The Event

I usually don't pay much attention to my speedometer (I have plenty of traffic school graduation certificates to prove it). I also don't care that much when particular dates line up - for example 8/9/10. Or when license plate numbers randomly wind up in sequential order.

Over the weekend I was driving with my son who always makes a point of telling me how much over the speed limit I'm going. I tell him it's the angle he sees the speedometer from the passenger seat (it only looks like 85), but he doesn't buy it. Smart boy.

Anyway, thanks to his policing of my lead foot, he pointed out something I might have otherwise missed. My mileage had reached a certain visual milestone. And while initially I didn't think much of it, the more I looked at it the more interesting I thought it was.

Not the fact I had it pointed out to me, but that thanks to my son, I recognized it as a slightly special moment that wouldn't happen again. At least not on this car.

It also made me kind of sad to think I had four chances before this to notice something similar, but either hadn't paid attention or hadn't looked down at the odometer in time.

I liked seeing all the fives in a row like that. It was neat. Orderly. Crisp. I have kids, so I appreciate those things more than the average individual.

Then, just as I'm really enjoying the fact I got to see it, this happens:

The moment was gone.

If you've read this far you're probably thinking, "Here it comes. He's going to start shoveling some New Age crap about his stupid odometer being a metaphor for life, and how you have to be aware of the little moments that are happening all around you, all the time, every day, because they won't come around again and you'll be sorry you missed them."

So not me. Nope. Not going to do that.

But I will say that when a moment somewhat out of the ordinary happens - no matter how small - and you're aware of it, there probably is something to be learned from it.

For example, I learned two things.

I need to dust my dashboard more often. And I better unload this rustbucket before it hits 60,000.

Doesn't matter if it's black or white

There are two truths here. Yes, I'm allergic to chocolate. And no, it doesn't stop me from having it.

Usually.

It's not like I go into shock, or my throat closes, or I break out in a hideous, angry red rash (that hasn't happened since I dated Susie Harding in high school, and I'm pretty sure chocolate had nothing to do with it). Anyway, if that happened every time I'd never have it. But fortunately, my reaction is on the mild side. All that happens is I sneeze and get stuffed up for a couple of days.

So the decision I'm faced with is how important is quality breathing versus the chocolate.

What I usually wind up deciding is that it's a small price to pay, especially for the good stuff - which is what I try to limit myself to. After all there's no sense in going through it for a Tootsie Roll or a Hershey Bar. Now Milky Way, that's another story.

My friends who know this about me somehow always seem to conveniently forget it until they're holding a plate with a thick slice of chocolate cake right in front of my face. Then, just as the rich fragrance of the chocolate reaches me, they snap it away, saying, "Oh, I forgot. You're allergic." My reply, in my head, is, "Oh, I forgot. You're an a#%&*(@."

You'd think since I've had to involuntarily take chocolate off my plate that I'd be thinner. But sadly there's no shortage of substitutes to satisfy my sweet tooth.

Not too long ago I read that if you keep exposing yourself to the thing you're allergic to, eventually you build an immunity to it.

I don't know if that's true. But I'm definitely willing to find out.

The Pep Talk

Courtesy Getty Images®

Endless meetings. Bad coffee. People judging your ideas who should be paying for the privilege of watching you work.

These are just a few of the things advertising agency creatives have in common.

Another is The Pep Talk.

Unlike many aspects of agency life that are unforeseeable, The Pep Talk is actually one of the more predictable ones. Because certain events are bound to trigger one, you can usually see it coming.

The agency's biggest account is "in review." Or walking out the door. Your boss gets fired. The lead creative team is opening their own shop. There's a new VP of Marketing. The agency gets bought.

The irony of The Pep Talk is while its intended purpose is to reassure, comfort, energize and instill a sense of camaraderie and teamwork, it usually has exactly the opposite effect.

And if you've been through more than one of them, like anyone who's worked ten minutes in an agency, you already know that apparently there's only one script for The Pep Talk.

