December 4, 2008
Last night, Jared and I attended a public meeting to discuss the development of a new logo and tag line for the city in which he works. Lucky for us, the marketing efforts are specifically aimed at the downtown corridor--smack dab where the office is.
There's a big push for downtown revitalization right now, and Jared and I do our best to be a part of it. Not only have we invested tens of thousands of dollars in our Main Street location, but we want to do everything we can to ensure that our little corner of the city has a porno-esque shoe store on every single corner.
One down, three to go.
The meeting was very well attended. You know--four people under the age of forty, and fifty-four people who are left with no choice but to whiz into giant diapers. Far be it from me to be offensive, but I've just got to say it--old people are incredibly shitastic brainstormers.
One of the mature ladies raised her hand and was like, "I think we should start calling our city A-Town for short. It makes us sound like we're A-number-one, and the young people will love it."
So I turn to Jared, and not feeling the need to whisper (since 92% of the attendees are hard of hearing), say, "Oh my word, Jared. A-Town? Like A-Hole? A is for ass. Geeze-um."
There must be one hell of an audiologist in this city, because everyone swung their heads around in unison, laid their eyes one me, and I heard the moderator say, "I think we have a comment from the woman who owns the chiropractic office."
"Ummm....." I rumbled, trying to weasel my way out of my inability to whisper. "A-number-one," I repeated! Offering an overenthusiastic thumbs up and a classic, turd-eater grin.
As the night wore on, more and more old-people ideas were being tossed around the room including, but not limited to The City That Sparkles Like Diamonds (cute, but such a raging lie), A River Runs Through It (sounds vaguely familiar...), and a very long diatribe about dancing bear puppets. No. Seriously.
Finally, after hours of deliberation, the moderator went around the room, and we each had thirty seconds to express our personal preference as to how we feel the logo should look. I listened to person, after person, after person express their strong and unwavering opinion that the building featured in that picture up there, should be the center point of the logo. Not the cobblestone streets, not the old federal house with the slick new martini bar, but that.
It's near the downtown, and I guess it's some kind of an old war fort.
All I really know is that it's the kind of place where you pull into the parking lot and see a group of volunteers standing around, dressed in period costume, chatting it up in Old English accents, while they all drink Dunkin' Donuts coffee. Then a school bus pulls up.
And then it was my turn to speak. "I'll keep this brief," I said. "I don't like the idea of using the fort for the logo. History is boring. It's for elementary school kids and..." I stumbled. "And..."
"Old people," someone piped in?
"Um yes," I replied, suddenly deciding to be brutally honest with the crowd. "History is for old people."
"Like us," someone else offered?
"Yes," I plainly said. "Like you."
I watched the owner of the martini bar bite his bottom lip, and the mayor's shoulders bounce up and down in stifled laughter. Everyone else let out one, big, collective "Humph."
When the meeting wrapped up, Jared and I did our best to slip out of the auditorium quietly. As we slid out the door, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the meeting moderator. "Do you take Medicare at your office," he asked?
"No, we don't," Jared responded.
"Good," he said laughing, "because I think they all hate you."
And with that, we wrapped our scarves around our faces, pulled our hoods up tight, and ran back to Jared's office as fast as we possibly could. As we bounded over the bridge, Jared turned to me and screamed, "Don't sweat it Amy. Their Buicks aren't fast enough to keep up!"