(UPDATE 7/27: Turns out that industry bible, Communications Arts, is also talking about D/C’s new Birkenstock campaign today. Just sayin’.)

Nothing to do with illegal immigration or majestic cacti. This Arizona happens to be Birkenstock’s famous two-strap sandal, and, last month, due to bold new print work from those fab fetishists at D/C, it completely (if temporarily) sold out. For perhaps the first time in its 236-year history, the venerable German footwear maker had to scramble to replenish inventory on its signature product. First indications that the campaign would be a winner came last Spring when it also helped to drive one of the biggest ever sell-ins for the brand’s women’s fashion shoes.

For women, this new campaign celebrates the fashion side of Birkenstock. For men, it’s about the outdoor lifestyle. But all the new ads use striking photo/illustration collages to encapsulate each sandal’s unique personality (sure, shoes have personalities – ask Burke Andrews) and then to tell a deeper Birkenstock story – about respect for nature and the healthy life. The illustrator was Amy Guip. The women’s ads are running in Marie Claire, ReadyMade, Budget Travel and other fashion and active-living magazines. The men’s ads can be found in, among other pubs, Men’s Journal.

See all six after the jump and click for full-size images on Flickr.

Hey, I recently took an interesting trip. It wasn’t to anywhere cool like India, Jack Daniel’s home state or San Miguel de Allende – no, it was to the California Pacific Medical Center on California Street, here in San Francisco.

It all started at 3:30 am when I woke up with a slight ache in my stomach. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but by 6:30 it had gotten worse and ejecting my dinner did not help. At 9, I found myself in the waiting room of an urgent care doctor. Unable to pinpoint the problem, she sent me to the biggest crooks in the medical industry, [name of testing place redacted for lawsuit reasons], for the usual rigamarole. From there I was instructed to go to a radiology center for a CT scan. After two hours of increasingly painful waiting for an insurance authorization, I opted to foot the bill myself and had the scan of my abdomen performed. Needless to say, something is wrong with the insurance system if it requires a person in pain to sit and wait while some office drone passes around an authorization form. But I digress.

The radiologist was not “authorized” to tell me what he found, so I had to go to a surgeon’s office to find out what was wrong with me. Anyone familiar with this particular ailment has probably already figured out what my diagnosis was: appendicitis. Knowledge in hand and pain (which had moved to the right side and become stabbing, as opposed to dull) in gut, I grabbed yet another cab and traveled to the illustrious CPMC.

At this point, the trip finally ceased to feel like an endless exercise in aching futility, and I began to relax – well, in a stabbing-pain kind of way. But there is a definite comfort in knowing what is wrong with you. After yet another hour in a waiting room, I was escorted at last to a surgery prep bed and mercifully, mercifully given a healthy dose of morphine.

That’s when the trip went from miserable to not-too-damn-bad-at-all.

Surgery was quick and without incident. The appendix had swollen up pretty badly throughout the day, but had not burst, and the procedure was done laproscopically, so invasion – and damage – was relatively minimal. I even got a cool picture of the thing before they took it out. I did wake up from anesthesia with a nasty case of the hiccups, which, after having had a camera in my belly, was unpleasant to say the least.

I spent the night at CMPC under the care of some remarkably attentive nurses, who made sure my morphine cloud never fully dissipated. I was released the next morning into the arms of my lovely wife, who proceeded to keep me comfortable, well-fed and relaxed for the following week. Through the riveting action of “Red Dead Redemption” and the generosity of the agency in the form of a delectable care package – and despite the pain of not drinking for seven (well, OK, five) days, not to mention the actual pain – I wound up having a quite enjoyable staycation right here in town.

I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but as far as trips go, I’ve been on worse.

After a successful year as John Muir Health’s media agency of record, Duncan/Channon was invited to pitch – and very pleased to win – creative duties as well. Kudos to D/C communications planning director, Leslie Diard, and her crack team for the stellar work that got the agency into the pitch in the first place. Initial creative for this venerable health care brand is expected to launch in early October. Watch this space for details.

