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  • Content Branding
  • App Store bacterial video storyboard/animatic
  • Do Something dot Org
  • Midnight Cowboy Opening Title Sequence
  • Portland Cement
  • 2 ears and 1 mouth
  • Avis
  • Double Down
  • Accuracy in the Extreme

Don’t mess with my bike!Blog

by Roy Hinshaw on July 19, 2014 with 0 comments

MessengerOne of the jobs you won’t see on my LinkedIn profile is that of bicycle messenger in NYC in the late 80′s. There is a reason that women are entrusted with procreation, because young men for some reason believe they are bullet-proof and shouldn’t be trusted to breed Sea Monkeys, but I digress.

Now I admit that I missed the big money heyday of the late seventies, when hardened bike messengers were clearing $700 a week (or so they claimed) and I was a post-FAX machine rider, BUT, you could still get an amazing workout, make some scratch and see New York City in all its grime and glory aboard your beat up messenger bike.

That was, until it got stolen. Which it always did. Which brings me to the point of this post.

I imagine the sting operations that could have happened to the downtown NYC black market for hot bicycles (it was known that you could go to 14th and Ave. A to scout for your stolen ride) had the technology backbone been in place and this nifty locator been around. Kudos to the writers at Urban Daddy for writing up BikeSpike:

“Imagine you’ve pulled over for a hamburger somewhere along the Beltline. Maybe a nice glass of iced tea. Then imagine you getting a notification on your phone that your bike is being tampered with. That’s when you run outside and yell, “Hey, rapscallion. That’s mine.” And if you’re too late: it’ll automatically track its whereabouts so you can follow it and alert the authorities.”

Rapscallions indeed.

After my messenger bike was pinched, (I arrived at the spot where my bike had been locked up to find only the broken U-lock [silly me] where my steel framed Peugot 12 speed had been tethered. I started working in the dispatch office at the messenger agency, mainly because I could type (and speak the King’s English with clients) so my daily death-defying adventures were behind me.

I still love to ride and hit Critical Mass whenever my schedule allows.

Be safe out there!

 

Bass Desires

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Bass DesiresWriting

by Roy Hinshaw on July 18, 2014 with 0 comments

A day in the life of  a cocksurestudio session musician

with abnormally large hands.  (short fiction)

