Unfinished business

The road to being a couch potato, taking naps in the middle of the day and bingeing Breaking Bad - again - is paved with good intentions.

One of the increasingly dwindling perks of working in advertising is that almost all ad agencies close between Christmas and New Year's. Like the one I'm currently at. So, besides my wish list for Santa, which apparently he didn't have time to read (so much for the Audi R8 and Scarlett Johansson's phone number), I also make a to-do list of things to get done around the house during the week off that I never have time for when I'm working.

It includes seemingly simple things like clean out my closet (nope). Clean out the garage (nope). Get all the books I haven't read and are sitting on my nightstand organized (nope). Get everything off the top of my dresser (nope). Make and label files for all the paperwork I have sitting all over the house (nope). Get all the Christmas decorations organized and put away (nope). Clean and repair the gutters before El Niño strikes with a vengeance (paid someone do it).

Items like watching some movies, napping and Breaking Bad weren't on the list. Yet somehow, because I'm just that good at multitasking, I managed to get them done.

I think what actually happened is I took the idea of a work break to heart and brought it home with me for the week. And you know what? It's been a great week.

The good news is now I don't have to waste time thinking up a bunch of New Year's resolutions. I'll just use the list.

T'was the night before Christmas - Revision 6

If this post looks familiar, you have a fine memory. I posted it exactly one year ago today. I guess the fact I'm reposting it again here would be considered re-gifting. You're welcome.

Anyway, many people have asked me to post it again this year. Okay, not many but a few. And by a few I mean my wife. Alright, none. C'mon, it's Christmas Eve. I've got things to do, and coming up with a brand new post just wasn't on the list. Does that make me naughty? Guess I'll find out tomorrow morning.

In the meantime, please to enjoy. And the very merriest Christmas to you and yours.

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of One Show Awards danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done all through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

Doc me

In case you couldn’t tell from the Christmas decorations that went up at Labor Day, we’re coming into the final stretch of 2015.

Which in my case only means one thing: doctor appointments.

Like a lot of people, my family and I will be making our year end, deductible and co-payment free visits to the doctor. There’s nothing wrong with us—in fact we’re all pretty much the picture of health. But starting midnight on January 1st, our deductible kicks in again, and we’ll be paying our own way until we meet it for the year. And because we’re such perfect physical specimens, that doesn’t happen until we’re at least past the halfway point.

So for the next eight days, it’s off to the podiatrist. The acupuncturist. The pharmacy. The chiropractor. The dentist. The ophthalmologist. The pediatrician. The lab. The specialist.

The holiday season is crazy enough without running around to these appointments. This year I’m asking Santa for morning appointments before 10 a.m.

Anyway, there’s still shopping to do, so I’m going to call it a post.

Maybe I can pick up a new paper exam gown for the wife, and some tongue depressors for the kids.

Star Wars wars

If you haven't seen Star Wars Vll yet there are some SPOILERS here. Warned you have been.

Here's the thing: I've been to Comic Con the last eight years. I've slept out on the cold, wet grass with 6500 of my closest friends waiting in line for Hall H while looking across the street at my empty $300 a night hotel room. I've fought the crowds, seen the panels and been thrilled by exclusive footage that's available online seconds after it's shown. My pop culture/geek/nerd credentials are firmly intact, and I have the badges to prove it.

Having said that, I don't feel I'm under any obligation to fall lockstep in line with everyone who's gushing over the new Star Wars. For the record, I liked it. Didn't love it, but liked it.

I know this will be a hard landing for hardcore fans, and I'm sorry you have to find out this way, but it's not a perfect film.

People who don't have the energy to come out of their basements somehow seem to muster enough to relentlessly tell me why I'm wrong in my opinion. Even though it's my opinion. And even though I'm right in my facts and critique.

Anyway, the fact I'm not worshipping at the Star Wars altar shouldn't take anything away from your enjoyment of the film. Or maybe I have some unseen power, some ancient, mystical ability if you will where I can use my mind to exert my will over you that lets me crush your pleasure at seeing the movie. But I doubt it.

Have at it. Enjoy all fifteen times you're going to see it. I want you to. I'll still ask why Kylo Ren assigns only one Stormtrooper to guard Rey, the most valuable prisoner ever. Or why Finn, having never held a light saber, is suddenly able to hold his own against the dark side of the force in a light saber battle with Kylo Ren. Or why Kylo Ren didn't just "force" him into oblivion without working up a sweat. Or if Kylo Ren is leader of the Knights of Ren, why there are no other Knights of Ren in the movie? Or about 37 other questions you're free to ignore.

I love J.J. Abrams, and I liked Star Wars Vll. It's a fun, nostalgic, visually great popcorn movie with great new characters, one breakout new star and a fairly perfect ending. I'm sure I'll see it again. And if it makes you happy, I'll wait in line with you for Star Wars Vlll, but not for the whole three weeks.

But for the love of Lucas, stop arguing with me about it. I'm not trying to change your mind, I'm just letting you know what I think. No matter how many times you come back at me, I'm not going to see it your way.

And, despite whatever new hope you have, you can't force me.

Pregnant pause

As a freelance copywriter, you go through different seasons.

The unemployed season. The four-agencies-want-you-at-the-same-time season. The let's-have-lunch season. The I-think-I've-used-too-many-hypens season.

One season I went through for a while was the copywriter-on-maternity-leave season.

It seemed every gig I booked was for exactly three months, filling in for someone who was out on maternity leave. It always made me happy. Ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you I'm a romantic at heart.

When love is in the air, money is in the bank.

Anyway, my point is it's never too early to start planning ahead. I'd like to suggest to all the female copywriters thinking about bringing a bouncing bundle of joy into your lives that now is the time. There are so many benefits - for you I mean.

Your parents will stop asking when you're going to have a baby. You and your significant other can start planning the gender-neutral color scheme if you live west of Lincoln, or whether the room is going to be blue or pink if you live east of Lincoln. Your friends can start thinking about how much they're going to spend on your gift at the baby shower (insider tip: don't give the Diaper Genie, they already have one. It's called a trash can).

And you'll have a tax deduction you didn't have before.

In case you were wondering, suggesting you get started now has nothing to do with the fact my son's 2016/17 tuition is due end of August, beginning of September, coincidentally right about the time you'll be having your baby.

Take it from me, nothing in life is more rewarding than you having a baby.

That goes for both of us.

Keeping a secret

There’s a holiday tradition everyone who works in an advertising agency eventually runs up against despite mighty, mighty efforts to avoid it.

The White Elephant holiday gift exchange. Sometimes known as Secret Santa.

Essentially it’s a primitive holiday ritual where you and all your co-workers buy inexpensive gag gifts no one wants, then exchange them. Hilarity ensues. (At my house, we call this Christmas). You can challenge your co-workers if someone gets one you actually want, or you can just hang on to yours and silently figure out who you don’t like enough to re-gift it to.

From Magic Eight Balls to Fart Extinguishers to the How To Tell If Your Cat Is Plotting To Kill You book, white elephant gift exchanges are exactly the opposite of what they’re intended to be: Funny.

