Guillaume Van der Stighelen

Look at it. Where is the flip chart?

These are the leaders of our world. They used to live in castles, protected by ferocious armies. Now they sit together in the garden and chat about the future. No, not chat. It looks more like a brainstorm session. Nestlé Worldwide senior marketing presidents together on their annual "Move the Needle" conference. In the afternoon Seth Godin will come and speak and everybody gets a copy of The Purple Cow to read on the plane back home.

"If Europe was an animal, what animal would it be?"
"Herman, come on, you're sleeping. Participate!"
"Vy does zis black man sink he runs ze world?"
"What did you say?"
"No nossing. I vas just sinking."
"Participate your thinking with the group, Angela. We need all ideas."
"Time for ze break? Nicolas should have made coffee by now."
"François, that is a bad joke."
"Excusez-moi".

I was born in times when the USSR and USA threatened to destroy each other with atomic bombs.
I prefer the brainstorm approach. Maybe things do change. Maybe one day they'll even include Africa. Who knows.

I share this story written by Christophe Bell a year after the accident he survived. Hoping that one day this reaches Donavon Frankenreiter. Matti in the story is my son.

by Christophe Bell

Dear Donavon,
I would like to tell you the story of Matti and his friends, a story in which you play a small, though significant role. Up until now I have not yet been able to write this story down, partly because it has just begun and partly because I have never written about something that “exists” so deep inside of me, I hope I make it through this story, as I hope you will too.
Almost a year ago, in the night of march 1st going on 2nd 2011, somewhere around 2.30 in the morning, my friend Matti, 21 years old, fell down a staircase and broke his neck. He did not survive. Matti was a student in the city of Antwerp, where he lived. Where we lived. Matti shared a flat with four of his friend, I was one of them. We had a good thing going, going out almost every night and when staying in, watching movies, watching sports, playing videogames, playing guitar with the 15 other guys that were always around somewhere in our big flat. It was the kind of flat people automatically get drawn to, because it was near everything, the university, the library, the bus station and the bars, and because everybody knew that at any given time, day or night, somebody was there, to let them in to join the party, to join the quiet evening of music, to crash on the couch. The flat was a perpetual mess and life was good. The night of march 1st was a typical night in our lives, we had some friends over and we were all invited to a housewarming party of two of our friends, two streets away. We had just finished our exams, so life was even better that night. The night started out, as so many before, with everybody gathering in our flat, it was the starting point of yet another fun evening. When arriving at the housewarming party, we joined more of our friends, and life was the best. We talked, we laughed, we danced, we enjoyed, without even realizing how lucky we were, because life was perfect and we had never known it any other way. We ran out of beer so Matti and me decided to get some more. The two of us got out and went to a nearby night shop. We returned from our nightly quest successfully, and began handing out beers to those who wanted some, going outside from time to time to smoke a cigarette.
The next thing I can remember, is opening my eyes and seeing a lady that urged me to be calm and lie down. Behind this lady, who turned out to be the psychologist of the hospital I was in, were my parents, not saying anything. The lady tells me that “two days ago you had an accident and your friend did not survive”. My response, as this message did not register at all, was a mere “Ok”. What had happened (and this is what people told me, I do not remember anything), is that, when smoking a cigarette outside, Matti and me were playing, were teasing each other, pushing each other around, just like we had done so many times before, because life was good you know. The courtyard adjacent to the party-room, where we were smoking, was a poorly lit open space, which basically consisted of two chairs, one table and a giant hole in the ground. This “hole” was actually a staircase that led to a basement that was never used. The staircase was not safely shielded by anything, but was merely girded by a stone wall of about 25 centimeters high. The story has it (and for me this will likely forever remain a “story that was told”, because I do not remember anything) that Matti and me, while playing, somehow tripped over this stone ledge and fell onto the staircase below. People told me that, when they found us, I was lying on top of Matti, who had immediately broken his neck and passed away. A few months after our accident, by coincidence, I met the doctor who was with us first down that hole and he told me that it was “not a pretty sight”. He told me that they immediately saw that for Matti all hope was long gone.

