GIBSON

HARLEY-DAVIDSON - TV

"Disturbance" :30
2008
CW: Peter Hajinian
AD: Steve Tenebrini
Prod Co: Drive Thru



"Night" :30
2008
CW: Peter Hajinian
AD: Steve Tenebrini
Prod Co: Drive Thru



"Because all roads" :30
2008
CW: Peter Hajinian
AD: Steve Tenebrini
Prod. Co.: Drive Thru

HARLEY-DAVIDSON - PRINT - the 2009 Motorcycle Book

These are spreads from the 2009 Harley-Davidson Motorcycle Book. For the past thirty years or so, these motorcycle books have served as a year-in-review catalog for that model year, with each motorcycle getting it's 600 characters and a profile shot.

For 2009, we created a book that's more of a state of the union for Harley-Davidson motorcycles. It still highlights the best of the best for the 2009 model year, but it also digs deeper into the culture. These are just a few spreads from the larger book.




This spread traces the origins of a Cross Bones, an all new motorcycle in 2008, back to it's no nonsense roots: GIs returning from WWII to 1950's America, and how they dealt with that.



There are few things like a Harley on the open road, and this spread pays homage to that.



This spread wasn't so much an exploration of history as an exploration of why a rider would ride a Harley-Davidson. I actually did get to speak to DMC for this interview, and it was both surprising and enlightening. His love for the sport of motorcycle is pretty infectious.


Email for a .PDF of the full book.

Subaru.com

With this redesign and relaunch of Subaru's corporate website, we were challenged with coming up with a more interesting/fun interface that doesn't lose sight of what makes Subaru great: it's environmental initiatives, it's safety record and engineering, and all the stories owners send in that tell more about the capability of a Subaru than any write up in Car & Driver could.

First thing you'll notice when you visit the site is the image slider. It alternates between insights into the Subaru brand and important vehicle information that any shopper coming to the site would want to have immediately. As you explore further, check out the Enthusiast section, an online community for owners. Check out the Engineering section, where you'll learn more than you ever wanted to know about the Subaru BOXER engine and other unique technologies. And if you want to know what Subaru is doing for the environment, check out the Company section.

Besides a lot of the words, I helped out with content management and user experience.

Subaru.com
Launched 2/10/09

NWA Print

NWA was expanding it's WorldPerk's Business program, and it wanted to reach out to the small business owner.

HARLEY-DAVIDSON - Dark Custom Launch Video

For the past few years, Harley-Davidson noticed a growing underground of young motorcycle riders were taking old or less expensive Harleys, stripped them of chrome and excess parts, and covering them with black and matte paints wherever it would stick. In 2008, they reorganized five of their motorcycles into a new collection: Dark Custom.

This is the video that launched that Dark Custom, first appearing on h-d.com/darkcustom.



DARK CUSTOM LAUNCH VIDEO
2008
CW: Peter Hajinian
AD: Steve Tenebrini
Prod Co: Drive Thru

Squad19.com

Since summer of 2009, I've been the writer-in-residence at Squad19.com. Squad19 does a lot of rock posters for local and national acts, along with art prints and series. I've been adding some words to go along with each poster, and helping out by using Twitter to drive people to the Squad19 website, where they can see more work and buy some posters for their walls. It was a fun departure, the tone, voice and topics I could play with tended to stray outside the confines of corporate America. And I got to delve into my love of sci-fi a bit.

HARLEY-DAVIDSON - 2009 Motorcycles Video

As well as working on the 2009 motorcycle book, I worked on the 2009 product video for Harley-Davidson. The challenge here was to create a piece that covered off on the breadth and depth of the model year, as well as giving each collection a chance to show off what they're made of and what they're about.



2009 Harley-Davidson Motorcycle Product Video
CW: Peter Hajinian
AD: Steve Tenebrini
Prod Co: Drive Thru

HARLEY-DAVIDSON - 2008 Motorcycle book

These are spreads from the 2008 Harley-Davidson motorcycle book. Besides profiling every motorcycle in that model year, the book is also a prelude to the 105th Anniversary celebrations that took place that year in Milwaukee.





Email for a .PDF of the full book.

