AWARDS.

To a lot of ad folk, an Addy is an impressive award that they proudly display on shelves, mantles, bedrooms, car hoods and resumes. However, in most cases, Addy shows are only as good as the judges. And in most cases, that's not too good. ("Our first judge, Bob Smith, once touched the pencil of a girl who knew a guy who worked at Leo Burnett.") So naturally I was skeptical when I heard the Tampa Bay Creative Club had created their own award show. Yet somehow, they were able to procure actual qualified judges. (A feat seemingly impossible for most Addy committees.) The result was The Right Brain Show. Then instead of giving out awards for "Best use of two-color, smaller than four column newspaper ad that ran on a Tuesday with the word SQUEEGEE in the headline" as with Addy's, they limited it to the twenty best pieces. (10 print and 10 broadcast. Personally, I think they should add 10 collateral pieces next year, as a number of decent brochures were overlooked.) The two judges, writers Dean Buckhorn (formerly of EPB/Bethesda, now at Fallon McElligott!) and Daniel Russ (formerly of GSD&M! and The Martin Agency!), have actually worked at real agencies! I would ritualistically kill the small goat of your choice to work at any one of them. Still, due to some fluke in the time-space continuum, out of the twenty total awards given, I won five. Three print ("Oliviero on Advertising" poster, "My Other Car Is A Zamboni" bumper sticker, "Wayne's in town, and we don't mean Newton" hockey ad) a hockey radio spot, and a hockey television spot. (I think that's a hat-trick.) It was definitely more than any single person, and just as many as the entire Earle Palmer Brown agency. (Since I took home 25% of the awards given, I naturally thought the judging was extremely accurate, fair and, quite possibly, divinely inspired.) Needless to say, I got really drunk. And at this rate, if I ever do win a One Show Pencil, I'll probably spend the following year in detox.

JUDGES.

Go figure. I got asked to judge the Columbus, Ohio Addy awards. (See? I told you Addy committee's never pick any qualified judges.) They must be really desperate to pick a nobody like me. (Not that I'm not qualified. I just don't have enough of those previously mentioned impressive credentials, yet. I'm an Up & Coming nobody.) The real irony of this honor is that the guy who called didn't realize that he had already interviewed me once. (He got my name through a mutual friend.) But the kicker is he didn't give me the job! Hey, remember me? No? Well, I remember your client list! And guess who's not gonna win a whole lot of Addy's this year? (No, no, no. I'm just kidding. I'll be fair and reward only the deserving, highly conceptual work. Or anything with a lot of naked chicks in it.)

METEORS, MAN.

How 'bout that recent meteor shower, huh? I saw 8 really good ones. (And not the real short, quick ones that make you think you're hallucinating. No, I mean the long, graceful arcs across the dark sky. The kind that make you go look for where it landed and find a huge spaceship hovering 20 feet above the ground. And a beam of blue light engulfs you as you stare like a frog caught in a flashlight beam. Then they beam you up into the shiny, glowing orb and perform obscene medical experiments on your pancreas that will later be diagnosed by the medical community as "just gas." After which you are returned to earth, your watch set to the correct time and your memory partially erased.) Yeah, that kind of meteor. At least, I think I did.

CRUISING.

I went on a night gambling cruise in the Bay recently. This feat basically entails boarding a tacky, floating lounge (piloted by a guy who bore a striking resemblance to the captain of the Exxon Valdez), trying to hold down bad, expensive-looking food, pumping coins into a machine that eats quarters like a broken vending machine while the boat pitches side to side. It's considered fun by old people. But what was most appalling was the nefarious activities that went on in that boat. Once out in International Waters, you can do any number of illegal, immoral things, much more horrible than gambling. Things like Karaoke, for example. Yes, there's nothing quite like listening to your fellow shipmates belt out an off-key gem after a few too many belts of whiskey to make you want to feed the fish. But the blue-hairs love that one-armed bandit. (I would too if I was spending my kids' Social Security money.) They popped quarter after quarter into that darn thing until it puked. Oddly, it appeared to be an exercise in futility as they only got back the same coins they'd just put in. Frankly, I found it much easier get money by waiting outside the casino with a tire iron.

AUTO SURF.

You know how the sun shines down here 24 hours a day? And how it's real flat around here? Well, when it finally does rain, it rains bigtime. And the roads can't handle it. Instead of running off, it just builds up. Like a big pool. In fact, just the other day, I saw breakers. I kid you not. There was a six inch wave breaking in the intersection ahead of me. Two kids almost got hit by a Buick trying to catch it. They always told me surfing was a dangerous sport, but I really had no idea. Skateboarders are enough of a pain, thank you.

'COT.

Next time I go to EPCOT, I'm gonna take some valium so that the rides will seem scarier. I nodded off twice. The rollercoasters moved so slowly they had time to teach the History Of Mud In America. I don't think we free-fell once. It was supposed to be informational. All I learned was that back in the seventies, according to Walt and crew, Man's greatest scientific achievement was an 640K IBM XT clone. I guess in DisneyWorld when Walt died, so did all the clocks.

LATE NIGHT.

I've been watching Conan O'Brien, cuz there's nothing I find funnier than a prep. There hasn't been any good Ivy League humor since God rescued Mr. Howell. (Actually, the show's not nearly as bad as everyone, especially Dave, had hoped it would be. I just can't believe the networks thought the Late Night format would work with a meek, suck-up host. Didn't they learn anything from Arsenio?) But the real question is, What happened to Chevy? Oh, man, that show really sucked. I think people watched it with the same morbid fascination they would an 18-car pileup on the freeway. Meanwhile, Dave is still Dave the Late Night King (with a paycheck to match). And Jay Leno is, well, still Jay Leno. Too bad.