In a new campaign for the Lake Tahoe Visitor’s Authority, D/C helps Lake Tahoe South Shore step out of the shadow of its North Shore neighbor. The $1.5 million campaign playing on local TV and computer screens this summer celebrates the absolute riot of 24/7 entertainment options available to Bay Area travelers willing to take Highway 50 instead of 80. (It also celebrates the undeniable majesty of upside-down, beat-boxing chins dressed in tiny hip-hop attire.)

Check out the second spot, “Pantyhose,” after the jump.

PS: The LTVA team hard at work:

In Russia, for some damn reason, they call a restaurant a “pectopah” and a bar a “bap.” But you could certainly argue that the drinking establishment in this St. Petersburg hotel deserves a special name of its own. And maybe it’s “movie,” because that’s what the whole experience feels like.

It’s an epic movie, to be sure, as we hang most nights past 4 a.m. But putting in the hours means we get to see the whole story arc. How the hookers, who don’t look like hookers at all – in the US they’d be the most elegant ladies in the room – periodically shift tables and take turns discreetly trolling the crowd. How the smooth-as-silk manager signals to them with a silent nod that he needs their table and they temporarily move to a seating area in the hall. How every hooker has a rose-colored drink, non-alcoholic, on her table with a straw in it. Some kind of high-class red light maybe, but mostly, I think, to signal the staff.

But enough of my ogling the working girls. What I wanted to tell you about was the gangster part of the movie from last night.

Of course, in Russia, every night’s a gangster movie, and some of the days are, too. In spite of its beauty, culture and comparative friendliness, Peter (as the natives call it) is the crime capital of the country. That’s not street crime. I’ve never worried about being mugged, after three trips. And my Russian friends tell me rape is virtually non-existent. No, it’s the big-time stuff. Corporate crime. But that doesn’t mean, when push comes to shovova, it doesn’t involve a little rat-a-tat-tat.

For example, yesterday I’m standing outside the hotel with my goomah (OK, my wife), waiting for an associate (OK, my son) when this bad-ass baby-blue Rolls pulls up, and the parking dude gets out. Whoa. Car has a reverse-opening door, like the 1960 Lincoln Continental. Old-school suicide doors on a Rolls! I reach for my Canon. Autofocus barely has time to do its stuff when I feel a tap from behind. I turn and stare into the eyes of a thirty-fivish man of swarthy complexion. His face is expressionless. I ransack my mental database for his identity, as I wait for him to break into a big smile and give me a hug and exclaim, “What the hell are you doing in St. Pete???”

But, well, no.

In Russian, of which I understand exactly two words (see sentence one above), he tells me don’t take any pics or I will break you and your camera. Of course, even not understanding the lingua, I understand perfectly. And then he gently, but insistently, shoves the two of us out of the way of the hotel entrance. A moment later, a compact, unsmiling man – the bad guy, unmistakably, in the gangster movie – wearing a surprising, glittery Grand Ole Opry-style jacket, breezes out, surrounded by men holding their unbuttoned suit-jackets closed, hops in the car and guns it. Before he does, though, he looks left and right, and I see that one side of his head bears some gnarly shrapnel scars. As he pulls away, a Mercedes SUV joins him, and our tapping friend runs and hops into another chase car.

But it’s not a movie. Neither is the bap.

We’re back at our regular table near the music, listening to the Russian jazz singer and watching the hookers work the Swedish conventioneers when a couple of linebacker types stroll in and take up point positions. A few beats later, a much older Godfather strolls in. He is seated in the corner, between a wall and a fireplace, with his young date and a young man, whom I first assume is his friend and later recognize as another bodyguard. The bar manager pays respects. And then here comes the manager of the whole damn hotel. A bottle of vodka shows up. Caviar. Handmade chocolates. More vodka.

At some point, the pretty young waitress, clearly the novice in the room, leans over the table to deliver some goods. A wisp of hair has escaped from her pony tail and floats over her cheek. The Godfather says something and raises his flat hand parallel with the plane of her face, an inch away. I can’t figure out at first if this is some kind of pantomime, that he’s demonstrating something – perhaps how he once shoved a septum into a brain – or gesturing for her to stop, or what. But, like a practiced dance partner, she moves her face back, slowly and precisely, even as he moves his large hand toward it, always maintaining an exact inch of distance, until finally the Godfather says something more and points, and she pushes the wisp of hair behind her ear. She pivots and heads back to the bar. But as she passes, we can see her puff her cheeks slightly and blow out a sigh, not theatrically, not for our benefit, but a real sigh. No words pass between her and the manager, but, smooth as silk, a new waitress – just as pretty, not as young – takes over the table. And the movie continues.