For me, however, things had only just begun. Peter, this doctor, told me that, with help from the firemen who, apparently, were also there, they took me out of this dark hole out onto the courtyard itself. Peter decided, is what he told me afterwards, to “put me to sleep” right then and there. He described to me how my situation was too critical for me not to be put in a coma on the spot. Apparently what happens when someone is being put into a coma is that all the functions of the brain are shut down, so he had to put a plastic tube down my throat for me to be able to stay alive through some kind of breathing-device I suppose. Some 36 hours later the doctors at the hospital decided I was stable enough to be awakened. This is where I checked in again and my journey, my second life, began.
You might wonder why I write this to you, why you have also played a role in Matti’s life. Matti loved music, he had been playing guitar, just like the rest of us, from when he was very young and he was actually not bad at it. We were in the boyscouts together and when travelling through Poland, at the age of 18, he had brought his guitar with him. He was playing the same song over and over, it was a catchy tune and we all enjoyed it. One day I asked him: “What is this song you keep playing man?” He told me it was “Call Me Papa” by Donavon Frankenreiter. I did not know this guy, I did not know this song but I liked it nonetheless. Matti taught me how to play it and soon I too was playing it in the morning, when we were late for breakfast, in the afternoon, by the lakeside, and in the evening, by the campfire. Matti knew the words, I did not, so he could basically provide the “whole experience”, where I could merely play the chords. Therefore I felt a little bit “honored” when he told me that “it just sounds better when you play it and I sing it”. So that’s what we did. Never having heard the original version, “Donavon Frankenreiter”, at that time, was nothing more to me than two friends playing a song together which sounded “kinda good”. People started asking us to play “that one song” over and over, probably because we were the only two guys that could play the guitar in Poland, but I like to think that we did a good job of it. Later, when we were some 20 years old, we were the leaders of a group of young girls and boys, aged 10 to 12. One weekend, all of us went away to play games and have fun and when it was time to get the kids to sleep, Matti and me played them to sleep, sitting down I played them to sleep, sitting up he sang them to sleep. I believe this is my best memory of Matti. And this is thanks to you, thank you.
At Matti’s funeral, music was the central theme. His father played a song at the piano, his friend played John Butler’s “Ocean”, another friend sang Jack Johnson’s “Better Together” and every one of Matti’s friends got up and with his nephews we all sang “Call Me Papa”, because this is what Matti used to do. In the meantime, through Matti’s playing the guitar and him telling me to “check out these guys”, I had gotten to know your music, I had gotten to know Ben Harper’s, Vedder’s, Johnson’s, Butler’s, some of Matti’s favorites. It is getting harder and harder to listen to this music though, because there is no way of listening to it, without thinking of Matti, and that hurts. Sometimes it makes you laugh, sometimes it makes you cry. If there ever was a definition of “good” music, I believe this might be it. It goes without saying that I was ecstatic when I heard that you were going to play the Leffingeleuren festival in Belgium September 18th of last year. However, I forgot that this is Matti’s birthday. Matti’s family had decided that September 18th was going to be a “happy” day, a day in which we all would get together and celebrate. And that is exactly what we did. We played golf in the garden, we played soccer on the tennis court, we played guitar and we sang. Around the time it got darker, and probably around the time you got onstage at the festival, I played your “Call Me Papa”, and Matti’s sister sang your words. I had never played it with anybody besides Matti singing it, but it felt good.

 

You hear people say, with these riots in Greece: “Athens? Isn’t that where democracy was invented?” What is happening with the world? What is all this about? Is this the end of democracy? Brr.

Democracy wasn’t invented. Not in Athens. Not elsewhere.

Democracy is natural. Look at how small groups of people work. There is a natural sense of organization to get things going. Basic things like finding food and shelter, or more modern needs like “Where do we go for dinner tonight?”. In a group of people, someone will always take the lead. Or better, people will give someone the lead. Otherwise you’re not going anywhere.

Tyrannies, monarchies, dictatorships, those are the things that have been invented.

When the groups get bigger, the leaders become more important, and with the leadership come some privileges. One of them being, women want you. But there are other advantages. People think you have special gifts, after a while they may think you’re a bit closer to their gods and they start worshipping you for reasons far beyond their daily needs. Responsibility turns into power and power can be fun.