So, being in the giving spirit of the holiday – although I’m not saying which holiday – I’d like to suggest three Secret Santa/White Elephant gifts that are agency appropriate, worth a few laughs and inexpensive to create or buy.

Which is good, because you're not getting a bonus this year either.

The Pink Slip.

Agencies are notorious for having heartless housecleanings just before Christmas. Give your colleagues an official looking pink slip, and enjoy the merriment when they can’t tell if it’s real or not. For extra fun, have everyone take a step back from the recipient when they open it.

Dock the Halls.

Use card stock in the mailroom to dummy up some realistic looking timesheets, with the hour for the gift exchange you're right in the middle of marked as docked from their pay. Watch the fun as the bitching reaches new heights. Wait, is that someone marching off to read HR the riot act? You can't put a price on entertainment value like this!

Manual Labor.

Showcase your creativity, since the client doesn't let you showcase it anywhere else, with this 100% fake Employee Manual. Contains uproarious, fictional and totally bogus sections like Our Profit-Sharing Plan, Vacation Days, Overtime Pay, Bonus Structure, Addressing Grievances, Internet Use Policy and much, much more. Wait a minute, that's the actual employee manual. Oh well, even funnier. And the printing's already done for you.

I hope these suggestions have been helpful. As you rip open the gift wrap, don't forget to pause and give the fake laugh while you say unconvincingly, "Oh, that's..great.." And remember to be kind, because bringing joy to the world and love and friendship to your colleagues is what the true spirit of the season is about.

Plus you have to work with these people every day. At least until someone hands one of you a real pink slip.

Office space.

It doesn’t happen often, but like the Harmonic Convergence, total eclipse of the sun, Halley’s Comet and client approval, if you wait long enough you’ll live to see it.

Dust off those childhood dreams: NASA is now accepting astronaut applications for the upcoming Mars mission.

No doubt, despite the stringent requirements, they’ll be inundated with applications from hundreds, make that thousands, of unqualified people who haven’t seen Gravity and think space travel is as easy as booking a flight on Jet Blue. It's not. For starters, the baggage fees on the Mars trip are much steeper.

I think if NASA wants to thin the herd down to uniquely qualified candidates, the one place they should definitely start recruiting from is ad agencies. Here’s why:

Creative people are used to keeping themselves amused during long assignments that seem like they’ll never end – and often times never do.

Agency people know how to subsist on to two-day old bagels, cold pizza and pumpkin muffins so hard you could slay Goliath with them. Dehydrated, freeze-dried, bite-sized foods coated with gelatin would be like dinner at Morton’s.

The part about wearing a suit they’re uncomfortable in, even for a short time, is something they’ve done before. And sadly, peeing in that suit isn’t anything new either.

Experience being trapped in a small space with three other people you have to pretend to like? Check.

Having no choice but to accept and make course corrections from nameless, faceless voices on the other end of a speaker is something creative people do all the time.

Once there, agency people have all the knuckles and know-how needed to make a great commercial to recruit future astronauts for subsequent missions. The toughest part will be going without a trendy restaurant with an outdoor patio for lunch.

Finally, agency people will give the Red Planet a short, memorable, meaningful tagline that can be used on t-shirts, mugs and banner ads no one clicks on.

No doubt with agency people steering the ship, NASA will have the right people for the job.

As long as the job doesn't start before 10 a.m.

Big dog

If you follow my posts with any regularity – and if you do, a library card would be much more rewarding - you know I’ve written many times about my German Shepherd Max, the World’s Greatest dog.

Max is 90 lbs. He’s a big dog, but I don’t see him that way. It’s because I see him every day, and when I’m rolling around on the floor playing with him, and he’s acting like a puppy (albeit a puppy who could rip my face off with those teeth) I forget he’s a big dog.

But there are occasional reminders.

Like when the pizza delivery guy comes to the door, looks down and sees me holding him by the collar, then jumps back four feet off our front steps. Or when people see me walking him, and they cross the street to give him a wide berth and go around him.

I have to say even though Max is a big dog, he’s the perfect size for me. He’s eleven years old – beautiful, healthy, playful, protective and enjoys a good pizza (delivery person) every now and again. I wouldn't want to bring a dog bigger than he is into the family. Max has been the Alpha dog his whole life, and he's not about to surrender the title now.

I’ve always liked big dogs. Sturdy, hearty, sweet, protective companions I can send with my kids to the liquor store at midnight. ”Daddy needs a beer. Take the dog.”

I’ve never understood the appeal of small dogs. And even if I did, I’ll never understand the reason for embarrassing them and making them feel even smaller by using them as accessories and carrying them in a purse, or a baby Bjorn.

For those of you counting, there were four "them"s in that last sentence.

We have a word for small dogs in my house. They're called “appetizers.”

If it were up to me, and we had the room (and a shovel for cleaning up the back yard), I’d go even bigger. I’d love an Irish Wolfhound. The problem for me isn’t their size, but the fact they only live about six years. They’re heartbreak dogs because they’re in your life and then, just as they've completely staked their claim on your heart, they’re gone.

Another breed I wouldn't mind owning is a Leonburger. Big and lion-like, these gentle giants are sweet tempered and great with everything: kids, other dogs and even cats. Not so nice to strangers though, which works just fine for me.

The problem with the Leonburger - besides the endless burger jokes all the time - "Would you like onions on that?" - is they’re drool puppies. So I'd need someone full-time with a mop, bucket and a lot of patience to follow him around the house and clean up the puddles.

I say I'd need someone because I'm not going to do it.

Now if you'll excuse me, the pizza I ordered is here. Max and I have to answer the door.

Powering down

In an ad agency - excuse me, I mean a fully integrated, digitally progressive, socially engaged, experientially driven, disruption oriented, communications consortium - it's not hard to tell when the holiday season finally arrives. The telltale signs are all around you.

Like the fake Christmas tree in the lobby, the one that's been dragged out of storage and decorated with the same ornaments since 1979.

Emotionally-arrested frat-boy account guys, giggling like baby hyenas and tucking mistletoe in their belts, like they're the first ones ever to do it.

People trampling each other for restroom stalls like it was Black Friday, so they can change before heading out to the debauchery, free bacon-wrapped hors d'oeuvres, open bar and regret-filled morning after that is every agency Christmas party.

But before any of that happens you can see Santa coming to town weeks ahead of time. The agency starts to power down.

Suddenly, attention spans are even less than they normally are. Lunches are longer, because they include shopping time. Starting the first of December, the office begins to thin out as vacations of various lengths start kicking in.

Client meetings get pushed back. You hear a lot of people ask, "What's the difference between getting it to the client the end of the month or the beginning of January? They won't even be there !" Well, you hear me asking.

Laughter happens more often, shop talk happens less often, and there's food and candy everywhere you turn. Which is great, because I was just thinking I wasn't fat enough yet.

If you listen you can hear the agency gears slowly grinding to a halt. It's as if all the hard work, late hours, frustrations, bad client decisions, disappointments, long meetings, pitches, revisions, bad hires and do-overs of the past twelve months have finally caught up with everyone.