(A version of this post appeared previously on the ever-informative thealcoholenthusiast.com)

I have gone insane.

You probably thought the pressures of the down economy had kept me from shopping (and writing about it) of late, but the truth is far scarier. Much has happened, dear reader, since my last post – and I’m now ready to tell all. It began months ago during a routine trip to NY. I had an hour to kill before a lunch meeting at the Hard Rock in Times Square (which rocks, btw), so I decided to use Yelp on my iPhone to find a great shoe store near my hotel. Yelp pointed me to Benedetti Shoes on 34th, near Macy’s, that, according to the reviews, sold “exquisite, Italian hand-made shoes.” Bingo. So I hacked through 10 blocks of sidewalk-fashion-district insanity only to discover that my destination had “relocated,” due to the fact the building was being renovated by some Korean multinational. Destined to be a retail Mecca sometime in the future, no doubt. But for now, there I stood, heartbroken that there was no shoe gold at the end of my rainbow.

Then I noticed Famous Footwear.

Famous Footwear? I know they sell a lot of shoes to a lot of people, but Burke Andrews had never darkened the doorstep of an FF, likely for fear of being spotted slumming by TMZ. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I was in NY with no time to get to 8th street, I freakin’ needed some shoes, bad. So, I sucked it up and jaywalked 34th right in the door of Famous Footwear.

It was as bad as I feared, mobs of be-socked shoppers promiscuously trying on white Reebok high-tops and late-model Timberlands. I scanned the tops of the display shelves looking for something truly interesting. What’s this? A decent looking shoe, in FF? I pulled on the pair of side-zip black boots, with the below-ankle style of a clip-toe cowboy boot. $95? I quickly took a picture with my phone and emailed it to my personal assistant. “What do you think?” No answer. F-it, who cares that I never heard of Zodiac shoes, they look cool, pointy and booty, and I was jonesing. I would have bought a pair of Capezios just to stop the shouting in my head.

Back at the hotel, after lunch, head finally clear of the initial NY-shoe-shopping rush, I tried them on again. Not bad.

But, as they say, you get what you pay for. While they may well be the coolest looking shoes I’ve ever owned, they’ve given me nothing but trouble, operationally. Toes scuff way too easily, and I’ve already had the heels fixed twice. And now the left heel has a squeak. A squeak?! Who gets a squeaky heel? Charlie Chaplin?

Anyway, what they did do was introduce me to a new look that’s got me totally psyched. Dare I say, Urban Cowboy? The low-roper heel and smart-toe profile have spurred me to give these boots a lot of mileage since that NY trip. And because of their less-than-stellar durability, I’ve also had many long searching sessions on Zappos and other shoe sites (including some hard core Western-wear sites) looking for something similar that might be more sturdy. At one point, I had no less than 10 pair of boots in my house and sent every one back. (Sorry, Mr. Hsieh.)

During this process, however, I did discover a heretofore latent obsession with Frye boots. While I’ve seen many great pairs of Fryes over the years, every pair I tried failed to fit the bill. Too tall, sole not thick enough, heel too high, too hard to pull on, whatever, I just couldn’t get ‘em to work. But it never stopped me from coming back, hoping someday I’d find the Frye for me. Meantime, I scoured the web for something in an Urban Cowboy boot to take the place of the Zodiacs when they died – which was clearly imminent. Nothing. I pondered, “How could this unheard-of, mass-market store brand come up with the absolutely perfect boot?” I even toyed with the idea of sending them to Texas to get some high-end boot company to build a custom clone (still not entirely out of the question – I am going to Santa Fe at the end of the month). But I soon abandoned the idea, as it seemed too difficult (read: expensive) to execute.

With nothing to replace my rapidly disintegrating Zodiacs, I slipped into a kind of shoe depression. No longer interested in footwear, no longer shopping for footwear, no longer caring about the one thing Burke Andrews has always cared about most in his life. Each day I desultorily zipped on my squeaky-heeled boots, somehow not concerned that I was making silly noises as I walked or that these noisy-but-beautiful boots were not-so-slowly wasting away.