It is only very late, in the very Athens, that people went back to the natural way of organizing groups. Putting the focus back on responsibility by finding ways to hear everyone’s needs and lead to the benefit of all. Much, much later again, after the dark ages, in Bruges, the citizens, the craftsmen, stood up against the king of France and fought for the freedom to run their own city. With their own justice and free trade. They won eventually, and the example spread. By the end of the eighteenth century, the French chopped off the heads of those who thought of themselves as a superior species. Other monarchs were smarter and installed a voting system that allowed people to choose their own leaders. It wasn’t total democracy as it existed in nature, with everybody discussing everything and someone taking the lead after a fruitful exchange between the wild dreams of the youngsters and the wise advice of the elderly. It was a sort of power system where people only had the right to chose a representative who would participate for them in debates and decision making. Power again. But this time men and women empowered by the people.

The idea spread, and up until now, one third of the world’s population lives under that kind of regime. Now some people are happy with whom they chose, other people aren’t. But all seem to agree that their chosen leaders suck when it comes to managing the public treasury. All of them have chosen representatives who at the end have made big holes in the national budgets. It is not that different from the past. You buy love from your subjects by giving them presents. In the old days leaders would go and fight another poor lot to steel what it would take to keep the people happy. Nowadays they lend from a bank. You could say civilization is making progress. But just like the Romans one day ran out of wealthy grounds to conquer, today’s governments, democratically chosen or not, our running out of banks to cover the cost of power.

The people in Athens are rioting against leaders that have put them in deep debt. Sure, these are the leaders they chose themselves. But maybe they’re not just protesting in order to continue their luxury lives sponsored by foreign investors. Maybe they are doing what they did centuries ago: trying to restore democracy as it existed in the nature of man. Or, as defined by Wikipedia: “A political system in which all the members of the society have an equal share of formal political power.”

Maybe they are fighting what they see as the tyranny of banks, the monarchy of Europe and the dictatorship of political parties. In order to make room for a system that allows people to trust the way they collectively deal with cash in and cash out. Something new, as old as humanity.

Maybe this is not the end of democracy. Maybe it is only the beginning.

While we are all focused on carbon dioxide, testosterone might be a bigger challenge for humanity to deal with.
By the end of this decennium, twenty million Chinese men will be without a woman. Due to politics of birth selection in the past. Twenty million, which is a number as large as the combined populations of Sweden and Hungary.

What are the “Dongs” and “Fengs” going to do without a woman? The Chinese government has loosened up a little bit on homosexuality, but that will not make all of these young men happy. Unless Chinese women find ways to satisfy more than one man, it is going to be a problem. One has to wonder whether the Chinese leaders have a plan. Maybe they do. Maybe this explains their large interest and investments in Africa. Sure, some will say that women in Africa won’t be very enthusiastic and the most common Chinese boy’s name “Wei Long” may be a bit overpromising, but on the other hand, to have a husband who is familiar with the laundry business and knows his way with the wok, hey, you never know.

Still. Twenty million. That means half a million buses full of young men. A line of buses from the North Pole to Antarctica filled with nothing but testosterone. Twenty million guys, hungry for only one thing: a woman, a spouse, and a mother for their children. A lovely girl to be with.

Maybe I’m overreacting.

The river Scheldt runs through my home city Antwerp. Up and down. From left to right and back from right to left. From France to Holland and back. Napoleon called it “a pistol pointed at the heart of England”. Even the worst warriors get poetic sometimes.

During the holiday season, they put a giant wheel and if you are stupid enough to stand in line, it brings you in a special mood. The older you get, the more you realize that tourists know what’s good.
I added music by the great jazz piano player Jef Neve. I hope he doesn’t mind. I haven’t figured out this royalty thing on the internet yet.

Enjoy the ride.

How could they do this to Tintin?

Hergé's comic-book hero is one of the great creations of the 20th century. Which makes Spielberg's film version little more than murder, says one lifelong Tintin fan

A dearly loved friend: Tintin with the Thomson twins and Snowy Photograph: © Hergé/Moulinsart 2011

Nicholas Lezard

The Guardian, Tue 18 Oct 2011 20.30 BST

Dear mister Spielberg,

A journalist of the well respected British newspaper The Guardian has accused you of raping one of Belgium’s national heroes: Tintin.
He writes:

“The film has turned a subtle, intricate and beautiful work of art into the typical bombast of the modern blockbuster, Tintin for morons.” and “It usefully places in plain view all the cretinous arrogance of modern mass-market, script-conference-driven film-making, confirming in passing that, as a director, Spielberg is a burned-out sun.”.

