The downside of freelance

I feel like crap.

When I was in Vegas earlier this month, towards the end of my trip I got sick. Really sick. Some cold/flu-y kind of thing.

But I was a good patient.

I changed my flight and got home as soon as I could, drank fluids, slept and rested for the next four days (a lot of people think that's what my week looks like on any given day).

Tomorrow, I'm going in to an agency I've never freelanced at before, to work with people I've never worked with before. And I can tell from the aching, the fever, the sneezing and coughing, that the cold/flu-y crud from earlier in the month has decided to pay a return visit.

But there's not much I can do about it. When you're freelance, the show must go on. And by show I mean day rate.

In the past when I've worked on staff somewhere and been sick, I'd just cash in a sick day, take care of myself, and then come back to work the next day feeling better. Unfortunately, when you're freelance there are no sick days. Not paid ones anyway.

I also used to get mad at people who'd come to work sick and risk infecting the rest of us with whatever they had. Obviously, both myself and my wallet have reconsidered our position on that.

So I'm going to go to bed early - and by early I mean after Dexter - get as much rest as I can, and hope I feel better in the morning.

I want to make a good first impression at this new gig. Something hocking up on your colleagues rarely does.

The 101st Post

If you know anything about me, you know I'm one of the least disciplined writers around. Even if you didn't know anything about me, you could probably tell that from the infrequency of posts to this blog.

I'm easily, very easily, distracted when I finally make the hair-pulling, angst-ridden decision to actually sit down and write something. Shiny objects. New episode of Dexter. Cold pizza in the fridge. Run to the newsstand (to see what other writers are writing). Catching up on phone calls. Changing batteries in the smoke detectors. Folding laundry. Gassing up the car.

Pretty much anything really.

Since I'm pretty sure no one expected me to get this far, least of all me, I imagine the fact I've completed a 100 posts to this blog won't be a big deal to many people.

Like my friend Rich, who's written over 366 posts since starting his blog. Or my friend, former office wife and partner in snark Janice, who's written over 312 posts since she started her blog.

Here's the difference: they're both disciplined writers who set out with a goal to accomplish a certain number of posts in a certain amount of time.

I know, crazy talk right?

But damned if they didn't. And if that's not crazy enough, now that they've both reached their goal, to the pleasure of myself and the rest of their readers, they're going to continue on with their angry, brave, humorous, insightful, intelligent, revealing, fun to read, fun to talk about blogs.

Truthfully, I'm kind of happy with my little accomplishment here. But I do realize that if I ever hope to catch up with them I'd better get writing.

Right after I get some coffee.

And iCare because?

I have an iPhone. I love it. And while at one point there might have been a time when I wanted to tell everyone I know that I had one, it doesn't matter now.

Because everyone has one.

So what exactly is the thought behind needing to brag the text or email you sent me came from your iPhone? I don't care. It was kind of a given it had to come from somewhere. When you send it from your desktop or laptop it's not signed off with "sent from my iMac." or "sent from my 17" MacBook Pro."

You want me to be...what? Impressed? Nope. Flattered? Not really. Happy you can afford an iPhone? Yes. I'm very happy for you.

What I do care about is getting a text or email in a timely manner, and having a phone conversation that doesn't drop out every ten feet.

Based on my experience, I'm pretty sure no one with an iPhone is bragging about that.

J.K. Rowling on the importance of failure

J.K. Rowling Speaks at Harvard Commencement from Harvard Magazine on Vimeo.

I didn't know it was possible to love J.K. Rowling any more than I already do. Then this comes along.

The TSA is not the enemy

Hey, air travelers, it's a pat down not a prostate exam.

All this uproar over something you don't even have to have unless you opt-out of the body scanner, is ridiculous.

Seriously, a little light frisking with a chance of having the jewels brushed, and you're going to boycott? Jam the security lines at the height of holiday travel? Have at it. You'll be the most popular person on the plane, especially to all the people forced to wait in line behind you.

That is, of course, assuming you make your flight.

Go figure, but it's a pretty safe bet the airlines aren't going to adjust their holiday schedules just so you can take your stand, without your shoes on, at the metal detector.

When I used to commute to San Francisco from Los Angeles every week, one time the pilot taxied out to the runway, then turned the plane around and took us back to the gate because he felt a vibration in the engine he didn't like. They moved us off that plane and on to another one. There was this loudmouth jackass, as there always is, complaining how late he was going to be to his meeting because the pilot decided not to take a chance of the engine failing in mid-flight. I told him to feel free to stay on the plane.

It constantly amazes me how short people's memories are. Maybe they just don't read the papers, but there's actually a reason for the increased security.