And now, as the year comes to a close, they have a chance to finally catch their breath.

One of the great benefits of agency life I wrote about here is the fact many of them close from Christmas Eve day to the first Monday after January 1st. In an age of no bonuses, open offices (don't get me started) and uncovered parking, it's one of the last remaining perks to look forward to.

I'd write more but, you know, it's December. I'm ready to do a little powering down of my own.

But who's counting

Believe it or not, this is my 200th Rotation and Balance post for this year. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I think the reason I made it to this particular landmark is I'm an exceptionally prolific writer. I'm also disciplined, making it a point to carve out enough time each day to hone and craft my words so that they convey my thoughts precisely and accurately. Plus I have opinions and things to say on a wide variety of topics - hence the tagline in the header about perfecting random.

You know I'm yankin' your chain right? I just want to have more posts this year than Round Seventeen. So far so good, but the year's not over.

The truth is I enjoy writing the blog, and I've heard rumors at least three of you enjoy reading it. And even though I usually like working a big room, that's enough for me to keep doing it (a grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief).

Anyway, since I have to get my 201st ready tomorrow, I'll keep this short.

I don't have any idea what tomorrow's subject will be, and I haven't set aside any time to write it. Maybe I'll slap it together on my lunch break.

I'm just that disciplined.

Stuck with acupuncture

I know people who always turn to alternative medicine as a first resort. They have all sorts of theories why western medicine is out to kill us with all the toxic, synthetic chemicals that go into them. I keep reminding them penicillin is a natural drug made from bread mold, but for some reason they don't appreciate hearing it.

Barring the terminally broken healthcare system - which is another post entirely - I've always been fairly satisfied with my doctors and western medicine.

For example, I'm a big fan of antibiotics. Sign me up. As I've said here before, if I have a sinus infection, the last thing I'm doing is running to Whole Foods' vitamin section to speak with their granola-eating, patchouli-wreaking, vegan-vitamin-nutritarian to see what combination of herbs and homeopathic whammy-jammy I should take. No thanks.

Instead, I'll have my doctor phone in a Z-Pak to CVS, take the first dose when I go to bed and wake up feeling a hundred per cent better.

Drug resistant strains? Over prescribing? Patients abusing them? What. Ever.

I'm not one to wallow in, court or prolong my misery. If there's a pill, ointment, syrup or vaccine that makes it better, I'm in. Having said that, sometimes there just isn't.

I have a little neuropathy in my feet, so occasionally they feel numb and cold. Something to do with the nerves not communicating with the brain. By the way, if you ask people I work with they'll tell you I haven't had any communication with my brain in years.

Anyway, it's usually caused by diabetes, which I don't have. Sometimes it's just another item on the list of fun things to look forward to as we get older. It's not hurting anything, and is really more of an annoyance than anything else. There's nothing to be done about it.

Or is there?

In researching options for those times it does bother me, I came across study after study that said acupuncture is an effective way to greatly reduce or cure neuropathy. So I'm giving it a try. It's done at a wellness practice near where I live. The doctor takes a health history, asks what the problem is and then starts sticking me with needles in my hands and toes.

There are three good things about the needles: they're sterile, one-use only. They're less than the thickness of one hair. And they don't hurt going in or out. In fact during my session, the doctor asks if I can feel the needles, and the answer is always no.

Of course, my feet are numb so I wouldn't feel them anyway, but still, you know what I mean.

My first rodeo with non-traditional medicine was when I started having arthritis in my wrist that was moving up my arm years ago. I went to a rheumatologist, who prescribed this horse pill called Daypro for the pain. I asked how long I'd have to be on it, and he said the rest of my life. No bueno.

Then my trainer at Gold's Gym - I know what you're thinking, "Jeff, you're such a perfect physical specimen why do you need to go to a gym?" - introduced me to Francois, a practitioner of a healing form of shiatsu. Not the massage kind, the kind where he presses his fingers knuckle-deep into pressure points on my back and neck and I scream bloody murder.

Here's the thing: after five sessions, the arthritis was gone and has never come back. Since then, I've reconsidered my position on alternative medicine.

The acupuncturist said she's had great success with neuropathy like mine. I'll report back in a few weeks and let you know.

I know some of you reading this will dismiss acupuncture outright. Others might even make jokes about it. That's fine, doesn't bother me at all.

If I've learned anything from these treatments, it's that I can take a little needling.

Survey says

Since when did companies become clingy, needy little entities clamoring for approval of every interaction you have with them?

Oh right. Since social media.

Inevitably, every restaurant I eat at is waiting with a survey for me to take to rate them. And, to entice me into doing it, I also get a chance to win a $25 gift certificate! They explain it, circle the website on my receipt, and make it sound like my customer transactional obligations don’t end at paying my bill.

They want me to engage.

At least they don’t flame my inbox the way car dealerships, online merchants and even my doctors’ office does. After every single contact with any of them, invariably the next day in my email is a survey asking me to rate the experience - no matter how miniscule or insignificant it may be.

Look, I’m happy to tell companies what I think. If the service, product, meal or whatever has been spectacular, I’m the first one to sing their praises on Yelp. Conversely, if it’s been awful, then the CEO, President and a few board members of the holding company will get what’s affectionately come to be known as a Jeff Letter, telling them what went wrong and asking them to make it right (Jeff letters have proven to be an extremely effective way to get results – and no, I’m not writing one for you).

This Sally Field-ing (“You like me! You really like me!”) of the American corporation has to stop. If I want them to know about my experience I'll tell them. But for the love of God and all things holy, stop asking me at every turn.

I used to go out with this girl who’d ask me every time there was more than a five second gap in the conversation “What’re you thinking?” What I was thinking was I wish she'd stop asking me that question every five seconds.

This is all driven by the popularity contest that is social media. A platform for instant feedback, now companies have a way of inviting you to "Like" them on Facebook ("You like me!). The more followers, the better the company. Allegedly.

I hear Kleenex and Tide are tied at 8 followers each.

Anyway, that’s it for now. If you wouldn’t mind, please take a few minutes to rate your experience reading this post. Your comments will be used to help improve the quality and subject matter of future posts.

Just messing with you. No matter what you say, this is as good as it gets.

Moving apps

This year, I jumped on the Apple train—again—and ponied up for the iPhone6s Plus. I’d had an iPhone5 for years, but after having to hold its teeny, tiny 4-inch screen near the tip of my nose to watch one too many binges of Breaking Bad and House Of Cards, I decided to trade up to the 6s Plus and its ginormous 5.5-inch screen.

I’ve had apartments smaller than this phone. The good news is all my worrying about not being able to text one-handed, fitting it in my jean pockets (thank God I don’t wear skinny jeans – no one needs to see that) and it not fitting in the cupholder in my car proved to be unfounded.

It only took one week and it was like I’d always been using it. In fact, in the same way my German Shepherd Max - the world’s greatest dog - looked huge at the beginning but doesn't anymore, the 6s Plus doesn’t look big to me unless I put an older iPhone next to it. Max also looks huge no matter what phone is next to him.