PORSCHE

PROGRESSIVE - POSTER

Progressive Motorcycle Insurance ran a campaign about how they were the best protection from the gremlins. Gremlins, before becoming icons of the 80s, were what WWII fighter pilots blamed for mysterious mechanical problems. If it didn't work now, but worked a minute ago, it must be the gremlins. This term got picked up by motorcyclists, and is still used today. These posters were seen in agent's offices, as well as shows like the IMS.

LACE/HANKY - ONLINE VIDEO

This is a video I made for Lace/Hanky Photography, two Minneapolis-based photographers who do a lot of weddings.



"Love On The Run" :50
2008

LUNCH WITH PETER

This started out as a way for a friend of mine to learn a new editing software, but once it was up online, it took on a life of it's own. Enjoy.



Wanna watch me eat?

Resume

Peter Hajinian
612-850-3443
peter.hajinian@gmail.com

EXPERIENCE:

Freelance Writer
December 2008 - Present
Harley-Davidson, Subaru

Carmichael Lynch
Writer
January 2006 – December 2008
Worked on Harley-Davidson, Porsche, Subaru, Northwest Airlines, TSC, as well as various pitches.

Carmichael Lynch
Writer - Intern
October 2005 – December 2005
Worked on Jack’s Links, Porsche

DDB Chicago
Writer - Intern
July 2005 – September 2005
Worked on Bud Light, Bud Select, Capital One, Loctite Super Glue, Duck Tape.


EDUCATION

Miami Ad School – Minneapolis
2004 – 2005
Copywriting Program

University of Wisconsin – Madison
1998 – 2002
B.A. English Literature


OTHER JOBS I’VE HELD:

Waited tables at a comedy club, door to door salesman, high school Spanish teacher, British civil servant, resident advisor, sailing instructor.

WEB EXTRAS

I carry a notebook with me wherever I go, and end up filling it with odds and ends, sketches and thoughts. Below is where some of those things have ended up.

Live from Quincy St

Great stuff, those mad scientists.

There aren’t enough mad scientists anymore. There aren’t enough crazy people staying up late, listening to Art Bell while they tinker and toy with the universe. Make shift laboratories in basements and garages that wouldn’t pass a single government safety exam.

Think of all the great things mad scientists have given us. Frankenstein. A time traveling DeLorean. The light bulb. That’s right. Edison was a mad scientist. So was Tesla, who’s getting a lot of interesting retroactive coolness lately. The David Bowie portrayal probably helps.

But I want a mad scientist next door who’s going to make my wife afraid he’s going to blow up the block. And then he should invent something like a microphone that’s so powerful, it can silence all the white noise in the world so we can finally hear ourselves think. Or, better yet, hear the thoughts of others.

And he'd explain it like this: "Peeling away the layers of interference, we understand how the world clouds our hearing: first with noise, then with talking, then whispers, and then white noise. Once you take those away, you're left with gamma rays pinging around, and finally, thought waves. Pure human thought."

You wouldn't need television with a neighbor like that.

Live from Quincy St

The Radio.

The other day I was driving in my car, and Bonnie Raitt (or Ratt, however you spell her name) came on the radio. She was singing this song about "giving them something to talk about." Basically, it seemed like people were talking about them, and she said, let's give them something to talk about, something else, how about love. Then it hit me. Wait, this woman is trying to seduce a man, and instead of using perfume or a mix cd, or even Jim Beam, she's using gossip. Like "Hey, it's not me that wants us to hook up, it's them. So what do you say?" What's the appropriate response to this? There can be only one: No.

Then, a song by Eddie Money came on the radio. "Take me home tonight." You know, the one with the Ronnette in it. And I started to think about what he was saying. He's just telling this woman: "Look, I don't want to sleep alone, I'm just using you till the morning light, till dawn. Five, maybe six a.m., I don't know exactly, I'll check the paper. Then I want you gone." Pretty much I think Eddie Money is afraid of the dark. Oh yeah, and he needs you to drive him places, too. Because apparently, he's also afraid of driving. And afraid of having cash for a cab. Or friends to take him home.


