The “Platinum” is a Hell’s Kitchen condo building.
Mr. & Mrs. Platinum both arise, powerfully, at 5 a.m. in their powerful Hell’s Kitchen “cutting-edge” condo to do their power workouts and eat their power breakfasts of energy shakes and energy bars. Next, they shower together (their showerhead, of course, emits powerful streams) and make powerful love to each other. After toweling off, they each give the other’s powerful platinum body a fresh coat of platinum paint. Only then do they make their way downtown to their powerful jobs as platinum traders.
Ad for the TriBeCa Summit.
So, Ma Yo Mo. Ma Yo Mo. Keep in mind, that several people of above average intelligence saw this ad and thought: Yep. That speech impediment headline works (or maybe they thought, Ye Tha Wo).
Bartholomew: Mother, where’s our furniture?
Mother: It’s on order from Italy, my little IM Pei. It’ll be here in three to four months.
Bartholomew: Mother, why are we dressed all in black?
Mother: It’s how your Father prefers us, my little Apostle.
Bartholomew: Mother, where is Father?
Mother: This week (pause) he’s banging a gaggle of Thai whores.
Bartholomew: Mother, What are you staring at?
Mother: The rest of my life…
This ad needed a rewrite to make it more factual:
Dad’s fighting three malpractice suits at Mt. Sinai.
Mom commits fraud at Sotheby’s.
Tyler is dealing at Dalton.
Baby sis is fucking her Pilates instructor.
Just look at this massive douche.
He wears Paul Smith. He rocks a Les Paul. Listen as he butchers basic AC/DC chord progressions. At 3 a.m. Long Live Rock, etc. Oh, by the way, that shit you stepped in on Spruce Street was via his French bulldog.
This phone kiosk is just begging to be punched.
Exclusive, Exquisite, Extraordinary, Ultra…these are very common, meaningless, hyperbolic words found in NYC real estate advertising.
1 MiMA Tower is on 42nd Street. MiMA stands for “Middle of Manhattan.” Penthouse rentals range from $10,000 to $25,000 a month.
Here we have two more immensely unlikable imagined New Yorkers.
Bearded moneyed fauxhemian, sharing a “flirtation on the terrace” with “Audrey.” The way “Audrey” is standing tells me everything I need to know about “Audrey.”
No herd-follower, you. You’re an “individual.” You’re wistful. A hopeless dreamer. You’ve got big plans. And lots of turtleneck cardigans. You’ve never killed a deer, never even shot a gun. But you’re still relatively rugged. You’ve hiked. A couple of times. Your dad made you paint the house when you were 15. You did a fine job. And now, Daddy’s ready to pay you back with your very own Harlem lodge. You own an Ella Fitzgerald CD. It’s duets with that fat trumpet player who sang sometimes, what’s-his-name. Your Aunt what’s-her-name gave it to you…
Jimi Hendrix lived in The Village, at some point.
Our extremely overpriced “loft-like” condominiums are in The Village.
Let’s make a fucking ad and not pay Hendrix’s estate a fucking cent.
That headline speaks for itself.
Nice shitty Warhol-knockoff layout too.
More like, dockside douchebag.
This smug, polo-shirted born-into-money Lothario recently bought a small downtown wine bar and knows a couple of Coldplay songs.
Glamour Says to Grit, “Move to Bushwick.”
Williamsburg meets Wall Street.
Graffiti meets Givenchy.
Indie rock bands meet stone countertops.
Puke meets sidewalk.
All ads scanned or photographed by me over the last 10 years.