So here’s the thing: over the holiday weekend, with a little down time on my hands while I was in between slices of pumpkin pie, I decided I'd take a shot at organizing the bazillion app icons camping out wherever they damn well pleased across five big screens on my phone.

Jumping into action, and by that I mean leaning back in the big reading chair with iPhone in hand, I quickly and cagily figured out my plan of attack. I put travel apps in a folder named Travel. Health apps in a folder named Health. Money and banking apps in a folder named Finances. See where I’m going here?

At the end of it though, I still had a considerable number of orphan apps – including iSamJackson (“Get these motherf#%&ing snakes off this motherf#%&ing plane!"), Police Siren (woooooo and wahhh woooo wahhhh woooo), Basic Spanish (no bueno) and AwesomeFacts (not awesome, not all facts) – that I hardly ever use.

And by hardly I mean never.

They, along with many others, now all reside in one folder appropriately labeled Rarely Used Apps. By doing that I picked up two full screens worth of real estate. Now it’s just a matter of getting in the habit of finding apps that were on screen four on screen one. First world problems and all that.

I love the fact Apple iOS lets me create folders for my apps and clear up the screens, although I have to say I'm not entirely trusting of their motives. I mean, now that I have those two extra screens available, there's only one thing to do with them.

More apps.

Leftovers

I know what you're thinking. Here comes a post about holiday leftovers, turkey sandwiches, tryptophan naps and the best way to store pumpkin pie (kidding - there's never leftover pumpkin pie).

As good as that sounds, no. I'm talking about a different kind of leftovers. The creative kind.

Every person who works in the creative department of an ad agency - copywriter, art director, creative director, producer - has ideas, campaigns, starting thoughts, visuals, jokes, taglines, directors and media placement suggestions for work that never was. Work they loved that, for reasons ranging from "I don't get it" to "It'll scare them," in other words the ridiculous absurd, never saw the light of day. Never made it out the door.

Of course, like holiday leftovers, if stored and handled properly you can always heat them up and serve them at a later time. The word for this, in agency parlance, is "repurposing."

I'm a big fan of repurposing, especially in an era of parody products with extremely little to differentiate them except the advertising. Repurposing works especially well if you're lucky enough to draw a good hand and get a creative director that can't remember what they had for breakfast, much less what you showed them two days ago. The campaign they killed on Monday is the same one they love on Wednesday. Second time's a charm.

A lot of people tsk tsk the idea of leftovers, but it's the word that throws them. Just because an idea's a leftover doesn't mean it's not original. Or entertaining. Or attention getting. Or right for the brand. It just means it was killed the first time, and deserves a second chance - which can come in the form of a new client, new creative director or new agency.

And who among us couldn't use a second chance.

Case in point: I just re-read this post and I'd love a second chance at writing it. And if you've read this far, I'm betting you're willing to give it to me.

Time after time

Every ad agency has their own way of recording hours employees put toward each job. And you couldn't blame anyone for thinking that, being the creative places they are, they might have a more inspiring way of going about it.

But sadly, like insurance offices, mortgage companies, law firms and other traditional businesses, agencies use timesheets to track hours, and reconcile them against the budget and scope of the assignments.

It's the only way they can find out if they’re allocating their resources properly (laughs hysterically – they never allocate properly), and if not, fine tune them to at the very least break even.

In days of old, back around 2003, agencies still required paper timesheets. Creatives would guestimate the number of hours they put against each job (why do you think they call it creative?), and then hand them in to a smiling, welcoming HR person waiting to make sure every thing goes perfectly with regards to you getting paid for your efforts (Cough, cough, couldntcareless, cough, cough).

Digital time sheets soon followed, but even so most agencies today still require you to print a hard copy then hand it in. Which begs the question why bother with an online version at all.

Of course, agencies beg the question "Why?" all the time.

Why pitch an account they’re completely unqualified to service.

Why embarrass themselves fighting to keep an account that’s been out the door since it arrived, and is making a beeline for it no matter what they do.

Why keep hiring alcoholic posers in leadership positions who've been “quitted” from their last five jobs (perhaps I've said too much).

Online timesheets also require you to account for every minute of every day. And if you don't happen to be slammed wall to wall every day, there's always a job number for a category called "General Overhead." It's the column where you list time spent for things like Facebook, Words With Friends, watching Apple movie trailers, (ahem) writing blog posts, going to lunch and reading What Would Tyler Durden Do.

On the spreadsheet the client sees it's called Research.

The point is - and yes I have one - that it doesn't matter how well agencies manage to finesse their digital timesheet algorithms. It seems that, for the foreseeable future, even though they're going to tout the convenience and efficiency of filling out timesheets online, they're still going to want you to print out a hard copy for accounting to hang on to.

You know, for the lawsuit.

This way out

I hope you appreciate how long it took me to find a Thanksgiving post picture that not only was relevant, but also looked, if you squint, like a pumpkin. You're welcome. Let's get started.

Today, like many Thanksgivings over the years, I'll be heading down to one of the relatives' homes in Orange County to polish off my quota of turkey (cooked to perfection), stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls and butter, pumpkin pie and whipped cream plus whatever other holiday fare finds its way to the perfectly set table.

I do this every year with the family, which is why Thanksgiving always feels a bit like Groundhog's Day. Not the one with the buck-toothed rodent. The one with Bill Murray.

Year in, year out, it's the same people. The same family stories. The same gossip. The same arguments. The same observations. The same questions. After the meal, we all retire to the same living room, sit on the same flattened couch cushions and watch the same TV shows while we all try to recover at the same time from overstuffing ourselves.

There's a certain familiarity to it all, and for the most part, it's fairly enjoyable. Especially the part with the pie.

But every few years, the old adage about how you can choose your friends but not your family roars to life in a loud, opinionated, foul-mouthed, conversation-dominating, high-as-a-kite, thick-headed way.

Not naming names, but there's a relative who in the past has occasionally, whether by accident or intentionally, managed to find the unlocked portal that goes from the deepest pit of hell to the natural world and made their way up to my Thanksgiving dinner table.

And of course, brought their own special brand of misery and "Do I kill myself or them?" to the proceedings.

Anyway, at one point there was some mention this person might be joining us this year. And, as anyone who knows me would expect, I reacted in the most mature, polite, measured, holiday-spirited fashion I know how.

I said if they show up, we're going home.

Then I proceeded to worry about it almost every minute of every day. Figuring how I'd make my stand, recruit my family to join me in storming out (God bless 'em they were all in), and most important, if it happened before we ate, planning where we'd have our Thanksgiving meal. Philippe's was a contender. So was The Venetian. But The Venetian is always a contender no matter what the question is.

In the end, come to find out all my worry was for nothing. This year, the particular individual I speak of has decided to brandish their special recipe for holiday gloom somewhere else.

So now, not only do I get to enjoy the holiday with the people I truly love, I also have one more thing to be thankful for.