Then I turned the dial, and found a wacky morning radio station guy yapping away. But now they're getting lazy. Half the time they talk, and half the time they push buttons. And when they push the buttons, they sound like a Loony Tunes sound design on cocaine. Obnoxious, I know. Anyway, this guy wasn't just hamming it up, he was going crazy. It was like he owned the deli, and was trying to hand out ham sandwiches for free. Like those late night furniture salesmen. He had so many jokes, he just had to move that stuff. So many one liners, he couldn't fit them all in his warehouse. Which is strange, because if he's pushing the buttons so much, he doesn't have to think about what he's talking about half the time, so what's up with that? What's he using the other five percent of his brain for? Maybe he's planning what order of the buttons he's going to push next.

I don't know.

Then I pulled up to my house, so I turned the car off, and then I don't know what he said. Nor did I care. I was home.

my love

I am unbroken
On the surface, at least.
I saw when you came in
I know what you packed in that big bag
No one comes here looking for anything else
Sure, there's a big beach across the street
Even a waterpark on the edge of town.
With slides.
But I'm just steps from your door
Mere paces past the vending machine.

And yet, like so many others, you shun me.
Not even bothering to dip a toe.
I am shunned
During my open hours of 6am to 10pm.

Sure, you say you'd swim in me if I were open later
I've heard that one before.
If only there were a life guard on duty
I'd be assured one swimmer.

It must be love

The word shook the walls of the pub and rattled her glass of house wine. She turned around, as did everyone else, to see his bright flashing smile and wide eyes. He was smoothing his tie against his barrel chest, and walking straight at her. My God, she thought, I'm either going to marry this man or never coming back to this side of town again.

Strange Uncles From Far Off Places

Autumn was the season when distant cousins and strange uncles would show up at the door. Some were traveling through. Some were looking for work. All were stopping by for dinner. My father's face always turned from surprise to recognition. "Of course he's my great aunt Helena's son, he has her widow's peak." My mother rolled with the punches all the way to the kitchen, where she'd begin to cook the mammoth meal. These uncles, they'd usually pinch my cheek and dole out advice like "get good grades." Then they'd offer to get me a dangerous job in a far flung place like a whaling ship in the south Indian Ocean. Who even knows where the Indian Ocean is anymore? My parents would cheerfully thank them for the offer, but counter with the question of who would take over for my father if I left. It appeared that filial responsibility only counted between parents and children. This explains the wanderlust that stirs in me every autumn. I sit in a chair not ten miles from the door those uncles used to knock on, and I wonder what the Indian Ocean is like this time of year.

The New Sound

Johanna would learn a song by plucking it out by ear on her guitar. Only after she had figured out what she thought was a complete version, perfect for a cover band, would she go online to find the way the maestros in their basements played it. She already knew what she would find. It was merely a confirmation. When she read through their musical notation, and then played it, it sounded nothing like hers. So, armed with her own bastard version, she wrote a new melody, new lyrics, and conquered the local coffeehouses and open mics with her all new originals.

It's hot

I don't remember the point of no return, but I passed it a while ago. If it's hot, my body want to lay down. On the floor. Below an air conditioner. Or in front of a TV. Or on a leather couch. But only if it's in an air conditioned loft.

That is when you begin to conform to the outline of the wooden frame. Your guts are stuffing, the fat and muscle upholstering. The final line is crossed when they notice you're not there. Not right away, but it's definitely a look up and go "Hey, where'd it go?" moment.

Statellites

"Shut the engines down. We don't want too much jet flare," Captain Ryan Scott commanded into his space helmet mic. "We don't want to alert the planet below."

Back on the sleek silver spaceship Officer Dan Wilson pulled back on the power lever, and looked out into space as Captain Scott danced around the black statellite. It was one of the early models. One of the first few hundred of thousands of such satellites, spread across the galaxy and dropped into orbit around planets thought to have life. Their only mission, to collect information and samples on the life below. Statistical information. Hence the name change.

"Ok, I've reached the service panel," Scott's voice crackled in the spaceship. "It's coming off without a problem. I should have the diagnostic cable plugged in soon."

"Do you think they know it's here?"

"Who?"

