The task at hand.

I have one mission in life at this moment and that is to make a pasta commercial. Each day is broken into tiny little pieces. Go early. Stay late. Plan what time we get together on Sunday. Which meeting is when? What’s the issue? Hold on, let me check my messages. That one. This one. Stop. Start. Move. Is anyone hungry? It seems crazy—but then my sweet and wonderful wife waits up for me at night, hits my ‘reset’ button and I start again from the top, drinking coffee before the sun has a chance to rise.

So this is TV Land? Exciting, but excruciating. Surreal, but sterile. The final frontier in the world of advertising? Who knows. I can only hope I get to come back often.

Artistic endeavors.

I’ve never considered myself an expert on anything. Therefore, I cautiously approach subjects related to art, music, politics or religion. But yesterday Cristi and I toured the Edward Hopper exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute and I feel the need to report.

As I made my way through the crowds of people gazing up at the work, I thought about a lot of things. First, the man painted a lot of lighthouses. I had no idea. Steve Martin even has one in his ‘Private Collection.’ While this work is amazing, it reminded me of something my grandmother might have displayed over the console TV. It wasn’t the Hopper I felt I knew so well.

I thought about American icons. One of the plaques mentioned that Hopper didn’t sell his first painting until he was 41. Man, this world can be tough on people—especially the weird, talented ones.

I thought about the fact that Hopper captured the grunge and anonymity of the city life I love with  long shadows, empty faces, dark allies, smokestacks, lonely windows and dirty railroad tracks. It occurred to me that having grown up in Lawrence, Kansas, I was exposed to Hopper’s depictions of cities long before I’d actually seen a city in real life. It dawned on me that his art could be the reason Chicago felt somewhat familiar when I wound up living here.

Ironically, after we left the exhibit, we went out for a bite to eat and a beer at two separate establishments. Each one had a version of ‘Nighthawks’ prominently displayed on the wall. Christ, no wonder I’m always reeling from overwhelming waves of Déjá Vu.

Have I been here before?

Land of the free. Home of the Dorrito.

After 11 hours in the air and 45 minutes in a cab, I finally drug my tattered luggage through the door early Saturday evening. With 512 pictures on my camera’s memory card and a ziplock bag full of stolen soaps and lotion from the fancy hotels where we slept, returning home after two and half weeks overseas felt spectacular. My street. My apartment. My wife. My sweet, sweet dog. The wall I painted in December. The plant I killed in January. Standing on my doorstep, I was overwhelmed with sentimental joy and appreciation for the world I’d left behind.

Our Italian adventure included visits to Rome, Milan, Florence, Siena and Cortona. We dined on a smorgasbord of pasta, prosciutto, wild boar, rabbit, duck and fish. Over half a month of indulgence and I couldn’t wait to grab a jar of Planter’s peanuts, a cold High Life and take a fairly comfortable seat on our musty old couch.

I guess that’s a Curtis Green for you. Honestly, I’d say the best part of getting away might be coming back with a new perspective. Back in my youth, one of my favorite songs was Motley Crue’s “Home Sweet Home.” I’d say that just about sums it up.

Friday’s Breakfast in Cortona

Monday’s Lunch in Chicago

Under the Tuscan sun. And clouds.

On the shoot. Feel like being shot.

Short night. Long day. Lots of debate over wardrobe, talent and whether Italians wear jeans or not.

Such a strange and surreal experience. If people knew how much work goes into a thirty-second piece of film, would they still use commercial breaks to pee and grab a snack? Of course. But just in case you find yourself watching TV tonight, please take a moment to stop and appreciate all the effort it takes to sell brand X, brand Y and brand Z.

Phenomenon.

Today we leave Milan for Florence. The first move we’ve made since Sunday, I’m looking forward to trading this Italian city for another. There’s just one problem—suddenly my clothes don’t fit in my luggage.

Did my suitcase contract? Did my wide array of stylish western shirts put on weight? Sure, I stole I few bottles of shampoo, but otherwise I’m rolling out with the same load I rolled in. Strange. Now, with two broken zippers and a frustrated expression on my face, I contemplate the trip home, the apparent protest going on outside our hotel and the logistical details of packing for two and a half weeks overseas.

Go USA: A True Story From the Road

Two guys walk into a bar and discover a large group of slightly intoxicated Americans. After a few minutes standing over our shoulders, they zero in.

“Where are you from? The United States?” one of the men asks, abruptly interrupting the drunken banter at the table. We all nod our heads.

“Where are you from?” someone replies.

“Italy,” the man responds, pointing to himself, “and he’s from Albania,” he says, pointing to the man on his left.

“How’d you know we’re from the US?” one of us inquires.

Before the Italian can respond, the Albanian man interrupts. “Go USA. Boosh is good. We like Boosh,” he says, waving his fist in the air.

Everyone at the table is taken aback. After over a week in Italy, our assumption is that most of the world hates our American guts because of Boosh, but not these guys.

“We go to the USA. San Francisco. New York,” the Italian man says.

“What’d you think? Did you like it there?” one of us replies.

“San Francisco is OK, but everyone there is gay. And New York is OK, but too many black people,” the Italian responds.

At this point, it becomes very clear we’re dealing with a couple off idiots. Everyone begins to quickly finish their drinks. One end of the table requests the check as the other is putting on their coats.

“Hail Hitler,” says the Albanian, holding his hand in the air in true Neo-Nazi form.

Time to go. What started like a joke ended like public service announcement against binge drinking in foreign countries. Milan, I have had enough of you. The longer I’m here, the more my idealistic perception of Italy tarnishes.

At least they had one thing right—Go USA.

A church that could make me religious.

It seems that every Italian city has a famous Duomo and any tourist worth their business class airfare will seek out this destination ASAP. Which is exactly what we did. Now after one tour and numerous walk bys, I must confess that I’m completely mesmerized by Milan’s ostentatious Catholic home base.

Made of pink marble and featuring more gothic features than a Marilyn Manson concert, this cathedral is the fourth largest in Europe. When I found out it took over 420 years to build (constructed between 1386 and 1810), I began to really appreciate the fact that waiting a couple of years to remodel our bathroom at home is perfectly acceptable.

The first time I saw this building it was nighttime. A cool sight but impossible to capture on camera, I wanted more. Then Joy told me they offer rooftop tours. Shocked that such a sacred place would allow a bunch of curious foreigners beyond the façade (on a Sunday morning, no less) I paid my five Euros with a smile. The next thing I knew I was surrounded by ornate statues of religious figures, gothic details and gargoyle guttering spouts with snowcapped Alps in the distance.

Please have a look at some of my snapshots. We’re spending the rest of the week locked in a conference room, so this may be the last landmark you see posted here for a while.

Javier, the director.

One of those billboards I mentioned.