the bus. (If you haven’t seen it, don’t worry, I haven’t ruined everything – her sloppy English accent, and also the plot, manages to do that on its own).

But I digress.

Many a night, I have found myself sucked into the seedy, MTV underworld by “friends” who are devoted fans of the show despite their abundance of working brain cells, and I must admit that Jersey Shore is the crack cocaine of television: frightening at first, but suddenly, nine hours later, you’ve blown through all of it and are ripping up the couch cushions to gather enough money to buy Season 3. Unable to live with the idea that I am susceptible to the menial drivel corrupting our youth, I set out to understand why my mouth waters at the thought of 10 PM on Thursday nights, and why a program starring talking orange muscles makes more money than Panama, the country. Through “research,” I’ve concluded that contrary to popular opinion, MTV’s crown jewel is actually an educational goldmine.

So, without further or due, here are 9 Things We Can Learn From Jersey Shore (because 10 just seemed a little too real):

1- The catchphrase is still king.

“Smushing,” “Ron Ron Juice,” “GTL,” “Blast in a Glass” – In only four seasons of The Shore, the cast has managed to pump out more solid lines than the cumulative collection of Economist print ads. And we all know that a good line stays with audiences forever; my mom still asks me where the beef is every time I talk to her.

2- A little bit of bronzer goes a long way.

If the cast members actually tanned as much as the show purports, they would all be lying in a melted pool of cancer cells. But thanks to a little makeup magic, they can keep up the illusion of vacationing on the sun. Let this be a lesson in the importance of the wardrobe/cosmetic department.

3- Just because you can expand, doesn’t mean you should.

After three seasons killing it on the Seaside boardwalk (literally – they almost killed, like, 20 people), the guidos and guidettes have been exported to their homeland (?) for what promised to be an epic summer of fish-out-of-water hilariousnesss. So far, the most entertaining moment has been watching the crew wheel their luggage through the airport. From this, we can glean that just because your agency is growing, doesn’t mean you should necessarily expand to Indonesia. And if you do, you should learn to speak…Indonesian?

4- Persistence will get you everywhere.

Remember the episode where Mike acts like a d-bag and the chick he brought home to the Seaside mansion/tenement won’t go to bed with him? Remember what he did? He packed up her things, sent her on her way and went BACK to the club to meet someone else. And guess what? He had sex that night. See people, hard work does pay off.

5- Guys and girls can’t just be friends.

Season one, Ronnie and JWoww claim they’re “just friends.” And though they never explicitly do the nasty, you can just tell they’re a body shot away from ruining everything. As the only female creative here at Amalgamated, I can honestly say that the JWoww/Ronnie friendship is a load of bull dangy. Talking to men all day makes you realize that no matter how hard we try, eventually it all boils down to chromosomes.

6- Fake it till you make it.

With a cast full of Italian Americans, you’d think at least one of them would speak their ancestors’ language well enough to get by in Florence. But, no. That’s because half of them aren’t even Italian! Snooki is Colombian. That’s not even close to Italy! Just another example of how salesmanship is 90% of the equation when it comes to advertising.

7- Editing. It’s important.

Like I mentioned earlier, so far this season isn’t exactly scoring high in the entertainment department. However, if one were to follow the plotline by trailers alone, you’d think it was more dramatic than the 90210 episode where David’s friend Scott accidentally shoots himself with his dad’s gun. Seriously, whoever edits the “coming up” segments for MTV should win an Oscar. Moon Man? Whatever. Either way, it reminds me to be extra enthusiastic on the cutting room floor. And not just when the free sushi comes.

8- People do change. But only for two seconds.

Just after they wrapped filming Season 5 (when will it end?), Ronnie put his arms around Sammy, gave her a butterfly kiss and mouthed the words, “I will always love you,” like a Whitney Houston on steroids. The next day, The Star printed a photo of him inhaling a strange lady’s face at a club in NYC. Point is, accept people for who they are and work with it because they might give you a glimpse into something more promising, but it’s probably just a fleeting bout of heartburn.

9- Be yourself.

Someone hired these unabashedly horrible human beings to be international celebrities. That is so hopeful! –CR

It’s just surprising to open New York Magazine and see a high school girlfriend’s father’s pizzeria in the Approval Matrix; and to see it as “Lowbrow” and “Brilliant.” That could put Elizabeth, NJ (my hometown) on the map. Several hundred years ago, I would find these pizzas on my front porch as “surprises.” Indeed, Santillo’s deserves the exposure. The Matrix reads, “Santillo’s in Elizabeth, New Jersey: Less a business than a guy with a pizza oven in his house who will charge a nominal fee for the pies he’d be making anyway.” So true. Congrats Santillo’s. And to Mr. Santillo — Please don’t kill me for dating your daughter. -TN

In the taxi down, we imagined pulling up to a crowd booing us for not taking the subway. Doug and I got to Wall St. around 9pm and couldn’t quite find the protests. After pizzeria n’ falafel hopping for a half hour, we found ourselves in the heart of desolate Wall St., nomadically listening for chants and using our peripherals to find dancing motions. Eventually we heard a drum beat, but the echoes of Chambers St. caused us to wander in the wrong direction, finding nothing. This turned our fat thumbs to search our twitter apps, and apparently #occupywallstreet decided to take their clankers uptown and deliver a message to the Upper-East-Side Class. Northeast-bound our wingtips pointed and, just as we sat our asses on the vinyl taxi seat, we heard a distant disturbance. Waddling in the direction of the bongo, the drumbeats got louder and we could smell the incensed incense paupers output. We got there. We made it. And we agreed… it previously looked so much more radical in our minds. -TN