"The aliens on the planet below," Wilson explained. He peered down past the statellite to the green pearl below. Swirling storm clouds and hints of jagged emerald peaks were all he saw. Every astronaut had a secondary specialty, and his was in asteroids. But the statellites information could interpret what was happening below.

"Nevermind them. That's why they paint these things black. Besides, the last information collection showed only mastodon like creatures roaming around down there," Scott stated. "I'm having trouble with this secondary door. You're going to have to come out here and assist me."

"But if they could watch, what do you think they'd be saying about us?" Wilson asked, putting the spaceship on autopilot and floating over to his spacesuit, strapped to the wall.

"They'd probably think we were just part of the natural phenomena of things. Like comets."

"Or near Earth asteroids." Scott grunted. "Bring out the other set of tools, too. We have to make sure we don't puncture the seal behind this door when we muscle it open."

Out in space, Wilson gave a kick off the side of the ship and floated straight towards Scott and the statellite. Below him, the green planet swirled, as though he had just leapt out of a plane above a thunderstorm in a nightmare and instead of plunging he hung in unending impending doom.

"Grab my tether, I'll hold on here and you can climb right to me," Scott said. Wilson grabbed his tether, and climbed his way away from the sleek silver to the black metal. Once there, he pulled out a number of prying tools designed specifically for this task.

"To answer your question," Scott said as they wedged the prys into place. "I've been on over 60 missions like this, and we've never had any information that would suggest the species on the planet below knew there was a set of eyes on their planet the whole time."

"Really?"

A flash of light screamed past the two men in open space.

"What was that?" Wilson asked, tightening his grip on the tether.

"Micrometeor," Scott said. "Nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure it came from space? And not, and not from below?" Wilson peered down at the green swirl below. He looked up to find Scott staring at him strangley. Scott cleared his throat.

"Like I was saying, the only time that's every happened, that we know of, was on Wolf 9948. The inhabitants captured the statellite, and it alerted Earth with it's distress signal. The beings on that planet thought it was a space sarcophagus, because there's all that empty space inside for some to go in and have access to the computer."

"I remember reading about that, that's how they learned our language."

"And our mathematics. And so when we showed up, they were able to communicate to us. Whew! One great thing about this kind of work is space keeps you too cold to sweat a lot." Scott grunted, and the secondary door opened. Inside, the blinking lights of the super computer flickered. Silent, it simply watched.

"Gee, it's kind of spooky in here," Wilson said.

"Well, it's not meant for the living," Scott replied. "Hand me that cable."

Another micrometeor flashed outside. Wilson jumped in his suit.

"Maybe there's a storm or something. We should get back to the ship." Wilson started to tug on his tether to take him back.

"What are you doing? Gimme that cable. They're harmless. We have to figure out what's wrong with this machine before we're going anywhere," Scott jerked the cable out of Wilson's gloved hand. As he pushed the cable towards the panel just inside the door, another bright flash filled the sky around them. It was followed by an awful crackling sound.

They looked back at the spaceship, which now had a huge hole in the control room window.

"My God," Scott said. "It hit the ship and spun it around."

"No," Wilson said in horror. His voice shook, "It came from the planet."

Just as he finished speaking another flash and crackle, and spaceship was spun again.

"They're... they're.... shooting at us!" Scott shouted. "Get back to the ship!"

Wilson gripped his tether and pulled. It floated back to him. He hadn't properly secured it inside the airlock door. Another flash, and the spaceship was knocked away. Scott screamed into his mic, an organic crackle that broke down as he was dragged behind the silver space ship deep into space. Wilson's tether, like a cut umbilical cord, drifted down towards the green swirling planet.

He climbed into the statellite and waited. The micrometeors or whatever they were from the planet had stopped. But now he was marooned. In this coffin in deep space. He thought hard back to his orientation training, and powered the statellite to close the door and begin the distress signal process. A myriad of lights flickered inches from the glass face of his space helmet. On a tiny diagnostics screen, he watched as the silent supercomputer crunched the latest information. Trajectories were calculated, and they kept coming up the same. Projectiles from the planet below. Wilson tried to keep his breathing steady, to conserve his oxygen. He didn't know how long it would take for a rescue crew to pick him up. They had probably spotted the silver through the green clouds. It had given them away. That was his thought. Until the computer started to crunch new information. The statellite was slowly falling back to the planet. It was being drawn down. And Wilson with it. The beings on this particular planet, it turns out, were curious and wanted to collect information.

