I have to endure a four-hour meeting with the Creative and Marketing groups. I'm a member of the Sensitivity Review Panel, a group of people from different departments who review upcoming promotional material for things that might offend or lead to problems from a branding perspective. Basically we look at slides and albums full of ads and shit and we say things like, "The family in this one seems awfully white..." and "Is it just me, or does that look sort of phallic?" and "Are we going to change the spelling of 'flavor' for the Canadian market?" It's pretty lame.
During this marathon sensitivity-fest, my mind wanders to my meeting with Margo the night before.
Was I a dick? I was brusque, at one point. I should cool it on the brusqueness. I don't want to be one of those dick superheroes with a chip on their shoulder; the Velvet Marauder is supposed to be dashing and mysterious in a Zorro way, not Dirty Harry.
Meeting her wasn't like I always thought it would be. For one, there was the screaming. The whole thing was sort of anticlimactic, really. I don't know what I expected, maybe Coldplay's Clocks to come on and she'd swoon into my arms? I guess I always thought I'd be rescuing her from a burning building or something. You know, Hero Guy, not Scary Guy on the Patio.
"Connor?" somebody says. I snap out of my reverie.
"Any thoughts on this one?"
I look up at PowerPoint slide #577. Another ad.