He also states that you made him feel unwell:

“I found myself, for a few seconds, too stunned and sickened to speak; for I had been obliged to watch two hours of literally senseless violence being perpetrated on something I loved dearly. In fact, the sense of violation was so strong that it felt as though I had witnessed a rape.”

Then he gives his personal analysis of the work of Hergé, showing how erudite he is. You know what they are like, mister Spielberg. They put a calendar of Magritte up in the kitchen and they think they own surrealism.

I wouldn’t care too much about all that, you’ve done a great job and on behalf of the Belgians – I know most of them personally – I can assure you that we are very proud of the new life that you have given to our little reporter.
We never looked at Tintin in a Freudian way like our chum from across the Channel does. We identify with the character for other reasons.

Just like Tintin, our country is small and it would pass unnoticed if it wasn’t for our impressive friends: the arrogant and drinking French, the genius hard-hearing Germans, the hilarious repetitive Brits, the loud and conceited Dutch, our distant Chinese friends, just in case, and of course our best friends from Luxembourg whom we love so dearly because they are even smaller than we are.

Just like Tintin, we adapt. We don’t care too much about who calls us what. Belgium is not a strong and powerful nation, as you may know.
Our identity doesn’t depend on such things as a nation or borders. You must have noticed that Tintin's name is changed into any local language. How many heroes would allow that, except for the pope? Even in his own country, Tintin has three names: Tintin (say Tahtah), Kuifje (which refers to his hairdo) and Tim. At school we’re taught that frogs have outlived the dinosaurs, because they have adapted better to new circumstances. You see, we hang on to that. Did you know the Brits drink our beer Stella Artois en masse because they tell each other that it comes from the French Provence? We’re ok with that. The Dutch would go mad if someone would say Heineken doesn’t come from Holland. Queen Beatrix herself would call Royal Windsor to demand a public apology. 
We are who we are, no matter what they call us. As long as it sells.

And finally, like Tintin, we think we have what it takes to make it in Hollywood, but somebody else needs to make it happen for us. We’re too shy and we like to think of ourselves as the most modest people on earth.
That is why, mister Spielberg, we’re happy that Georges Prosper Remy, as we call him here in the local pub, called you to do the movie. While some may say that it took you thirty years to find an idiot to invest money in a Belgian sexless cartoon character, we believe you needed thirty years to develop the idea and find cinematographic technology that could match Hergé’s Ligne Claire.

The movie is just wonderful, Sir. Tintin is the Tintin we all secretly dream to be back here in Belgium. We thank you for that, and never mind about the journalist. He’s just jealous, nom d’une pipe.

Oh, and concerning this story that Hergé is supposedly related to the royal family, I can hardly count the number of friends I have who have great-grandmothers who claim to have been inseminated by Leopold II himself. As I said, it is a small country.

Sincerely,

Guillaume

"Here's to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes...

the ones who see things differently -- they're not fond of rules...

You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can't do is ignore them because they change things...

they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius,

because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do."

the main difference with the average ad you see is that it doesn't say:
"Stupid consumer, let me explain to you how smart my product is".
it says, "World, let me show how smart my consumer is".

And that is not all. The real magic and why it broke the market is that it says was something the founder and ceo of the company really believed in. Which is rare.

Steve Jobs didn't write this. Here's some information on the brilliant team who did:

The campaign was made almost entirely in-house by the team at TBWA
Chiat/Day, Los Angeles:
Lee Clow, Chairman and Chief Creative Officer Worldwide, Account Director
Creative Directors: Ken Segall, Rob Siltanen, Eric Grunbaum, Amy Moorman.
Jennifer Golub, Executive Producer & Director, Art Director
Art directors: Jessica Schulman, Margaret Midgett, Ken Younglieb, Bob
Kuperman, Yvonne Smith, Susan Alinsangan.
Copywriter: Craig Tanimoto.
Dan Bootzin, Senior Editor of the in-house arm, Venice Beach Editorial.
Stock Photo and Film research was carried out by Susan Nickerson,
owner and head stock-footage researcher with Nickerson Research.

I wonder if somybody called Craig these days. Is he still around? Anybody knows?