This is part one, in which I let you in on my dark, macabre, closely-guarded secret
Depending on who you ask, the acronym “CD” can throw up a couple of common and uncommon meanings.
Most common would be our ubiquitous “compact disc”. But if you are fortunate (or not) to work in the advertising industry, now upgraded to be known as the “communication and marketing business”, the CD is a mighty title that will make any aspiring copywriter or art director shiver in fear.
Go watch the “Mad Men” TV series and you will catch my drift.
And then we have the prima donna art director or “AD”. Does she actually direct art? Not forgetting her partner in crime, the copywriter or “CW”. Does he shamelessly copy copy? That’s not a double entre by the way.
“Copy” in the la la land of advertising is code for the carefully crafted bunch of words meant to persuade the unsuspecting pundit to dig deep into her limited edition Birkin handbag for yet another limited, only-999-in-the-fashion-world-must-add-to-your-collection of 99 Birkins you already own. You simply cannot have too many of them Bs I have been convinced to understand. Just ask that pretend “First Lady”.
But, as usual, I digress.
What I desire to share with you today, gentle reader, is my unknowing affliction of this so-called disease known as “OCD”. Oh C D, get it? Oh, never mind.
Obsessive. Compulsive. Disorder.
Why it’s a disorder I will never know. Because, in my simple-minded opinion, this disease is rather, shall we say, fun?
For me, as a die-hard artist, it is in my genes. Oh yes in my blood too. My grand pappy used to carve cork and stuffed them into a bottle. Very artistic. Pretty amazing. Couldn’t feed the family on that tho.
Anyway. if you are so blessed to be suffering from it, it can bring out a yet undiscovered creativity in you. In an interesting way.
“Interesting” is relative of course, depending on what floats your boat. For instance, I go gaga over my nine ringgit crew cut, while some other people (who have been saving since a little kid) may think paying 1k for a hair do is oh-so-yesterday.
Speaking of throwing moolah around: Howard Hughes, that eccentric billionaire, had OCD and he could not stop washing and washing his hands. For months. Or was it years?
He was so terrified of imaginary germs that he locked himself in a dark room, never venturing out. Never shaving or cutting his hair which had grown to shoulder length. The year? 1935.
And he kept washing his hands. The most interesting thing, oh, it’s that word again, was that he skulked around without a single thread of clothes on his germ-less body.
Yes, you read that right: stark naked in a dark, dank room. Well, maybe not dank, I added that for cheap effect.
You can actually watch his stupendous transformation, not unlike our very own country’s very-soon transformation into a developed nation by the magical year of 2020, in a based-on-a-true-story flick with a rather dry title.
“The Aviator” was a mega blockbuster, as the PR love to punt, and it featured that titanic-ly handsome Encik DiCaprio.
Interestingly, Hughe’s story is about how he pioneered airplanes. But please, don’t even let me start on private jets.
You can bet your last ringgit it is Hollywood at its glamorous best. Be assured that a bevy of gorgeous babes will be taking part as well. Real life actresses like Ava Gardner, XXXXX, et al. Otherwise, which hot-blooded dude would want to endure 180 minutes of pure torture watching a nude, hairy man and his antics?
Definitely not a chick flick, I kid you not.
So. Where, for heaven’s sake, is this long-winding, cheong hei (Cantonese, meaning long winding) tale merrily leading up the garden path to?
What’s my point? What is the moral of the story as Ming for PM of Epic Asian You Tube fame loves to conclude.
When will I ever get to that insightful part in which I share my OCD journey and how I eventually used that blasted, blessed disease to my advantage?
That, my poor darling, will be in part two. Same page, next week. Or maybe next year.
Because, as gone-with-the-wind actress Vivien Leigh professed: “tomorrow is . . . (dramatic pause) . . . another day”. Curtains, please.
Hey, surely as the sun will rise in the west tomorrow, I need to work up to be able to afford that transformational thousand-ringgit hair make-over without flinching a single strand of hair.