Then, early one morning – the sun must have been shining – I was moved by a power greater than myself to take a peek at Zappos. Just a peek. Lo and behold, almost immediately I discovered two pair of boots. The first, brown Steve Maddens with a great cowboy look – probably too pointy and too high in the heel. But they were on sale, and the site only had 10.5 left. Add to cart. The second, to my surprise, a pair of Fryes, ones I had never seen before. Were they a new style? Kinda cool. Zip-up, but with a buckle, too, and a really nice heel and sole. Add to cart. Still, having ordered and returned so many boots recently, even this act of fetishistic faith did not lift my gloom. The box arrived while I was away, so I forgot it was even coming (imagine!). But when I returned, there it was.

And so was the happy ending to this tragic post. Because – amazingly – I love them both. They’re quite different for me: the SMs, a more extreme boot than I’ve ever had, and the Frye’s, leaner and more biker than I’ve ever worn. But they’re both great. My shoe depression has lifted. I’m rejuvenated. And, more importantly, so is my commitment to my relationship with the stuff I wear on my feet.

In short, Burke Andrews loves shoes again!

Epilogue: The too-beautiful-to-live Zodiacs finally gave up the ghost. I took them to a cobbler (oooh, that word), and he said it would be at least $170 to repair, with no guarantees. The news left me with a hole in my newly expanded shoe quiver, as my experience with those ill-fated Famous Footwear boots had uncovered an ongoing need for a pair of clip-toe cowboys. Which leads to my visit to Santa Fe. While there over Memorial Day weekend, I visited the famous Lucchese boot store on Water Street in downtown, more on a whim than because I thought I’d really find something. Well, find something I did. Thanks to the incredible knowledge of the salesman – sporting a killer pair of Stingrays, btw – I found a beautiful pair of Mad Dog leather boots – actually made of goat skin – in a chocolatey black color, with the perfect toe and heel. The bad news: I have to wait four months for them to be custom-made. The good news: they are awesome and are going to launch me to a whole new level of boot love.

Fluorescents reflecting on the inside of the train windows make it impossible to see out as we pull into the New Delhi station around 10 pm, back from a day-trip to the Taj Mahal. So we have no clue. We file slowly out of the air-conditioned first-class car into the sticky, 100-degree heat and onto a dusty concrete platform that is nothing less than carpeted in humanity: sleeping, sitting, eating, talking, standing, lounging, smoking, cradling, shuffling, cuddling, walking and, frequently, maneuvering a large bundle of belongings, in sandals and saris and ballooning shorts, open shirts and khakis, over every square centimeter. We edge, mostly sideways, through this density toward the pedestrian overpass that will deposit us on the opposite platform that leads outside the station. We hold hands, like we never do anymore, tightly, but functionally. We’ve read about stampedes in those undifferentiated foreign places that seem exotic to gringos. We don’t talk about it. But we’re all pretty sure that one spark and people would die. And maybe some of those people would be us.

The stairs are impassable. But somehow as you lift your foot to the first step you find a toehold that you didn’t see a moment before or that wasn’t there. Like some gelatin river, the crowd haltingly, imperceptibly flows around you, even when the crowd is not moving, and you flow around the crowd. You make it to the overpass and glance back down the stairs to see who you’ve lost, maybe forever. Where’s your friend from Australia? Where’s the Indian account executive who’s been assigned as your guide? No time to do anything about it. You have to hold that hand and keep flowing.

Up on the overpass, there are many people asleep, many, many people, whole families lying on their sides, spooning in the pathway (or where the pathway could be). Some of them have laid down a swatch of cloth, most are on the grimy concrete. Tiny old, white-haired grandmothers and dark brown grandfathers, too old to be here; three-, four- and five-year-olds, too young – along with parents and uncles and aunts and neighbors, too. Intermingled are huddled women from a village or slum, circled, facing each other, hiding in plain sight, as well as seated, silent men, looking serious together, like they share some profound determination. You step like a toe-dancer, so as not to break tiny old-lady legs or tip over and crush a toddler with your well-fed gringo heft. You can’t escape the feeling that you’ve stepped into a movie. Gandhi, of course, the only cliche you know about India. You are a rich, ignorant gringo, no doubt about it. But, just look.