Late at night when I'm driving

The truest manic energy only wakens after the sun has completely set. One lady claimed it was ignited by starlight. She also claimed ancient astronauts taught the Babylonians how to crochet. I can only confirm that the maniac energy we had agreed on, a heightened awareness and acute hearing, is most commonly experienced in an empty old house when everyone else is asleep. This is where the great Russian authors lived and worked. This is where the phantom notes of musical genius can be caught. This is where the knots of mathematical equations are unraveled.

This is also what I feel when I'm driving on an almost empty highway late at night. Between the repeating streetlights I almost catch it staring. I crack the window, just enough so it can creep in, and then I find a quiet radio station low on the FM dial that plays sparse piano compositions. And then, I turn off at the next exit. Here, the streets are almost certainly empty. And the spaces between the repeating streetlights long and hollow. Trees dangle branches around the yellow lights, like hands protecting a flame from the wind. My car rolls past people. Silent people. Like a spy in a hostile land, I drive on. Like a grade schooler carefully skipping cracks in the sidewalk.

Now I'm home to fill a notebook. The universe shifts outside my window. I am no longer a part of the silent cobalt outside. Now I am a part of the golden glow, one of many I had seen on my way back. Between the hollow spaces of cobalt, in other glowing embers of windows, I imagine others with a heightened awareness and acute hearing. The only ones awake in the castle. Feverishly working. They could be anyone. Russian authors. American poets. Argentine painters. Ghanaian mathematicians. Or tired second shift workers, reveling in the absence of the annoying throngs.

The world has been transformed. The maps need to be adjusted.

Empuja los botones

Square faced, numbered, lettered, constant companions. What would modern life be if it weren't for buttons? The switch never got this much recognition, nor this level of success.

This is the golden age of the fingertip. Those lucky pads, each one a signature of it's own, leaving a fine mark every time a button is pressed.

Black Moth

Here's a music video for the song "Black Moth" by P.Anheier.

third in the series about the denizens of PLANET X

have you told your friends about ENORMOUS ORANGE yet?

more of the denizens of PLANET X

from my notebook. via photoshop. again.

from my notebook. via photoshop.

from my notebook.

Under the Weather

From the Los Bichos album "Who's Afraid of the Midwest?"

Under The Weather (reprise)

From the Los Bichos album "Who's Afraid of the Midwest?"

a good and thoughtful read.

Live from Quincy St

Quick hit thought on vacationing:

Vacation should be a sport, with the competition categories being time trials, frugality, lusciousness, souvenirs and pictures. I think I'd do well in time trials, especially at airports. It takes a certain breed to win at frugality and lusciousness, and after having travelled with both, I'd rather not compete in that category. Souvenirs would be the category I'd bitch about in the locker room at the end of the competition.

WATCH "LUNCH WITH PETER"

http://lunchwp.blogspot.com/

Let's dance.

YOUTUBE, BLOGSPOT, PETERHAJINIAN.com

Dear Reader,

As I branch out into other mediums available to me on the internet, I long for the old format days of the Word document website. If I were proficient at frames or wordpress, I'd probably create a website like this:




But we can't all be really intelligent, so I've been toying with ceasing to post here, and only posting on a new page under the PETERHAJINIAN.com umbrella. If you read this and would give me an extra click to continue reading the MadExpress, let me know. If not, I'll assume there is a) little readership or b) lazy readership. I would be in category b.

Plenty of new content coming. Another spanish rock opera, music videos, sci-fi romances, and random images from my sketchbooks.