The Prius phase

It seems there are phases both genders - and I'm going to limit it to two for the purpose of this post - go through.

For boys, it's usually firetrucks, dinosaurs and baseball. For girls, it's often horses, dolls and photography.

But eventually time catches up with us all, and the childhood phases slowly recede as we discover more expensive, adult phases to pass through. However, there's a new phase adults of both sexes seem to be grudgingly surrendering to.

The Prius phase.

As phases go, I suppose it's an admirable one, as opposed to, say, shoplifting or cutting yourself. But if you appreciate a finely tuned, high-performance, road-eatin' ride, the fact is it can be just as damaging.

What happens is one day a person is overcome with the uneasy feeling perhaps they need to be more socially conscious. Or that the coming derision is more tolerable than the $500 a month tab for gas. Perhaps they feel compelled to make a statement. Statements range anywhere from "I'm environmentally forward thinking" to "Yes I'm a better person than you" to "Is this thing on?" to "Did I tell you I get 55 MPG?"

Many times, especially when they try to show off their smaller carbon footprint by speeding and cutting you off on the freeway, the statement becomes "Look at me, I'm a douche in a Prius." I'm pretty sure this last one is unintended. But it doesn't make it any less true.

Inevitably after a while living with the car, the Prius phase begins to run its course. Drivers begin to miss the sound of an engine when they press the accelerator (in the Prius, it's called the "pedal on the right"). They long for a less tinny sound when they close the car door. The idea of a car - like the one they traded in for the Prius - that can run a curve and stick like glue becomes a yearning. It's all they can think about.

Next thing you know, the same guy that drives the service department shuttle is taking your Prius around back while they're writing up the paperwork on your new A6, 530i or AMG C63. The siren call finally gets answered.

And the good news is once it's over, you can finally stop wearing that t-shirt. You know, the one that says "Prius. Because a gas-guzzlin’, ass-kickin’, fast-movin’, sweet-soundin’, head-turnin’, envy-causin’, great-feelin’ car just isn’t me."

Tell me something I don't know

If you've ever been in the creative department of an ad agency, you already know they're hotbeds of bold ideas, original thinking, sexually transmitted diseases and ironic t-shirts.

There's also one other thing you'll find plenty of: Sarcasm.

Come to find out that's a good thing. Scientific American reports that in a study of sarcasm, looking at the sarcaser and the sarcasee, it turns out sarcasm triggers creative sparks for those dishing it out as well as those on the receiving end.

That explains everything. Like when the planner wearing the knit cap, skinny jeans and no socks calls a meeting to give their latest and greatest insight (The consumer wants to be engaged with the brand!), they're not inviting ridicule. Far from it.

They're inviting sarcasm so the creatives in the room will be more creative. The planners are doing us a favor. Now it all makes sense.

The study goes on to say that sarcasm between people who trust each other can have these beneficial effects without creating conflict.

Which explains why conflict is something you never see in agencies.

Have you seen the trailer

I'm not a fan of camping. To me, roughing it is a three-star hotel without cable.

Many times in my life, some well-meaning friends (who apparently don't know me that well) have tried to con me into going on a camping trip with them. They immediately sense my resistance, and try to appeal to my more earthy side: call of the wild, at one with nature, back to the beginning and all that.

It never works. Ever.

It's not that I've lost the desire to sleep in the woods, use toilet paper I could sand my coffee table with and eat powdered filet mignon (Just add hot water and stir!), I never had it in the first place. I like my creature comforts.

Which is why it surprises me as much as you to hear myself say this, but, not that I was looking for it, I may have found a way to have my amenities and camp with them too.

The 2016 Airstream International Signature.

For only $64,048 I can be in the wild and the lap of luxury at the same time. Here's how Airstream describes this silver beauty on their website:

"With an interior designed by award-winning architect Christopher C. Deam, the International Signature is the definition of upscale. Light pours in through panoramic vista windows, reflecting off sleek polished surfaces. The result is an open environment that will take your breath away.

It’s style that sizzles, with Corian® galley tops, premium fabrics, rich modern colors, and plush Ultraleather™ seating. Signature design meets the iconic Airstream line."

I don't know what Corian galley tops are, but I like them already.

Of course, if I picked up one of these babies I'd have to get a Ford 350 to haul it around to campsites. And when I'm not using it out on the road, it'd just be sitting in my driveway, blocking my asshole neighbor's kitchen window and pissing them off.

Now that I think about it, my driveway is a perfectly good place to camp out.

Simon says

The list of songs that've managed the virtually impossible task of rhyming the words yacht, apricot and gavot is a very short one. In fact, there's only one.

The song is You're So Vain. And the songwriter is Carly Simon.

You'll be hearing a lot about both of them in the coming weeks, because Simon has a new memoir coming out. (Ironically, it's being published by Flatiron Books, and not Simon and Schuster, the publishing powerhouse Carly's father, Richard L. Simon, co-founded).

To be sure, Simon has led a colorful life that's included lovers from Mick Jagger to Warren Beatty. When she was married to James Taylor, they were at one point the richest entertainment power-couple with a heroin-addicted guitar-playing husband in all of Martha's Vineyard.

One thing Simon promises to address, sort of, in the book that has the entertainment press chomping at the bit (if you've seen Simon's smile you know why that last line is so funny) is one of the timeless mysteries of the music world: who exactly is You're So Vain about.

She's already said in past interviews one of the verses is about Warren Beatty. Beatty himself has said the whole song is about him. He's so vain. Which brings up a contradiction inherent in the song that's bothered me each and every time I've heard it.

The main lyric is "you're so vain, you probably think this song is about you...." Here's the thing: the song is about him. So is he so vain, or just right in what he's thinking? Discuss.

Admittedly it's not a mystery on the scale of say who shot JFK, or did we know about Pearl Harbor ahead of time. But I have to say I'm kind of curious. Maybe we'll find out, time will tell.

The one thing I know for sure is it's not about me.

As an only child, I have to say that hurts.

Don't ask: Borrowing a book

I'm not gonna lie.

My Don't Ask series of posts - Don't Ask: Watching Your Stuff, Don't Ask: Working the Weekend, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Writing a Letter For You, Don't Ask: Sharing a Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Picking Up at the Airport, and the perennial Don't Ask: Moving - is one of the most popular and requested of all the random musings I slap up here at the last minute.

Even more than Guilty Pleasures, Things I Was Wrong About and The Luckiest Actor Alive. Even more than Why I Love Costco.

To the untrained eye, it might look like linking all those prior posts is just a blatant act of shameless self-promotion. Actually, I prefer to think of it as making quality writing available to the general public.

Anyway, since Don't Ask is the most read series, a new Don't Ask it is. Tonight, it's Don't Ask: Borrowing A Book.

It strikes me odd that for all the huffing and puffing about Kindles and iBooks, people still love the feel of a real hardcover book in their hands. Especially if they didn't have to pay for it. And it's mine.

It's still a free country, and you can ask whatever you want. But if the question is "Hey, can I borrow that book? I'll get it right back to you." the answer is no.