Descending the stairway on the other side, you worry about stumbling on a leg or a bundle and pitching down onto the platform 25-feet below, killing others and maiming yourself and maybe pulling her down with you. You loosen your grip on the hand. You’re almost there. But now that your subconscious thinks the danger is nearly passed, it allows you the luxury of outright fear, and your heart beats harder.

On this side of the station, the people aren’t only all over the platform, they’re all over the tracks, many, many people, mostly men, seated on the cross-ties between the rails, almost all facing west (where the next train will come from?). It looks like a nonviolent protest. From Gandhi. But it’s really just people on the tracks because there’s no room on the platform.

You make it down the stairs and cross the platform and glance back again. And there, way in the back of the procession, is the Australian. And there’s the AE. You pass through the relatively modest, Victorian-era waiting room (modest, relative to the Delhi area’s nine million population) and out into the driveway in front, which is jammed with standard black taxis, tricycle taxis, jitneys, buses and bikes. As your eyes adjust to the dimmer light, everywhere you look, every square centimeter that’s not covered by taxis and buses is, once again, covered by people — asleep, huddling, visiting, cooking, waiting. People, it feels like, as far as the eye can see.

Our intrepid band finally manages to reconstitute outside. The Indian chaperone says he’s never seen anything like it either. It’s not like this, he says. It’s not like this, you think, it’s not like the cliche. But it’s really not – the first thing you noticed arriving in India was that it had a vibrant, growing, robust and populous middle class. In the fancy hotel, you and her were the only gringos, alongside a lot of prosperous Indian families and businessmen. In the streets – along with the janky tricycles and occasional goat or cow – BMWs and Audis, too, with Indians at the wheel. The cliche is that India’s a hopelessly impoverished mess – and the hordes of beggars and sidewalk sleepers certainly support that point of view. But the truth, or as much as a gringo can glean of it, is clearly more than that. And, as a writer, you want to return home and not just re-tell the cliche. Outside the train station, your heart slows, and you release the hand. The Indian guide inquires of someone in the crowd and discovers there is a religious holiday coming up and these people are pilgrims traveling to the holy site. Because it’s not like this, ever, he assures us.

As you wait for the hired bus, something on the roof of the station catches your eye. You look up and see a band of monkeys lope across the eaves and hide behind the sign that says New Delhi.

Seven months in the making, Duncan/Channon’s new work for Esurance, one of the country’s leading car insurers, debuted today all over the damn place.

TV spots, part of a new live-action campaign called “Techie Feely,” began airing nationally on the NBA Finals and 40 cable networks, including FX, ESPN, Bravo, Discovery, TNT and A&E, accompanied by a comprehensive interactive and social media initiative. A nationwide out-of-home effort, starring the TV characters, kicks off in late June, along with national cinema advertising. In addition, as part of the launch, Esurance is introducing a new corporate identity, created by D/C.

Annual marketing spend is $100 million-plus. (Watch the spots and see more after the jump.)

In a departure from the animated heroics of past advertising, which starred the pinkhaired “special agent” Erin Esurance, this TV campaign introduces the people behind the company, a quirky cast of staffers who seem to have divided their office into a “Techie” camp – comprised of programmers – and a “Feely” camp – made up of sales and claims reps who help customers over the phone. The jockeying for recognition among the groups drives the comedy, while offering a perfect framework for a message about the company’s innovative products and commitment to service – no matter how customers receive it. The tagline, which flips from commercial to commercial, depending whether Techies or Feelies are featured, is: “Technology when you want it, people when you don’t.”

Five commercials have been finished, and production on additional executions is scheduled for early fall. The spots were directed by Fred Goss, who has a stellar resume as director, writer and producer on commercials and ensemble comedies, including his own TV series last year on ABC, “Sons and Daughters.” The production group was Company Films of L.A.

The revamped identity system and new type-only Esurance logo is designed to deliver a singular message: that the company that pretty much invented online car insurance continues to innovate on behalf of busy consumers, relentlessly striving to make the process of buying or using its products more intuitive, more convenient, more transparent and – yes, Feelies – more friendly. It’s about smartness in the service of simplicity.