Hands all Over

It’s not about being on time in this business; it’s about being early. I arrive at least 15 minutes before any recording session is scheduled to start. That way, I don’t have to rush or stress out when shit happens. Being early also gives me a chance to kick back, glance at a magazine, keep an eye on the competition, and see who might be checking me out. Today, it’s the thin blonde intern here at A List Music. She keeps glancing over at me, but turns away right when I look up. I decide to go in. As I stand up, I make sure to pull my shoulders back to make use of my six-foot-three frame. As I take my first step toward her, I imagine how it looks. It’s definitely in slow motion. She probably hears the firm thud of my boot heel on the thin carpet like a bass drum in short reverb as I approach, and I’m smiling as I arrive at her desk.
“Hi, I’m Joe,” I say.
The tone of my voice is rich, like the bowing of an upright bass.
“Hi, I’m Mindy,” she says. I reach out a hand to take hers, and that’s when I see her catch her breath.
You see, I have huge hands so when I shake with almost anyone, their hand is engulfed by mine. Mindy is taken aback by the way her petite little mitten disappears in my catcher’s glove.
I’m used to this with women.
“Mindy, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.
I’m still smiling at her, although the smile is more pointed now, I’m thinking, you like that big, warm place, don’t you?
The size of my hands is a topic of dinner conversation across the restaurant. I am so used to people staring at them that I don’t notice anymore. Sometimes I feel like Michelangelo’s David, holding a stone in my perfectly chiseled hand. Who needs a slingshot?  I could easily high five an entire school bus while it was moving and not feel a thing. My hands are also a huge asset to my career. I have long, nimble fingers, made more muscular by playing electric bass as a session musician for the past eight years. My fingers are incredibly long. Each phalange bone is about the same length as a newborn’s whole finger. There is a perfect diamond of hair follicles on the back of my fingers where each tiny hole is an absolute circle.   My nail beds are almond shaped and I know for a fact that my manicurist gets horny working on them. He’s a nice guy, so I don’t say anything about it–cheap thrills. The backs of my hands are smooth and dark and I even shaved them once, thinking they looked dirty with even a few wisps of hair. Above all, I am super careful not to injure my hands. When I reach for a door handle, I’m conscious that it could swing open in my direction and cause a problem. At home, I’ve got huge oven mitts hanging over my stove, even though I haven’t cooked dinner in months. I have made a few breakfasts lately, and that’s when my attention turns back to Mindy. I wonder how she likes her eggs in the morning. I’m about to ask her, when I realize that it’s only 9:45AM and that the question might not make sense. Usually I drop that line around 11 or so at night when I feel like I’m being successful with my date. Since it’s so early, I have to revise tactics.
“So, Mindy, would you like to grab lunch sometime?” I ask.
Mindy is a high seven, low eight. Her straight blonde hair has a natural tone, hinting at authenticity, and the cut frames her shoulders nicely.  This is a refreshing change from the all those platinum and white-blonde dye jobs with their schizoid-affected hair spray sculptures that only a bipolar stylist could conceive. Mindy has thin wrists, but an athletic frame, with a nice rack that makes her grey cable knit sweater curve majestically. Her face is fresh, unlined and bright, and she’s moving up the 8’s by decimal points toward nine as we talk.
“Well,” she said, glancing conspiratorially aside at no one,  “I’m not supposed to fraternize with the musicians.”
“Hey, I was just talking about lunch, but we can see where it goes from there,” I say, taking her temperature for flirty humor, “seriously, aren’t you an intern here? It’s not like they can fire you.”
Mindy laughed, showing a dazzlingly set of upper teeth. Perfect teeth. I thought, rich parents.
Then I saw her eyes travel down my arm.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said, smiling. “How about this afternoon, I get off at 1:30″
“Sounds great, I’ll meet you downstairs so nobody notices.” I say, smiling at her choice of words.
The session begins on time and the hands are all over it. We wrap the full jingle and the short version in about thirty minutes for which I am paid the sum of four hundred and fifty dollars. It’s such easy money that only a moron would show up late.
As I am standing in front of the door at A List at twenty minutes after one I realize my punctuality has gotten compulsive, but decide there are worse things to get bent about other than being habitually on time.  I glance at my Tag Hauer watch every few minutes and, as always, I’m impressed by the girth of my left wrist.
“Hi,” she says, “sorry.”
Big smile, “no worries, is everything cool upstairs?”
“Yep, it’s just hard to get out on time.”
“I know the feeling. So where do you want go?”
“Well, I have class in a couple of hours, so can we go somewhere close to West End?
“Sure, I live in the West, so that’s close to home.” I say, “I know an awesome Asian place.” We arrive at Sumo, in minutes. Mindy and I make small talk over whole roasted shitake mushrooms and sesame oil. She is not only gorgeous, but also bright. She’s studying modern design theory and begins to tell me about one of her classes. I’m studying the design of her sweater, and make enough eye contact to show I’m listening. She pretends not to notice the dexterity of my right hand as I wind a thick noodle around one chopstick with the other. After a pretty comprehensive overview of modern design deconstructionism, and a healthy course of whole broccoli head and soba noodles in miso broth, I glance at my watch. I’m beginning to doubt I’ll get Mindy’s sweater off her before her class.
“Are you ready,” I ask, hoping not to rush her.
“Sure,” she says, “I need to hit the bank before my class.”
“There’s one right around the corner.” I say.
As we walk, I ask her more about school, and where she wants to work when she graduates. I am curious as to why she interns at a recording studio when she is a design student. She tells me that she wants to do concept and set design for music videos after school and wants to learn the music business from the ground up. This confirms what I first suspected. Mindy is a sharp gal, not another easy mark for mid-day hookup. I like this about her, and intend to ask her for another date. As we round the corner to the bank, I look back while reaching for the door.
“You know, Mindy, I…”
Cacophony erupts. The thief hit the inside of the door at a full sprint. The doorframe flew open with such force that the tempered glass shattered as designed. The handle slammed into the cinderblock wall taking my right had with it. I was jerked first to the left by the door then right as I was struck by the thief and landed with my legs askew, crumpled in a ball by the doorframe. There was a dull throb in my arm and sharp white flash in my temple.
I tried to focus. I could hear the clanging alarm bell and grating sound of feet and glass on the sidewalk. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned my head slightly to see a soft-focus grey-clad angel framed by fine straw hair and smelling of sesame.
“Jesus, Joe, are you alright?”
“Unggh.” was all I could manage.
“OH MY GOD, look at your hand!”
In sync with the pounding in my head was the throbbing pain in my right hand. I was not even aware that I was clutching my right wrist with my left hand. My right hand was unrecognizable to me. I was looking at a mangled mess of blood and flesh. On the back of my hand I could see three tarsal bones protruding through the skin. My long fingers were now knotted sticks forming obscene angles, glass shards having filleted muscle from bone. I looked into Mindy’s eyes and her look of disgust turned to compassion as we both realized the full force of this event. As I began to lose consciousness, I let go of my right wrist. The pain dulled for a moment and my head lolled back against the bank wall. I looked up at a lamppost overhead. Sitting there were three black crows. As surrounding colors faded to grey, I noticed the odd way they were perched along the metal crossbar and the position of their tails looked like the final quarter notes on a session lead sheet.