By no means a complete list, here are a few telltale things you'll hear that let you know you're in the middle of one:

I know you've all heard about (person's name/account/other agency).

We're sorry to see (person's name/account name) go.

It was a mutual decision, and we wish them well.

We're restructuring the department.

Nobody else is going to be leaving.

Everything is going to be fine.

You'll all be fine.

Now more than ever we need to pull together.

We'll keep doing the great work we've been doing.

You have nothing to worry about.

When we lost (account name) it was the same situation, but we came through that and we'll come through this.

Everything is fine.

We're going to come out of this stronger.

Onward and upward.

And no Pep Talk would be complete without the classic "I don't have the answer to that, but I'll get back to you."

What happens next is almost as predictable as the talk itself.

People go back to their desks, call their friends at other agencies, tell them the ship is sinking and ask if they're hiring. Flash drives go into overtime saving years worth of work.

Predictably, everybody gets together and talks about how predictable The Pep Talk was.

I don't envy the people that actually have to give the talk. It's a tough position for them because they know that you know that they know it's all a crock.

And nobody really knows what's going to happen next.

The whole ritual would be less insulting if they could just weave in a bit more of the truth. Not even the whole truth, just a little more. For example, they could say "Well, didn't see that coming." Or "Yeah it's going to be strange." Or "I was as shocked as you were. Who knows how the hell this is going to turn out?" Or "We are so screwed."

It wouldn't be any more reassuring, but at least it'd be honest.

The funny part is that once The Pep Talk is over, and the aftermath dies down, everyone gets back to work doing what they do. Because we're all professionals, and we all know the work has to get done. We also know that while some agencies live or die by one account, none of them live or die by one person. Agency life goes on.

And why shouldn't it? After all, everything's going to be fine.

Job Security

The ad agency I'm freelancing at, like every ad agency, has lots of nice, shiny things lying all around the office.

Laptops. Monitors. DVD players. Speakers. Headphones. iPads. iPods. Cameras. Things like that. Tools of the trade.

There are also the things people who work there bring in and leave in plain sight.

Family pictures in pricey frames. Open, wide open, purses casually tossed on to a desk or the floor. Giant backpacks, filled with all kinds of confidential information and personal I.D. in virtually every one of the 67 zippered pockets.

All things thieves looking for a quick, easy score are drawn to.

There are security cameras throughout the agency. Everywhere you look, they're looking back. It's like being at Macy's. Or the casino at the Bellagio.

The eyes in the sky are supposed to provide a sense of security. After all, they're for our protection. But no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling there's something a little more sinister at play.

For example, the camera outside the bathrooms. Really? Even though people going in say they're going to take something, usually what they do is leave something. I wonder exactly what the company thinks is going to get stolen out of the men's room.

Or the one hiding in the corner of the tiny kitchen that's aimed at the cabinets. Just try and make off with those decaf packets that don't work on any other machine. In. The. World.

I'm usually extremely slow to jump on the conspiracy theory bandwagon. But here's what I think: the cameras are there to keep tabs on us.

Being placed where they are, whoever is monitoring them can see how much time we spend in the bathroom. Or the coffee room. (I suppose if you spent less time in one you'd spend less time in the other).

It's not as if we're in an office you can easily stroll through. You need a roadmap and an experienced tracker to find the front door and elevator. Once you're there, you have to have a key card to ride up the elevator and get in and out of the office. And the stairwells. And the parking lot. Our office is spread across three buildings. You can't get from one to the other without the card.

And while nothing's impossible, it's just not an easy place for someone to get into unnoticed and stroll through stealing things.

The cameras are an additional layer of security, but the layering is suspiciously thick. There are more cameras than there are points of entry.

There's something murkier at play here.

Don't get me wrong. If my laptop ever goes missing, I'd definitely feel better knowing there's a chance they got a picture of whoever took it.

And if the thief has to pee before he leaves, he's really screwed.

Judgement day

There's an odd sort of posturing people do when they make a judgement about someone or something.