Duncan/Channon was awarded agency-of-record for Esurance this past September.

 
“Dedicated”

 
“The Saver”

 
“Coverage Counselor”

 
“Hug It Out”

 
“Error”

 
Corporate identity system

Out of home

Sorry, the headline is irresistible when you’ve just been picked by the sports, entertainment and real estate giant, AEG, to market its new Ritz-Carlton residence tower.

Priced from $800k to $10 million each, the new Ritz-Carlton condominiums are the residential centerpiece to AEG’s L.A. LIVE complex in downtown Los Angeles. L.A. LIVE is home to the Staples Center, Nokia Theater and Grammy Museum, among a dozen other venues, restaurants and bars, and the Ritz apartments represent the ultimate pied-a-terre for the well-heeled sports or music fanatic – where you can just go “downstairs” to see the NBA All-Star Game, for instance, or Paul McCartney.

The campaign is spending $2 million-plus for local, regional and national print, as well as online, and launches in late June.

Previously positioned as the wine for those who lived life on the edge, Gnarly Head wanted to elevate what was purely a lifestyle brand. However, they still wanted to connect with their core consumers who lived life boldly and, well, had the scars to prove it.

D/C created a print and radio campaign highlighting the new tagline: Old vines make bold wines. In the print executions, we subtly hinted at the adventurous lifestyle that our consumers enjoy, as articulated in the headline: Bold. Sophisticated. With a hint of Gnarly. By doing this, we deftly connected the lifestyle story to the wines’ unique style – in this case, a bold Zinfandel made from the grapes of old vines.

 
In a well-deserved tribute to the agency’s interactive team, Duncan/Channon is being honored in this year’s Communications Arts Interactive Annual for the Hard Rock Booth Interactive.

Judge Rachel Pasqua pretty much hit the nail on the head when she described the interface, created for the new generation of Hard Rock Cafes, as “an innovative combination of social and touchscreen technology with a tactile twist on the old restaurant booth jukebox that lets users thumb through the memorabilia and cast their vote for the next video.”

Also honored in the CA Annual is the Rock Wall™, a sister project designed and developed by Obscura Digital which, like the booth interface, builds on the D/C-created Hard Rock memorabilia website. Big ups to them, to D/C’s development partners at Vertigo, and especially to Joe Tenczar and the Hard Rock team.

More Hard Rock interactive here.
The complete Hard Rock rebrand story here.

The once and future welterweight champion of the boxing world, Paul Nave, aka The Marin County Assassin, regaled a rapt crowd with tales of rails, jails and cornerman’s pails last week at the first Toast of the Tip of 2010. Paul, who retired from boxing almost a decade ago, hopes later this year to make good on his promise to become, at 49, not just the oldest boxer licensed in California, but the oldest champ ever.

Hard Rock runs a massive video system to coordinate the displays throughout its cafes, hotels, casinos and live venues worldwide. Duncan/Channon collaborated with artist Erik Natzke to create a series of trippy, dynamically-generated animations to display when music other than music videos is playing (live bands, a DJ, etc.). Animations are paired randomly with whatever music happens to be playing at the time and each resolves into a specific visual revelation. Here’s a six-minute sample (you’ll have to supply your own mushrooms).

Music: Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “Mysteries” / Cut Chemist, “(My 1st) Big Break” / Manchester Orchestra, “The Only One”

He has been to the top, as boxing’s World Welterweight Champion. And the bottom, as a convicted felon serving three years in San Quentin. Somewhere in the middle, he has run for governor, started several businesses, seen his daughter become a famous model in Paris, and partnered with a former Survivor producer to develop his own reality series. Above all, at the age of 49 – the oldest boxer ever licensed in California – after a decade away from the ring, Paul Nave says he is headed to the top again, having scored three improbable wins last year as part of a near-impossible bid to reclaim his championship belt. Needless to say, Paul has stories. And, odds are, they’re better than yours and mine. And he’s going to tell them as part of a knockout appearance at Duncan/Channon’s Toast of the Tip.

Friday, 19 February 2010
Drinks and hors d’oeuvres at 5:00
Interview at 6:00
More drinks at 7:00

Seating is limited. Please RSVP by Friday, 12 February to Marie Kerr.