The world is lousy with Kindles, iBook apps and, yes, libraries. Go on them and in them and choose your own book to read. But this brand new hardcover copy of the latest best-seller, the one I've been waiting months for, the one I'll be adding to my Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Anne Ursu. Jonathan Kellerman, Gillian Flynn, Scott Smith, J.K. Rowling collection? This one's mine.

I reserve the right to be the first to smell that new book smell of fresh ink on the pages. To bend back the binding, and hear it crack as I turn the pages faster and faster because I can't put it down.

It's not that I don't trust you. However I believe that all across the city, there exists a library in my name, made up of books I've loaned out in the past. Except instead of one building it's spread across dozens of houses one book at a time. It took me years to build that library. I don't plan on building another one.

So kudos for wanting to read a good story, a tall tale or an educational volume. My heartfelt suggestion would be for you to learn the Dewey Decimal System, break out that Barnes & Noble Gift Card you got last Christmas, or perhaps find another friend who hasn't been shocked and scarred by the ever increasing space on his bookshelf.

However you get the book you want, I hope you enjoy your copy. I know I'll be enjoying mine.

Nous sommes à Paris

J'aimerais dire à l'inimaginable qui s'est passé. Mais malheureusement, il n'est pas inimaginable. Et c'est déjà arrivé.

Comme le monde en général, mon coeur se brise pour Paris ce soir. La violence insensée semble en quelque sorte plus offensive, plus vulgaire pour avoir passe dans un lieu aussi beaux et joyeux.

Nous allons tous être plus vigilants partout où nous allons maintenant, et le peu de paranoïa que nous portons avec nous d'hier de l'avant est malheureusement justifiée.

Mais nous, comme Paris, se poursuivront. L'image ci-dessus est un rallye après le massacre de Charlie Hebdo il y a dix mois. Parisiens la bravoure inspirer le monde entier. Et le message que la vie ne doit pas seulement être défendu pour mais vécu est celle que nous ne devons pas oublier.

Que Dieu bénisse les amis et les familles des victimes. Puissent-ils trouver le courage de continuer, et éventuellement retourner vivre dans leur paix Bienvenue Esprit.

Comme pour les auteurs, pendant qu'ils sont peut-être mortes estimant que leur récompense est en attente dans le ciel pour leur martyre, ils auront droit à une mauvaise surprise.

Parce que je pense que nous savons tous que le ciel n'est pas où ces bouchers vont.

Talking TED

Although I have almost 800 posts that might make you think otherwise, I actually have a lot of things to say about a variety of subjects - random though they may be.

Well thought out ideas. Inspirational, motivating stories based on my own experiences. And funny. I'm nothing if not funny.

Ask anyone who knows me - as well as anyone can know someone - and they'll tell you I like playing a big room. Plus thanks to serving a little time early on in the telemarketing industry ("Hi, my name is Jeff. How does two-weeks a year in a Peruvian timeshare sound?), I can rock a headset microphone like nobody's business.

I mention these things because they're all essential ingredients for giving TED Talks.

If you're not familiar with them, TED Talks are inspiring, enlightening, humorous and often surprising lectures on a variety of subjects. Everything from how to improve education, pancreatic cancer detection, how not to become an obsolete know-it-all (necessary viewing for creative directors) and many, many other topics.

I bring all this up because I'd like to take the stage and give a TED Talk. If not me, who? If not now, when? My 18-minute lecture would have a snappy title, like Say It With Cash or I'm Jewish-We Don't Do That.

The good news for me is I can actually be nominated to be a TED Talk speaker.

I'll bet you know what's coming next.

I'd like you, dear reader, to help me get a TED Talk of my own. You can go here to find out how to nominate me. I'm sure they get hundreds of nominations each year, but I'm not going to let a little thing like that stop me. As Han Solo put it so eloquently, "Never tell me the odds." Besides, if you do not play you cannot win.

So tell your friends, get out the vote and let TED know you'd like to hear what I have to say.

As long as the subject's not How To Make Money With Your Blog I think I'll be okay.

We're all freelancers

My friend, fellow blogger and dog-surfing instructor Rich Siegel – who runs Round Seventeen – put up a post today called Too Many Freelancers.

The gist of it is far too many of our staff brethren are packing it in for the seemingly greener, albeit much more competitive, grass of the freelance life, although not all of them are suited for it. Of course, he’s right.

But I’d like to offer another point of view. We’re all freelancers, whether we’re on staff or not.

It’s a quaint notion, a carryover from the Mad Men era, or a time you could work at IBM for forty-four years and have a nice pension at the end of it to see you through the rest of your days, that having a full-time gig at an ad agency somehow equals job security.

Ask the teams that work at Mitsubishi’s new agency every two years how secure their jobs are. The creative teams on Dell Computers can probably whip up a spreadsheet showing why that theory is wrong. Take a drive with the former creative director at Doner, Mazda’s old agency for thirteen years that created the Zoom Zoom campaign, and ask him how he feels about job security. The battlefield is littered with examples.

My point is we’re all just one agency review, one client loss, one new marketing director, one client’s wife’s opinion, one budget shift to digital, one creative director in a bad mood away from being shown the door.

Don’t get me wrong: I very much like the idea of job security. I also like the idea that I’m six-foot-two, a hundred eighty five pounds, totally ripped and get mistaken for Chris Hemsworth on a daily basis. But just because I like it don’t make it so.

The Round Seventeen post talks about Smiling and Dialing, Dry Spells and Making Nice, all daily chores freelancers are far too familiar with.

But they occur on the staff side as well.

Staffers get paranoid when it slows down, and try to look busy in case management is doing bed check. Not so much politically motivated as a survival strategy, staffers can be found making nice to people most in a position to turn the idea of job security into a reality. And day in and day out,the phone lines are always open to other agencies. Especially if an account's rumored to be shaky (SPOILER ALERT: They all are. Always).

So if you're on staff at an agency, thinking about making the leap to the freelance life, congratulations. You already did.

Revisionist history

With the number of revisions almost every project seems to go through now, it seems like clients are less interested in making the work better, and more interested in securing their place in the Guinness Book Of World Records.

To my colleagues in the creative department, this isn’t exactly breaking news. But what has changed is the sheer volume of revisions.

Where it once was a middle-management client trying to show how he made an invaluable contribution to the process by changing the copy from sometimes to always, it’s now evolved into a cage match to see who can initiate the most changes.

The other thing is there are now more layers than ever. There's lower-middle management. Middle-middle management. Upper-middle management. Lower-upper management, and so on. Everyone who comes in contact with the copy feels like it's in their job description to have an opinion. And of course we all know what opinions are like.

My friend Rich Siegel even paid homage to the practice of client revisions by naming his book and well-written blog Round Seventeen. Every time I see that name, all I do is wish seventeen was where the revisions stopped.

There's an old adage about clients getting the work they deserve. Or maybe it's just karma. Either way, never is that more true than when the project manager brings the deck back for revision 68 (yes, actual number).