A Night to Forget

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A Night to ForgetWriting

by Roy Hinshaw on July 17, 2014 with 1 comments

“You wanna do a shot, cowboy?”  says a voice from behind me.

I turn to see a frail woman wearing a sheer black bra. She is smiling broadly showing me her teeth, most are present and in good repair, if a bit crooked. She nods at the small box in front of her which contains some test tubes with various colored liquids, each covered by cell-o-phane and a small rubber band around its neck. I have a flashback to the phlebotomist at the doctor’s office and the red box with the biohazard logo.
“No, thanks, I’m driving.” I say.
And while this is true, it’s not the principal reason I refrain. I’ve seen too many movies where people wake up with an organ missing to fall for that.
Now, about her greeting. I am wearing an old cowboy hat that has been shaped by age, its straw weave permanently molded into the Marlboro Man form. So I admit, I’m a mark.
I blink.
The bar area now comes into focus. It is a 12 by 12 foot square with a raised platform in the center. The bartender looks like my second grade math teacher, only 35 years older and twice that amount heavier. Behind her on the riser, a nude black woman is dancing. In the dim light I can’t discern any of the details of her dark skin, but the black light makes her teeth and fingernails glow menacingly like a demon from a Tolkien novel. There’s a buzzing cloud orbiting her thigh. The Day-glo green garter fairly pulsates with the wad of phosphorescent dollar bills it contains.
“Hey Man, are your feet sticking to the floor?” says the guy on my left.
It’s Cedrick, my wing-man, and I make a mental note to give him shit for not covering me on the shooter girl, but instantly forget when I shuffle my feet and discover that they are, in fact, sticking to the floor. My usual curiosity is tempered–I don’t really care if it’s berber or linoleum, neither surface should stick like this. I am now second guessing my decision to come here, and the loss the of the $10 cover charge.
It has got to be the hat. Probably the swelling of my brain against the hatband from too much well-brand whiskey. I guess it’s too late now, so I order a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon is $2.50 for each safely sealed aluminum can. Cedrick and I put our backs to the wall in a relatively non-stick corner and take in the scene. There is a DJ booth at the end of the small dance floor. Beside that a raised stage where people are dancing. Fairly normal looking people, normal having been checked at the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a large floating dollar bill. Now I am curious. The currency is topped with a mop of white-blonde hair bobbing along on an intercept course.
“Hi, I’m Cupcake!” she says, her voice an auditory smoker’s hack.
Pause.
“Hi Cupcake, I’m Marshal,” I say.
This female is a dead ringer for a late-career Bette Davis circa “Whatever happened to Baby Jane,” complete with clown-face white, double length detachable eyelashes and fake beauty mark, but her smock is blinding. The print on the fabric is a $100 dollar bill blown up to huge proportions all over the sleeves, skirt and bodice.
“You wanna have a dance, cowboy” she offers. (fucking hat!)
“Not right now, I’m good,” I say, gesturing, “but that young man right there pointed you out when we walked in and he is a YES.”
Cupcake zeroes in. I watch as my soon-to-be-former buddy Brent is caught up by the elbow and led through a stand of tables to a chair directly under a crackling neon sign. The flickering light casts a surreal pall as Brent takes his seat and Cupcake begins her dance.
Now, I have seen this routine many times in many places, most of them nicer than this one, and I am convinced that there must be a Ginger Rogers Academy of Strip Tease. If so, Cupcake is surely not a graduate. She puts her arms on Brent’s shoulders and brings her heavy, pasty bosom close to his face. Brent is locked in a 1,000 yard stare, and I’m certain he’d rather be home playing his Xbox right now. Then Cupcake spins on her heel, more like a truck turning a corner than a dancer executing a move, and proceeds to do a shimmy move that concludes with her landing in Brent’s lap–hard. BAM! FlashDance meets SlamDance. Cupcake weighs in at around 190 – 200 and Brent probably wrestled in high school at 155. His detached stare has now left his face, and he is very present in the moment.
Again, out of nowhere, comes that voice.
“You’re next, cowboy,” (my hat is now slated for retirement).
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, off into the space between my left shoulder and the voice.
Cupcake finishes her routine to a perfunctory smattering of clapping, and I see Brent gingerly massage his abdomen.
I turn to the voice and decide to have a little fun.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” I ask.
“I’m Kathleen.”
“That your real name?” I ask.
“Yep, but you can call me Kat, cuz If you’re nice to me I’ll purr like a kitten, and if not I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
It’s nice to know where you stand with people.
“Well hey Kat, name’s Marshal, where y’all from?” I ask.
“Texas, honey, you?”
“I’m from Alabama. Centerpoint”
I thought Centerpoint sounded more country than say, Homewood or Mountain Brook. Especially when pronounced “sennerpoint.”
“Well I got a shot right here called an Alabama Slammer”
And with that she breaks out the biohazard box again.
“Well I’m still driving,” I reply.
Really. There I am fighting my base instinct to flee; I’m establishing rapport, albeit with faulty geography, and talking a big bag of bullshit to her, and she responds with this bullshit sales pitch. I bet that same test tube of watered down liquor has more names than ingredients. I catch Cedrick’s eye and give him the one handed signal for “bug out” and take a step forward.
“I gotta hit the head, ma’am” I say.
I even tip the brim of my hat for good measure. My eyes are fixed on the exit sign and Cedrick falls in formation as we beat a hasty, sticky retreat.