They dig their heels in. They don't like to be questioned about it. And they really don't like to be told they're wrong, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that they are.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess we all have friends who are like that. I know I do. They know what they know, even if what they know isn't right. Their patience for giving someone a second chance or admitting they might have been wro...wro....wrong about something is non-existent.

If you work in advertising, you know agencies are lousy with people like that. People who feel that just the act of making a decision is more important than the decision they make.

It's frustrating as hell.

But sometimes they really do believe that a bad idea is a good idea. That's even more frustrating.

I've already written here about the fact I have trouble cutting people slack sometimes. The good news is I keep learning the lesson over and over.

Not going to go into details, but there was a person I'd made a decision about. Based on a few things, I viewed them a certain way, put them in a certain box.

Come to find out that wasn't all there was to this person. I even wound up having a day of email exchanges that were funny, interesting, welcome and most of all unexpected.

I feel like I'm rambling a bit here (so what else is new?), but the bottom line is maybe once in awhile it pays to put the brakes on, attach the filter and think a little more before I dig my own heels in and make a decision or a judgement about something or someone with such brazen certainty.

This is good advice. Trust me, I know I'm right about this.

Yul love this movie

Okay, first of all, sorry about the title. I couldn't help it. I was scrolling through the cable guide, and this little gem caught my eye.

Westworld was made in 1973. Before Arnold terminated anything. Before Captain Picard even knew what a borg was.

It's about an amusement park with three different "worlds": Roman world, Medieval world, and the scariest one: Westworld.

Yul Brenner plays a robot gunslinger. For an insanely expensive admission ticket, guests can pretend they're cowboys. They can ride horses into town. They can sidle up to the bar for whiskey. They can have their way with the dance hall girls. And the best part is they can challenge the Gunslinger to a gunfight at high noon all day long, killing him over and over. This is exactly what he's been programmed for.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, a funny thing happens. Seems there's a computer virus that starts spreading from robot to robot, world to world. During a sword fight in Medieval world, a guest is suddenly stabbed. In a shootout with James Brolin, Yul Brenner shoots and kills him. For real. Then chases his friend through the park trying to kill him as well.

A few years back they were going to remake this film with Arnold in the Yul Brenner role. It seemed like pretty good casting, even if it wasn't exactly asking Arnold to stretch as an actor. But then that pesky governors race came up, and suddenly he had another day job.

Probably better anyway. Westworld is another one of those movies that doesn't need to get remade.

It was written and directed by Michael Crichton.

Hmmm, wonder if he ever wrote anything else about an amusement park where things go horribly wrong?

Visiting Paula

Work in advertising on the creative side, and you find out pretty quickly that you only ever get to work with about five genuinely great account people. If you're lucky.

My friend Paula was one of the greats.

I met her 22 years ago when we worked at an agency downtown that handled McDonald's operator business. She was brilliant, funny and passionate about great work. She didn't suffer fools lightly, and approached her job with something I've often been accused of - an unfrightened attitude. It was a thing of beauty to watch her direct it equally towards clients, creatives and management.

It was impossible not to respect her for it.

She lived in Long Beach, and was a great advocate for the city. It was her convincing arguments (along with the fact it's my wife's hometown) that led us to buy a house and move here. We even used her realtor because Paula said he was the best. And if she thought so, there was no reason for us not to.

For years, every Christmas we'd go to her house in Naples for the boat parade on the canals. We talked frequently, even if it was just to check in.

When Paula became VP of Marketing for Disneyland Resort, she asked me to be the consultant on her search for a new agency. I told her I'd never done anything like that, and she said, "I think you can do it. Why wouldn't you?" We developed the strategy, created the assignment and went to the agencies pitching the business together. I remember flying with her to see some agencies in San Francisco on a morning with 75 mph winds in Northern California. The plane was buffeted around, sometimes pretty violently, from about ten minutes into the flight until we landed. Paula, who was not crazy about flying in the first place, had my hand in a vise grip the entire time. The experience of being the creative consultant was exciting for many reasons, not the least of which was the chance to be working with her again.