I think I’ve posted this story before, but it’s worth posting again. One time Paul Keye, a Creative Director/Copywriter and President of his now legendary creative agency, the long gone Keye Donna Perlstein, was in a client meeting. As the client was carefully scrutinizing the copy, at one point he turned to Paul and said, “I think it would read better if we changed an to the." Seeing the reaction on Keye’s face, the client followed up with, “What can I say? I’m a frustrated copywriter.”

To which Paul Keye said, “No. I’m the frustrated copywriter. You’re an asshole."

It would all run a lot smoother if the people who had the final say had the final say the first time around. Sure, it'd mean the middle-management types would have to actually find other ways to justify their almost six-figure salaries, and titles like Assistant Vice President Of Enterprise Integrated Product Analytics & Corporate Audience Targeting.

But if they really wanted to look smart, they could do it by focusing more on their jobs and less on ours. Their job is to make sure the work is on strategy. It'd be a far better use of their time if they stuck to that. It'd also go a long way towards making their corporate overlords and the bottom line more successful.

And the agency less resentful.

License to killjoy

I don’t know whether to be shaken or stirred by this.

Daniel Craig is tired of playing James Bond on the big screen. And frankly, I couldn’t be happier. A little brushing up on my British accent and this could be my shot. I mean, if you’ve seen any of the movies you probably already know how similar Craig and I are built. When I saw him walk out of the ocean in Casino Royale it freaked me out. I thought I was looking in a mirror.

That sound you hear is my wife laughing hysterically.

Where was I? Oh yeah. So now, after four installments as agent 007 with a license to kill, Craig has naturally decided to bitch and moan about how tough it’s been. How rough it is making millions of dollars playing an iconic character in the most successful movie franchise of all time. Whining about how he’s been injured a couple times on set, and had to spend a few days in a five-star hospital in Monaco. Or the French Riviera. Or Geneva.

And having to cruise around in that Aston Martin DB10 take after take? Don’t get him started.

Here’s the thing: there isn’t a good-looking actor with a rented tux and a not half-bad English accent on earth who wouldn’t trade places with him in a heartbeat. Part of the problem is that Daniel Craig is too far removed from his waiting tables/starving actor days to remember that he’s won the golden ticket, the acting lottery. He doesn’t have to work for the rest of his life.

Unless he keeps making movies like Cowboys & Aliens. Then he might.

Craig isn’t the only actor with a sense of entitlement and a lack of gratitude. David Duchovny spent the last six years of X-Files telling anyone who’d listen how bored he was playing Fox Mulder. Then he had a few years employment on Californication (I’m still waiting to meet someone who actually watched that). But now that his career has cooled, he’s suddenly up for returning to the character that bored him so in the reboot of the X-Files, in the form of a miniseries, airing in January. I’m sure he suddenly realized there were many more facets of Mulder to delve into. That or it was the money. The truth is out there.

David Caruso, long rumored to be the angriest actor in Hollywood, literally walked off the set when his character made his final exit after the first season of NYPD Blue. Then a funny thing happened: no one would hire him. He made a couple of bad movies, then disappeared. Until CSI Miami came along to resurrect his career, he was nowhere to be found. And the only reason he was able to do that was because Caruso, still under contract to NYPD Blue producer Steven Bochco, needed his permission to do another series. In a magnanimous gesture proving Bochco is a far better person than I would've been, he gave it to him.

Katherin Heigl, Chevy Chase and even another Bond – Sean Connery, all decided to to jettison the roles that made them household names. Connery went on to further success in other roles. The other two, not so much. Although if Hollywood ever makes a movie called Box Office Poison, I think they have their co-stars.

I don’t believe in being beholden to something you did in the past. But there is such a thing as gratitude and humility at being given the chance. Neither Caruso, Craig or Heigl were anyone before those roles.

Also, the audience doesn’t really need to know how much Craig hates what he's doing. It’s a slap in the face, and it tarnishes all the goodwill built up over the last four films. I was extremely excited to see the new Bond film. But after hearing Craig’s comments, I’m less interested. I’ll get to it when I get to it.

The good news is the franchise has a built-in loyal fan base around the world, and will continue to be successful even without Craig.

Or as Hollywood calls him, Dr. No.

You're gonna need a bigger box

It never stops.

If you work in an ad agency, you know there's one thing people working there love to do more than anything. SPOILER ALERT: It's not creating ads.

It's complain.

Two disclaimers right off the top: first, there are plenty of valid things to complain about. Second, I've definitely contributed to the culture. I have a reserved seat on the complain bandwagon. Ok seat, could be closer. Armrests don't work as well as they should. More padding wouldn't hurt. SWIDT?

Ad agencies, while sometimes a hotbed of creativity, can also be an unrelenting cacophony (waited 780 posts to use that word) of privileged, overpaid people who have it good whining about how bad they have it. Cue the violins.

They work too hard. Nobody understands them. People just don't get it. The traffic sucks (well, that one's true). There are too many meetings (also true). They should be promoted. That guy should be fired. The food guy always has the same sandwiches. This isn't as fun as it used to be. This coffee is awful. They hated my ideas. They only had an hour forty five for lunch. They had to work the weekend. The client is an idiot.

I used to work with this art director who liked to quote an old boss of his. He used to say, "You get paid four-times what the average person makes. I expect you to work at least twice as hard."

It's like the kid who cried wolf, and keeps crying. At first it's deafening, then after awhile you don't even hear it anymore. Somebody call a waaaaaaaaambulance.

I know what you're thinking: who the hell are you and what've you done with Jeff? I get it. And I'll be the first to admit, for the second time, I'm as guilty as anyone else - it doesn't take much of a push to get me started. When the complaint wave hits, I want to hang ten just as much as anyone. But when I complain about work, at least somewhere far below the surface - in a quiet little voice only I hear - I'm at least grateful I have work to complain about.

As I crawl at a snail's pace into the office every day on the world's largest parking lot, the 405, I look around at the coffee grinders, rust buckets, rattletraps and jalopies slogging it out in the lanes next to me, and that same little voice tells me to be glad I have a really nice car to wait it out in.

In my experience, complaining about people is a useless exercise. I've found they're not changing on my account anytime soon, so I try not to let them get to me. I make an effort, often unsuccessful but at least I'm trying, to use a little grace in dealing with people I disagree with. And by disagree, I mean they're wrong. At the very least, even when that's true I go out of my way to try and treat them as I'd want to be treated.

Since every agency I work at has open floorplans, maybe the complaining just seems louder because it echoes off the polished concrete floors.

Don't get me started.

But it's become a runaway train. Everyone wonders why it's gotten so, so bad. It's like the person who crosses the middle of the street, gets mowed down by traffic (when it's moving), then denies their contribution to the accident.

My suggestion is we all - including myself - try to dial it down a bit, and focus on the more positive things about agencies (yes there are some) for awhile. Like the fact we don't work in the insurance business. What we do isn't exactly breaking rocks or digging ditches (although I've occasionally watched someone dig their own grave). And that paycheck, at almost every level, is at least twice the national average.

Maybe November will be the No-complaining month. Let's see how that works.