What is Dental Sleep Medicine?

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What is Dental Sleep Medicine?Writing

by Roy Hinshaw on June 2, 2014 with 0 comments

As part of her mission to provide comprehensive care to her patients, Dr. Elizabeth Caughey has taken extensive continuing education to learn to recognize and perform treatment for her patients with mild to moderate sleep apnea.

A a series of search-friendly URL’s were reserved, and a branded microsite was created within her website to educate her patients about this complex medical condition in layman’s terms.

Visit the full site What is Dental Sleep Medicine? - see screen grabs below.

Portland Cement – EP

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Portland Cement – EPSound

by Roy Hinshaw on April 23, 2014 with 0 comments

This recording is the result of a 25 year partnership with my good friend and guitar ace, Jay Somers.

Although we live on opposite sides of the country, our musical connection lives on. A follow up release is currently in production.

Listen to tracks on SoundCloud

1. LA Tinnitus

2. Captains of the Frequencies

3. Mixer Truck

4. Skunk Ape

5. Float

6. Blues for Ronda

7. Acoustic Prelude

8. Fanfare for Yeti

Ben & Jerry’s – Content BrandingDesign, Writing

by Roy Hinshaw on November 25, 2012 with 0 comments

BJLogoFullI am fortunate to work with graphic designers who challenge and inspire me. While working on this content branding piece, Plot, for Ben & Jerry’s, I remembered when I first moved to the Southeastern United States. Unfamiliar with magnolia trees, I would pick up the large buds from the ground, break off the top of the stem, and lob it sky-hook style at the nearest item I wanted to blow up. This would come back to me later and inspire this spread as a set up for the “What is a Seedbomb,” feature in Plot.

PlotPromoCand

 
Read Plot
.

Midnight Cowboy Opening SequenceScreen

by Roy Hinshaw on October 29, 2012 with 0 comments

Voigtboots

Midnight Cowboy – Opening Sequence re-imagining

Albert Broccoli raised the bar when it came to opening title sequences with the juggernaut that the James Bond catalog became and recent innovations in digital media have raised it higher. When tasked with re-creating an opening credits segment for the iconic film, “Midnight Cowboy,” our thought process led us to the intersection of the main characters in the film.

(Note: Student work lacked the budget to fully realize the visual direction – this is a pitch treatment.)

Read the Opening Credits treatment/style guide.

Watch the Midnight Cowboy Opening Sequence