Eventually Paula sold her house in Naples and moved into one a bit further north in Long Beach.

As life so often does, it got crazy and we lost touch for a few years, despite the fact we were in the same city and only minutes away from each other. Or so I thought.

This past June, I had lunch with my friend Alison who worked with Paula and me at that downtown agency. Alison was an account executive under Paula. She too had moved to Long Beach, and also eventually wound up working at Disney. I met her in Burbank and we had a wonderful lunch, kicking around old times and catching up.

At one point, I mentioned I'd lost touch with Paula, and asked if she knew what was going on with her. She sighed and said, "Oh Jeff." A sad look came over her face, a look that said I don't want to be the one to tell you but I have to. I braced myself.

She told me that Paula had extremely advanced Alzheimer's. I was devastated and heartbroken.

Paula isn't that much older than me, but apparently it runs in her family. It found her mother at a young age as well. Alison told me where Paula was, and there was no question that I was going to go visit her. But truthfully, the idea of seeing her without her really being there scared me.

It took me two months after that lunch to work up the courage to go.

Paula had been in a long-term care facility in Long Beach, but by the time my wife and I went to visit her last month, she was gone. She'd been moved to another facility. Apparently she had hit another patient and was sent to a hospital for observation and to have her meds adjusted. She wasn't accepted back to the facility because they were unable to manage her feistiness (they should've seen her at the agency).

They didn't have the information about where she was taken at their fingertips because, as it turned out, this incident had actually happened a couple months before my visit. But they did give me the name and number of her conservator who told me where to find her, and expressed his appreciation that I was going to visit her.

The facility she's currently in is not in a great part of Los Angeles.

But ever since lunch with Alison, Paula has never been far from my thoughts. And today, the day before Labor Day, I went to visit her.

Alison made clear to me in the most compassionate way she could that the Paula I knew, my friend that I loved, wasn't going to be there. The woman I was going to see would look like her, but she wasn't going to remember any of our history. She wasn't going to know who I was. Which for some reason felt okay, because I know who she is.

When I got to the facility, I asked for her. A nurse escorted me to the lock-up area, a section where the most advanced Alzheimer's cases are. There are signs all over the door going in warning that patients may try to fight their way out when you leave.

Once inside, the nurse said Paula would probably be walking around. I first saw her talking to herself, walking towards me in the hall. She looked pale and thin, and her dark brown hair, always meticulously styled, was completely gray and disheveled. The nurse told her she had a visitor. Unfazed by the fact she didn't know me, I introduced myself and took her hand. She held on tight, just like the flight to San Francisco.

I remembered Alison had told me not to ask her questions as that upsets her, but just to listen or speak in statements. We walked around the facility and I listened and watched as Paula had a conversation with herself almost the entire time. Occasionally I'd chime in with something, and she would look at me, agree, then go right back to her inner talk.

I kept wondering if the old Paula, my Paula was in there. And if she was, could I somehow bring her out. Maybe if I told her a story about us, or about one of the many good deeds she'd done for me over the years, that would spark her into the moment for a few seconds.

Never underestimate the power of denial.

Years ago there was an episode of St. Elsewhere where Dr. Mark Craig's (William Daniels) mentor Dr. David Domidian (Dean Jagger) was returning to the hospital. Mark was thrilled, then shattered to learn that his hero had advanced Alzheimer's. Towards the end of the episode, Dr. Domidian has a single moment of clarity where he looks at Mark, recognizes him and says his name.

I understand life isn't like it is in the movies or television. But even though I knew better, even though Alison had warned me, I couldn't stop myself from hoping for one of those moments.

At the end of my visit, I was holding her hand and told her I had to go. I was standing and she looked up at me and said, "Ok." I told her next time I'd bring my wife with me. Then I told her how good it was to see her, and how much I'd missed her over the years.

She looked up at me, smiled, and continued the conversation with herself. However at one point, one of the things she said was "I love you too."

That was my moment.

Sometimes there's a man...I won't say a hero...

John Goodman

Drew Carey