All this uninformed noise about 4th amendment rights being violated, especially by a group of people who have clearly never read the 4th amendment, is really not making you look very smart on the evening news. Here's the Cliff notes on the amendment: it protects against unreasonable searches and seizures. Not sure why it's unreasonable to search people boarding planes when some people boarding planes are trying to blow them up. Yes, I know that's not you. But if the TSA could tell that just by looking, then you'd have nothing to complain about and their job would be a lot easier.

Here's a news flash: you still have the most important right - the one not to take an airplane if you don't want to. There are lots of ways to get where you're going that don't involve scanners or being frisked.

Oh, and for future reference, as a rule it's not a good idea to call someone within squeezing distance of the jewels a lot of names. After all, accidents do happen.

My recommendation to make things go smoother for you and everyone else in a hurry to board your flight would be to step right up, go through the scanner and be on your way. The line will thank you for it. So will the TSA.

If you opt for the pat down, or randomly get pulled out of line for one, I'd suggest approaching it with a sporting attitude. Say something like, "Frisk me baby!" or "How come I feel like having a cigarette?" or "I'm not happy to see you, that's my cell phone."

Not being an obstacle in the way of people traveling safely to their families would be just one more thing to be thankful for.

Safe travel to you and yours this holiday season.

Nighthawks at the Starbucks

Friday night arrived like a bleached blonde actress late for a premiere. I was glad she showed, but wondered what took her so long.

As I sipped on a something-cino at one of my branch offices of Starbucks, I decided to put the time to good use, open my laptop and work on this post. I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to say, but if I let that stop me I’d never post anything.

I paused a minute and realized I wasn’t the only sucker in the joint with an open laptop. The difference was mine was taking dictation, and theirs were taking orders that would never be served on dreams that would never come true.

It was late. Raining. The streets were slicker than the people driving them. Even so, you couldn’t see their reflections. Vampires don’t have any.

Looking out the floor to ceiling window, I appreciated how Edward Hopper-esque the view was from the outside looking in. Outside looking in. A point of view most of these night crawlers were used to.

The difference was Hopper was an artist. I was just a guy with a blog to write.

Still, all that foam and froth and rain and false hope put me in a mood. The kind people keep telling me to snap out of.

I don't know if it was the rain or the caffeine, but I decided it was time to rattle the cage. My cage. Clear the webs out of the corners and quiet the critics in my head. It was going to be a departure, designed to have people take notice. Deliberate. Some might say calculated. I never cared what they said. Why start now?

Serious. Thought provoking. No easy jokes. No witty entendres. It was going to be a thought piece, something pining the state of the human race and it’s puny significance in the bigger scheme of things. They say write what you know. I work in advertising don’t I?

Friday night had greatness about it. Potential. I’d seen it before once when it was passing through. But this time it brought luggage. It was planning to stay for a while.

Well, did you buy it? Nah, didn’t think so. Just funnin’ with you. Thought provoking? Please. Like you come here for that.

No, it’s just going to be the usual random, Andy Rooney like crap you’ve come to expect.

Anyway, the post you’re reading right now is not the one I posted from Starbuck’s. I didn’t post it from there because out of 7,000 Starbuck's I pick the one where the free wi-fi goes out. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Gone with the wind.

This Starbuck’s was near a college (aren’t they all?), so there were a lot of laptops open and struggling to find a connection. Just like their owners. (BAM! Insight on the human condition – deal with it!).

At first I thought I was the only one who couldn’t get on the interwebs. But as I looked around, I saw the equally frustrated expressions on the faces of my late night coffee companions.

Anyway, wrote this while I was there. Then posted it today, Saturday. From another Starbuck's.

Thought provoking, no?

No.

What am I getting into?

Who among us hasn't asked themselves that ominous question? I for one have asked it any number of times in my life.

On my wedding day.

Signing escrow papers.

Buying a German sports car.

Buying a German Sheperd.

Having children (still asking).

I think the fact that I'm a freelancer just puts me in more situations where it becomes a reasonable question to ask.

For example, I find myself asking it right after I get the phone call or email inquiring about my availability. Again when I hear their reaction to my day rate. Yet again after I cave and let them negotiate my day rate down - usually in tandem with, "What the f&#% was I thinking?"

Regardless of the account, even if it's something I want to work on, when I hear what it is the question comes up again.

It's always top of mind when I hear who they want me to work with, whether I've worked with that person before or not.

And if the office is a hellish, brain-deadening, soul-killing commute to a foreign and frightening land, for example Orange County, I ask myself the question on the crawl in.

Then, just before I enter the brick building, designer warehouse, high-rise tower, faux-hip loft, converted fire station, hotel or craftsman house where the offices are located, I pause for a tentative moment outside, look at the doorway I'm about to go through, and ask it again.

