PR for Guidos

They’re everywhere.

Heading to your local Tim Horton’s to grab a coffee may mean dodging eight cars you could swear you watched Paul Walker drive in the The Fast and the Furious. Going to the beach anywhere within the Toronto area now means two things: wife beaters and gold chains. Alright, it means three things, because you just saw that car from Tim Horton’s with the flashing neon lights pull into the spot beside you. Then, there’s the club. Affliction shirts, guys wearing unimaginably tight jeans, and the occasional, “Sick belt buckle bro!” uttered from the booth behind you.

They’re guidos, and they’re here to stay.

MTV’s Jersey Shore takes a lot of the credit for bringing the “guido lifestyle” to the forefront of pop culture. But take it from an Italian guy who feels like he knew everyone who appeared on that show. Guidos have been around for longer than you can imagine.

What may confuse you is their original name, used occasionally in the early 90’s and growing in popularity into the new millennium: ginos. These people listened to “dance music” and brought “glow sticks” to all ages clubs in an attempt to... honestly, I have no idea what they were attempting to do.

Yet as they aged, “gino” was a term that just did not seem to fit right. Guidos, like an adult pack of ginos, began their ascent to the top of the tanning, car show, and clubbing lifestyle. Observed in their natural habitat, you can find guidos at your local Extreme Fitness, your neighbourhood tanning booth, or any place that plays “sick beats” past 10 p.m. on a weekend.

As they have grown in popularity, many have taken a bad rap from those who do not understand them. They claim they are a detriment to society, that they have no idea what it is like to contribute, that they have no values. To that I say, leave Pauly D out of this.

In my time on this planet as an Italian man, with a multitude of both Italian and Portuguese friends (as well as a Tim Horton’s next to my old workplace), I have come to know these guidos as people instead of just symbols. And believe it or not, most of them are actually extremely likeable. Yes, they love their beats, their tans, their guns (biceps? there’s no English to Guido dictionary out yet). They show off their cars, shitty or not, because they’re proud that they’re no longer riding the bus. But I’ve had guidos help me jump start my car (they’re great with cars), guidos show me new workout plans (pretty much only curls and situps), and guidos teach me the importance of family (guidos, of every culture, have a close bond with their families). If a guido says he will help you with something, he’s going to help you with it (shout out to Fat Tony for my new hair gel).

In time, many of these guidos became my friends. And the more I came to know them, the more one thing became increasingly clear: guidos are misunderstood.

Sitting with a good friend of mine, as well as one of the pre-eminent guidos of our time, we had a heart to heart one night (sitting in his sick ’98 Saab, with a “sick system bro”). He explained to me that he loved everything about being a guido. What he didn’t love is that people did not understand.

As a future Public Relations specialist, I told him that maybe there was a way we could fix this problem, to take his image and translate it into words that those who have not lived their life by the G-T-L code (gym, tan, laundry) could understand. I asked him his views on life’s different matters, then attempted to put down in writing what he truly meant (in essence, alter his key messaging). Then, I promised to share it with the world.

His name is Pasquale Guida (seriously). This is what he had to say.

On Women:

Pasquale: “There are two types of women. Good girls and hooches, and as much as everyone wants a good girl us dudes want hooches too. I don’t have any keys to getting women though, women have keys to getting me!”

PR Reworking: “There are many types of ladies out there. Some are more willing to settle down and start a family, others are more looking to have fun and enjoy their youth. I love all women, be they serious about commited relationships or otherwise. I don’t really have a plan when it comes to meeting the right women. I try to leave it in their hands and if they like me, great. Let’s pursue something.”

On Social Situations:

Pasquale: “Whenever I go out, I’m always rocking a pair of fresh white sneakers, cuffed name-brand jeans, a v-neck of course, and a hat. Oh and about five pounds of gold too. I wear what I wear ‘cuz it goes well with how my attitude is and ladies are for sure gonna’ dig it, whether I’m just hanging out, or fist-pumping and beating the beat up at a club.”

