More money for nothin'.
Originally, I was going to title this post "Hugh 2" since it's a follow-up to What Hugh Grant and I Have In Common.
To get you caught up, once upon a time I made a series of commercials for Champlain Place Mall and Crystal Palace in Moncton. They aired originally back in 2003. I remember the date since the only time I saw any of these commercials on TV was the one I saw when I visited Moncton in the Summer of 2003.
I had a really bad back. It's better now, thanks for asking.
I also have this home-grown video project that was years in the making, a one-hour and 20 minute opus called "Way Back in Aught-Three". One of the chapters related to the Moncton trip. So that's how I remember the year. The Hugh Grant post on this blog site was about a cheque that showed up in the mail about a year later. Turns out it was because ACTRA noticed Cenex re-aired one of the Crystal Palace commercials after the contract had expired. It's wildly hilarious, that blog post. You should go back and read it again.
Okay, I fibbed about the hilarious part. I just wanted to see if you'd go back again. Look. The link is right there! I put it in TWICE! It's gonna kill you to take a look?
Well, if you did go back and read it, see that part about me hoping they'd show the Christmas commercial too? Well, they didn't. And the link to watch the commercial doesn't work either, I know. You think you're disappointed. Cenex updated their site and the not-so-famous clips of ME were removed. Rats. It's all I had to show off with. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Two months ago, I'm in the cafeteria with my cubicle brethren (and sistren) when G. tells me he saw the Christmas commercial while the Grey Cup was playing. The Christmas one is special because it's the only bit I've ever done where it was just me. Special or especially horrid. Take your pick. So there's G. watching TV at home and suddenly there's my face filling the TV screen.
"Hey!" he exclaims. "I work with that guy!"
"Fuck off," says his wife.
"No really! I work with him!"
"No you don't," she says. And then, twisting the knife, "Why do you do that?"
G. is telling me this with an appropriate mix of mirth and outrage. I laugh and at the same time feel bad because somehow I'm at fault for this fight between him and his wife. I didn't mean it! Honest!
About a thousand miles away, there's a former employee of mine, S., all by herself in her Ottawa home, watching Oprah that's been taped from the satellite. She's fast-forwarding through the commercials where she notices my accelerated image dominating the picture. She bursts out laughing and rewinds to watch the commercial, yelling my name. The room is empty. She's mad as hell 'cause there's no one to tell. She should have called G., I guess.
It's a powerful thing to be on TV and be able on a widespread geographical scale to create discontent like this, let me tell you. A powerful thing.
So anyway, there's a cheque in the mail. A bit under one large. In anticipation of it finally finding its way to me, I bought a new shirt to wear into the office. I have it on now. It's a nice, royal blue.
I bought it at Winners, big spender that I am.
It's my G & S shirt.