Who's Afraid of the Midwest pt. 3

She was taking a break

She decided there was enough going on. And while her public only viewed her condition based on the last romance she had, she was busy behind the scenes. Loving her job. Loving her role as a producer. Loving her assistant. Telling her assistant not to tell anyone. Telling her assistant it wouldn't go anywhere anyway, so they should just pretend like it never happened. Pretending like she never had that conversation. Pretending like she wasn't known for a public broken heart. Breaking the news to her family she was going on a vacation. Breaking the news to her friends she was taking them with her. Tipping the bartender on the cruise ship well enough to drink for free. Drinking for a day and a half before she decided to take a vacation from her vacation. Deciding not to tell her friends. Telling the helicopter pilot to take her to the nearest island. Getting dropped off on the coast of Mexico. Meeting a fisherman who's chest was bronzed by a Caribbean sun. Letting him pick her up off the beach. Marrying in a very small dress in a very Catholic ceremony. Dying inside to see the paparazzi in the street. Hitchhiking to the airport. Landing in L.A. Calling her agent to say she needs a break.

Who's Afraid of the Midwest pt. 2

Who's Afraid of the Midwest pt. 1

Home Entertainment Center.

Hey

Where do stamps come from?

I used to see clusters of mailboxes as a sign of being out in the sticks. Everyone in my neighborhood had a mailbox in front of their house, just at the end of their thirty-two foot driveway. But out in the sticks, houses were tucked away through trees and behind hills. And that's a long way to walk. So the mailboxes would be clustered. A sort of rural watercooler. You could get the mail and then talk about the UFOs out last night. Yes, I did see them. They're using green lights now a days. Not like the good old days when they were bright blue. At least they stopped messing with the crops.

On a winding road to grandma's there was a dusty driveway that ran straight out through a field before disappearing into a grove. A row of trees stood guard the whole way from the main road to the grove. I always imagined that to be the road I wanted to lead to my house. Whatever house I would eventually live in. We would have a gate at the main road that would always be open. We would regularly take our dinners on the back patio, tucked behind the house. We could sing and shout, and no one on the road would hear us. They would just look down the dusty road and wonder, who lives there? A good lead in, to a place where you could sit and try to answer thoughtful questions all day and all night.

Laying on your back in the shade.

ENORMOUS ORANGE: the notes.

A friend of mine suggested we do a two-person show, with the inspiration as the Mighty Boosh. As I watched it, I wrote down everything that popped into my head for our show. For every 30 seconds of the show I’d watch, I’d stop and write down something and send it to my friend. It turned out what I was thinking wasn’t close to what he was thinking. here is a compilation of my emails to him.

* * *

so i've only watched the first :30, and this is where i think you're going:

we're an unlikely duo of misfit friends who are hosting a travel show.

1 min in: we're a duo trying to put on a show, and due to our
ineptitude you get to see how we try and put it together

1 min 30: we're not doing a mockumentary, we're doing a show that
descends into chaos and only feels like a mocumentary.

2 min: we're doing sketch comedy, with monty-python type cuts, and
it's called "ENORMOUS ORANGE"

2 min 30: we're like waldorf and cranston (or whoever the muppet show
guys are), taking apart our own show that is past it's prime, jumped
the shark, run out of juice, and we're just htere to accept pay checks
and dish out revenge for what we felt was a creatively stifling work
situation.

3 min: we're an old vaudeville crew that got transported to the future
(1991) and are trying to come to terms not only with modernity but
also with our inability to attract women. high point of each episode:
one of us keeps learning new terms that they decide should become the
centerpiece of the show in progress. (such as: dadaism). they think
that the live broadcast is just a run through, because there are no
people in the studio except for the producer and the cameramen.

3 min 30: we're too guys trying to put on a sketch comedy act, and we
think we're chameolonic and really good at slipping into different
characters, but we suck and are reduced to just acting out a
character's tic or "thing". and doing so poorly.

4 min: we pretend to be british on stage but everyone we interact with
thinks we're australian. or we get things like south america and south
africa mixed up.

4 min 30: our sponsor is WUNDERPLASTIC, a mysterious home kitchen storage product that we are forced to put into different sketches.

5 min: we’re trying to get out of a show that’s past it’s prime, and shamelessly discuss it on stage.


* * *

i wrote this last night

It has just rained
and everything is wet
I sit at home
and wiggle my toes
because that rhyme is convenient
At times like these,
these aftermaths, these wakes
it's always about what
isn't here anymore.
and i still am.

welcome to