PR Reworking: “I always try to look nice when I leave the house. I think a lot of people can tell how classy a man is by the way that he dresses. I tend to wear a bit of jewellery as well, since it has always kind of been my signature look. I like feeling like myself when I go out, whether it be having a relaxing dinner with some old friends or out celebrating a party downtown. I think women also like it when you just dress and act like yourself.”

On Changing the World:

Pasquale: “I’d make everyone Italian.” (laughs). “I’m only kidding, but I would make everyone a lot friendlier you know so everyone would just get along. It would make it easier for guys to talk to girls too, not that I have that problem.”

PR Reworking: “I’d make everyone Italian. I’m only kidding, but I would make everyone a lot friendlier you know so everyone would just get along. It would make it easier for guys to talk to girls too.” not that I have that problem.”

On What Makes Guidos so Great:

Pasquale: “Dude, are you serious with that question? What makes us great? Our style, attitude and lifestyle. We’re not scared of any situation and we’re always the life of the party. For all the guidz out there, keep giving us a good name out there and leave some girls for the rest of the guys. And keep fist pumping!”

PR Reworking: “We just try to make the most out of any situation, and turn negatives into positives. I love and respect my fellow guidos and I ask you all to continue bringing our positive message to society! Also, don’t engage in romantic activity with women in loving relationships!”

So next time you hear a young man’s car pulling up beside you at a light from 10 kilometres away, or have to wait in line at a tanning booth while the receptionist de-gels the machines, remember: guidos have hearts too. You just have to dig a little behind the gold necklaces to find them.

How the NBA Failed Manute Bol

I am by no means an NBA fan. Being the white kid in elementary school who was constantly getting crossed and dunked on at recess pretty much cemented my thinking that I had chosen the right sport in hockey.

Yet as a sports fan, I am aware of the league’s stars. I lived in Toronto throughout the Vince Carter heyday, and I remember the summer between grade seven and eight filled with dunk competitions with friends on my backyard Fisher Price net. I remember the Carter Nike commercials, the “Be Like Mike” Michael Jordan ad campaign. I’ve heard of Allen Iverson’s arrests and domestic disputes, as well as his subsequent shoe deals.

Until today, I had never heard of Manute Bol.

Manute Bol played in the NBA for 10 years, from 1985 – 1995. Known as a shot blocking specialist (at 7 feet 7 inches, he is the tallest man to have ever played in the league), he was a useful yet unspectacular player, allowing his height not to be all that defined him on the court. Many remember him for his attempts at three – point shooting, unheard of for someone around his size. Yet what defined Bol both during and after his career were his humanitarian efforts. A native of Sudan, Africa, Manute (whose name translates to “spiritual blessing”) constantly donated both is time and his money to his homeland, even entering warzones during his playing career to help those in danger. Yet many never heard of that. In a touching article in the Kansas City Star that ran around three weeks ago, columnist Sam Mellinger says that,

“Bol is at best a cult hero and at worse a freak show. Maybe if Bol was a better player we’d pay more attention. Maybe if he was doing his good deeds closer to our home, instead of his, we’d help him more.”

Aware of Bol’s initiatives, the NBA did little to promote the selfless deeds of one of its players, deciding instead to focus more on the talented bad boys in a league that was full of them. When Bol played for the Miami Heat, he was fined $25,000 by the team for missing two exhibition games. He was instead in Washington D.C. for Congress-sponsored peace talks between rebel leaders from Sudan. Allen Iverson, on the other hand, was known to miss team practices during the playoffs because he was, well, Allen Iverson. Guess which one got a commercial?

Bol is said to have made over 6 million dollars over his career in the NBA, and said to have donated almost all of it to his humanitarian causes back home. The league’s “NBA Cares” program, said to be a “global community outreach initiative that addresses important social issues such as education, youth and family development,” has donated nothing. Ironically enough, the top story on their website today says that the Miami Heat have decided to help Haiti. “There’s guys who give away turkeys in the ‘hood and get more props than this guy building schools in the Sudan,” says Steve Perry, an expert on social issues.