But here's the thing: the question itself is a cruel tease. Because it can't be answered until you're actually there.

Of course by no means does that imply everyone won't try to answer it for you. But it's really one of those questions, like, "How much of this can I take?" "Is it worth the pain?" and "Is Super Shuttle hiring?", that only you can answer for yourself.

If I'm being honest with myself, and if you know anything about me you know that's something I hate doing, I have to say the answer I almost always arrive at is "something great".

I wonder if you asked yourself the question before you started reading this post.

It's okay. I don't need to know the answer.

The perfect gift

Christmas trees are in the stores and the holidays are upon us. And with them comes the ongoing debate I have every year with people who obviously have nothing better to debate about.

It’s the “Gift cards are not personal” debate.

Their side of the argument is a truly personal gift can only be defined in direct proportion to the misery I have to go through to get it. Hours searching for a parking space within a mile of the mall. Fighting holiday crowds. Looking for exactly the perfect gift for the person I’m giving it to.

You know the gift I'm talking about. The one that person’s had on their list all year. The one they’re hoping for with all their heart. The one they’ll be forever grateful and thankful to me for taking all that time and effort to find just for them.

There’s about as much chance of that happening as Oprah not going back for seconds.

My argument is this: I could buy you something I think you’d like, wrap it up, give it to you and hope you:

A Didn’t have it

B. Were looking for that exact thing since you first saw one

C. Know the in’s’ and out’s of a gift receipt.

Or I could just give you a gift I know you’ll love.

A gift card.

No one knows anyone well enough to make holiday gift-giving bulletproof. But there are stores – the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble, Starbuck’s, Target and Nordstrom to name a few – where everyone can find something they like.

And if they can't find it in those stores, not a problem. Every store has a gift card.

Someone in the family love Quarter Pounders? No problem. Want to treat them to a ride on Space Mountain? Couldn't be easier. Attention Walmart shoppers? You got it.

With a gift card, the one thing they never get is disappointed. Unless it’s a gift card from Kohl’s. Then, you know, why bother? Why not just send a card that says, “This is how little I think of you.”

This holiday season, be the Santa you were meant to be. Spread the joy to those you love.

Give the gift that says, “Get it yourself.”

I Got You Babe

I think people forget before there was Cher, there was Sonny and Cher.

While it's hard to remember now exactly how hugely popular they were, one thing no one can argue is that they're responsible for one of the most iconic, enduring and crowd-pleasing songs in pop music history. Bill Murray woke up to it every morning in Groundhog's Day. Mad Men just closed their season finale with it.

It's interesting to see the clip above when they were just starting out, and compare it against the one below when, many years later, they unexpectedly performed on Letterman. Despite the fact so much time and life had passed for both of them, it's a great moment.

Perhaps appropos (five dollar word - look it up) of their relationship by that point, the clip is just slightly out of sync.

And while you can argue that Cher may have moved on from Sonny, you can tell by the end of the song, and the fact he has tears in his eyes, he still holds her deep in his heart.

I admit I'm a sap. I don't mind saying I was getting a little misty myself.

The List

Here's the thing about upper management.

The guys at the top do not go down with the ship. They push people off so they can continue sailing.

They inspire a false sense of trust through breezy conversation and carefully parsed out praise. They conspire with you by whispering a risque joke, and sharing what appears to be a confidence but in reality isn't. When there's a grievance, they take you in their office, close the door, give you a well-practiced sympathetic and understanding look as they tell you how they feel your pain. Then they assure you that "if I could do something about it, I would."

Here's the lesson: despite carefully constructed appearances to the contrary, they're not your friend. But they act like it, as long as you're cost effective and the challenging comments you make or errors and stupid decisions you point out don't reflect directly on them.

As long as that's the case, then your position isn't on The List.

At this point you might be wondering what's triggered this line of thought. Don't worry, I haven't been fired (you need a real job for that to happen). Actually, someone I used to work for happened to cross my mind. Someone I believed to be my friend.

Admittedly it's a line that's easily blurred for me.

You'd think for as many times as I've seen The Godfather, I'd know by now - it's not personal, it's business. The thing is, because of the masquerade, it feels personal.

Here's the funny part: I still like this individual. Even though when given the choice, they wound up putting my name on The List. Which is the very reason I believe they're not my friend. See the conflict?

I hope this person is happy, and not in the "I hope you're happy now" sense. I mean it.

While I'm sure I'm giving this person much more brain time than they've given me since I left - or maybe even than when I was there for that matter - I can't help but feel a profound sadness that this was a person I thought was my friend, and who I counted on to have my back.

Turns out they did. Just not in the way I thought.