As Bol grew older and left his playing days farther behind him, he began to take on any humiliating act that could help him raise money for Sudanese charities. He strapped on the skates for a pro hockey game, took part in a celebrity boxing match, and even became a horse jockey for a day. “There’s no way I can put the money in my pocket while my people are getting beat up,” he once said. “Whatever I can do to help my people I will do. I feel whatever I make here I make for my people.”

After spending the last several months building schools in Sudan, Bol became ill and fell victim to kidney failure. The medicine that was given to him in Africa then gave him Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a horrific skin condition that is often fatal.

Bol passed away this morning at the age of 47.

And that’s why I’ve decided to write this blog post tonight. With some down time on Thursday night, I ended up watching the end of game seven of the NBA Finals. I saw NBA alumnus Magic Johnson take to the court after the Lakers’ win, sharing the championship moment with Los Angeles Lakers’ star Kobe Bryant, a man accused of rape only a few years ago. I watched fan-fighting Ron Artest promote his upcoming rap album and thank his psychiatrist in a post-game interview. I watched people I respect as athletes but not as men gloat and celebrate and receive adoration from thousands of fans. Manute Bol lay in his hospital bed, dying because he wanted to put others ahead of himself.

Would it have been too much to ask of the NBA to promote a good-guy image of one of its athletes for once? To move away from the locker room gun controversies and the rape accusations and the shootings and shed some light on a man who graced their courts doing legitimate good in the world? Did not one person in the public relations office think that maybe, just maybe, demonstrating that the NBA was involved with more than highlight reels and player controversies might prove mutually beneficial to both the league and the cause?

I grew up idolizing various athletes for the skills they possessed in their respective sport. I did not know that Mats Sundin was a chain smoker when I was 12, and I am happy as hell that I didn’t. I wanted to be these men, and I mimicked their every move. When I heard Paul Kariya was a fanatic about his flexibility, I began to stretch every night before bed. When I heard that Roger Clemens used to throw a ball at a wall to work on his pitching as a youngster, I spent the next three weeks outside wearing out the back of my garage with every pitch I knew how to throw. So if I’d heard that one of my favourite athletes spent his time helping those in need? Maybe I would have spent less time on my game and more time organizing school fundraisers. But I didn’t. Most sports were happy to promote the fact that their star players could score or hit or jump beyond my imagination, and kick their personal-life rap sheets under the carpet.

I understand the point is to grow the game. Fine. Just don’t tell me that your league is committed to helping resolve pressing social issues worldwide and support that statement with pictures of teaching kids in Korea how to shoot free throws. Do you legitimately care, or are you only doing these things to show fans that you do them? Manute Bol risked, and ultimately lost his life by dedicating it to something bigger than himself. He repeatedly demonstrated forgiveness, compassion and selflessness, even when the lifestyle that he had been granted in the NBA gave him any excuse to do anything but. So go on with your bling and your youtube videos and your inspirational Kobe commercials that I know are coming out sometime in October. Let the league give the fans what will ultimately lead to more money in their owner’s oversized back pockets. A seemingly great man died today. And he died richer in spirit and respect than any of us could ever hope for. No NBA contract is going to give you that.

Public Relations Consultant to....... Myself.

I must get asked four times a week on average just what it is I’m doing with my life, and what it is I would like to do. Like a robot with an automated message, I now just respond without thinking; “I’m a post-graduate student at Centennial College, enrolled in the Corporate Communications and Public Relations program.” Wow, I even zoned out when typing that. Instinctive. They will usually stare at me for two to three seconds after this obligatory answer, waiting for more. Half- conscious by this point and no longer responding solely through muscle-memory, I’ll tell them that I didn’t have any real experience in the field before I entered the program, or something to that effect. I’m lying. What I mean is that I didn’t have experience working in PR for someone else. But actually working in PR? Hell, I’ve been serving as a consultant to myself for years. Let’s not kid ourselves; we all have.

When I was younger, establishing my “brand” or personal image meant battling my mother to the death not to wear those farmer’s overalls she thought were so adorable on me in grade six. Other than that, depending how many jokes I told in class or how many goals I scored in soccer at recess, others’ viewpoint on Adam Amato (outside of my best friends) was probably set. The same was true for everyone else I went to school with. This continued on through middle school, high school, and half of university. Then some smartass invented Facebook.

I fought hard not to join this social media (huh)? website, giving in after two months of prodding by a good friend who was addicted. Ironically enough, he quit the thing three years ago and never came back, leaving me to feed the habit on my own. At first I would add a few old friends from elementary school, catch up on what had been happening with each other. I had a collection of about six pictures on my profile, only uploaded because I had nowhere else to put them and figured my computer would crash one day and wipe them all out. Then a year went by. That cute girl I had a crush on in English class added me. Old sports rivals somehow tracked me down and did the same. Within the year, I was smack in the middle of the media mosh pit, throwing ‘bows with everyone else. This was my first taste of public relations.

People started advertising themselves and their accomplishments; check my business out here, just won a scholarship there, pictures of my new Range Rover up soon! Then there were the personal pictures. The black and whites, the faux photo shoots, the cleverly inserted pictures beside a resident hottie in each album. People were no longer just joining social media to be social, to catch up with those they used to know or keep in touch with new friends. No, the idea was now self promotion. And it worked.

And who was I not to keep up? If I went out with some friends and pictures were taken, I’d put them up. Something happened the night before that I didn’t want to forget? I’d write on a buddy’s wall quoting it. I was teetering on the brink of teenage girl-type socializing, and yet I couldn’t seem to stop. Why couldn’t I call my friends like I used to? Keep pictures in a personal photo album at home? Well shit, I would think to myself. Do I want to look like the only guy that isn’t going to these parties, even though I was actually there? I have friends! We do funny things! People need to know this!

So that’s what Facebook came to be. It was Adam Amato, personified online. Yet it wasn’t me. It never could be. It’s a caricature of myself, much like it’s a caricature of everyone else. The stupid videos I post, the music I put up on my wall, yeah, it’s something I have an interest in, it’s the same music I play in my car when I’m driving with no one else around. Yet I’m so much more in person than a status update about my weekend. The girl I used to know in university who checks up on my profile and sees I’ve been to the cottage and reads a friend’s post on my wall about a stupid joke I made doesn’t remember what it’s like to sit with me one-on-one, to get a coffee and actually speak about real things I might not want the 600+ friends on my account to hear. She remembers my latest profile picture, and slowly those memories start to erode her actual memories of me. But I’m not Adam Amato plus the enter key. There’s a hell of a lot more to me than that.

And yet in many ways, it is my (our) only way to keep in touch with those who no longer play the same roles in our lives. So we update it. We advise ourselves on whether or not that drunken picture is the best thing for your boss to see online, or whether you look good enough in that picture for your old crush to look at and say, “dammmn.” Some of us go too far, and you can check out my pal Natalie Berardi’s blog on the sins of Facebook for examples of that. Yet we make these decisions almost every day, doing the best we can to promote the image of ourselves (real or imagined) to those who care to look. Twitter’s joined the party now, but with 140 characters available to tell people what colour shoes you’re wearing today, its limits are reached far before one can truly establish themselves as an entity to the public.

Some of you may read the above and say to yourself, “Okay, maybe this guy gets it.” You may even click to my Facebook profile expecting a minimalist page. You won’t get one. In fact, from the moment I wrote the first sentence of this blog post to the moment I typed the current sentence you’re reading, I have watched three different videos that friends posted on Facebook, sent another to a friend of mine, (on his wall where others will see it), commented twice on someone else’s photo, and wished two friends whose phone numbers I have happy birthday on their walls. Oh, and I changed my own profile picture. Hell, the only reason you’re reading this blog right now is because I posted it onto my page.

But hey, I go to school for PR. This is just me getting experience.