Of course, if you don't like that idea, by all means feel free to complain about it.

Nic and Shirley

A rare Saturday night. The wife and I have the place to ourselves. Of course young Mr. Spielberg is making movie magic in the currently flooded state of Texas, and my beautiful, smart, scary-funny daughter is at a Halloween party then staying overnight at her friends house.

So it's us, the dogs and a big bowl of rapidly diminishing candy (I hope there's some left when the trick-or-treaters get here).

Anyway, the wife and I decided to watch one of our favorite films: Guarding Tess. It stars Nic Cage and Shirly MacLaine. She's the former first lady, and he's the head of the Secret Service detail assigned to protect her. They argue and fight, but it's essentially a love story.

There are a few great things about it, maybe the best among them being that Nic Cage is not the Nic Cage we know today. That is to say he gives a sweet, funny, quiet performance. No explosions. No sleepwalking through the role. No constantly changing hairline from shot to shot. No stealing the Declaration of Independence.

MacLaine is cranky, sweet, tough and ultimately heartbreaking. It's an underrated performance, and I think one of her best and most likable.

The chemistry between the two of them is palpable. Not romantic chemistry - that'd be too Harold and Maude-ish. It's a love and appreciation two people have for each other just for who they are.

And Cage is hilarious.

I was debating putting this in my Guilty Pleasures series (feel free to search Guilty Pleasures in the box to the right), but Guarding Tess doesn't fit the criteria. I don't like this movie in spite of itself, I love it for what it is.

If you haven't seen it, and you're looking for an entertaining couple of hours and the joy of discovering an unseen little gem, I recommend Guarding Tess.

It'll almost make you forget Ghost Rider. Almost.

I have the negatives

Here’s a client comment every copywriter gets – some more than others – about a headline they’ve written at some point along the way.

”It’s too negative.”

I get it a lot. In fact, I got it today.

Despite the fact the second half of the line paid off the first part of the line beautifully and, dare I say it, positively, the client was having none of it.

My headline included the word “won’t.” Apparently that’s on the list of random negative trigger words, along with “can’t”, “shouldn’t”, “doesn’t”, “didn’t” and I’m sure a bunch more I won’t (there’s that word again) know until I present them and they’re shot down.

Mid-level clients are not big picture thinkers. Their tendency is to have crippling tunnelvision, and overthink everything, especially how much of their ass to cover. It’s why they examine headlines on a word-by-word basis, as opposed to taking in and reflecting on the entire line, the bigger meaning, the brand tone of voice and the overall message being conveyed.

Obviously to live in the purgatory that is middle management, one must have their sense of humor surgically removed. I believe they keep it downstairs in the pathology lab, next to the jars of middle manager brains.

I kid. Middle managers don't have brains.

It’d be a great business if clients read headlines and copy, and then reacted as if they were real people instead of what they think they are: experts in the life of the mind.

So my lesson for today, courtesy of this middle-management, ass-kissing, overthinking, boot-licking, water-toting, brown-nosing, apple-polishing, favor-currying, toady little suck-up is to try to be more positive.

How am I doing so far?

Fire drill

At the building where I work – like all office buildings - the management company is required by the city to have annual fire drills. When you least expect it - provided you don't see the firetruck and guys in orange vests outside - building management breaks into your work day and makes an announcement over their static-y public address system. Lights start flashing, it's panic at the disco and everyone's instructed to evacuate the building using the stairs, not the elevator.

Slowly and orderly, everyone saunters out to the parking lot, wondering if there’s enough time for a Starbucks run. Then they check in with their company's point person to prove they weren’t left behind in the faux towering inferno.

It’s an inconvenience that interrupts work for a bit, but the intentions are good and this kind of fire drill can actually make a difference in a genuine emergency. Which is exactly the opposite of the fire drills you usually find in an advertising agency.

Sadly, people working in agencies are well acquainted with the other kind. The pain-inducing, frustration-increasing, time-wasting, resources-draining, brain-numbing, soul-crushing kind.

Agency fire drills are notorious shape-shifters. They can come in the form of an account person yelling in the hall for everyone to “Look busy!” as a new client prospect tours the agency.

They can be an all-hands-on-deck, cancel-your-weekend-plans mandate to try to save an account that’s been going out the door since they got it.

They can even be the creative director’s kids graduation, engagement, wedding or circumcision announcement that has to get done first, before the actual paying work. Don't even get me started on headlines for the circumcision announcements.

"Take a tip from a mohel who does!"

"Is your mohel good enough to make the cut?"

"It's time to put some foreskin in the game!"

The common characteristic of agency fire drills is they’re all, without exception, monumental wastes of time. They’re the original model for the hamster wheel. And the unlucky ones who are "volunteered" to participate are rats in a maze, who manage to find their way out the other side without reward for their effort.

Agency fire drills happen because people high enough in the food chain to call them have placed a misguided sense of importance on whatever the drill is. They’ve entered a state of denial regarding exactly what the results of everyone dropping what they’re doing to do something else will accomplish.

None of this should come as a surprise. Despite how lean, nimble, agile and responsive the agency website says they are, I have yet to work in a shop that runs as efficiently and effectively as they do in their fantasy life. The one that lives in their manifesto on their website.

Anyway, once the real-world fire drill is over, everyone shuffles back into the building, takes a crowded elevator back to their floor, and picks up where they left off.

And if they're really lucky, maybe they get a venti cappuccino out of the deal.

Dangerous words

According to some estimates, there are over 1,025,029 words in the English language.

But to anyone who works in an agency creative department, you know there are four extremely dangerous ones that should be avoided at all costs.

"What do you think?"

Those four little wolves-in-sheeps'-clothing words have caused more unnecessary frustration, anger and heartache, not to mention destroyed more great advertising, than the other 1,025,025 words combined.

Well, maybe not. But go with me here.

Here’s the thing: the vampire at your doorway at midnight, hungry with fangs bared, can’t come in. He can’t simply cross the threshold and suck the life out of you, even though that’s what he wants to do more than anything. You're safe inside and he's stuck outside.

Unless you invite him in. “What do you think?” is that invitation.

It gives people without jurisdiction, judgment or experience the opening they’re waiting for to – as Albert Brooks said in Broadcast News – lower our standards bit by bit.

Now, not all opinions are unwanted. But you can be sure the people who need to chime in, who have a dog in the race, will do it without being asked. They’re the ones that'll see what you’re trying to do, offer ways to keep it on track and true to your vision and, more often than not, make it better in the process.

Next time you're in an internal review, in the big conference room, and the chairs are filled by people who don't have more than a glancing relationship with the work being presented, do yourself and your career a favor.

Instead of asking "What do you think?", ask something that'll do a lot less damage and might actually put you in everyones' good graces right from the get-go.

Something like, "Are those bagels for everyone?"

Are you the gatekeeper?

Once upon a time, when it came to getting into an agency, whether for a full time position or freelance, hopeful creative people sent their books (portfolio of their work in layman's terms) or promo piece (remember promo pieces?) to the creative director. That's because in a kindler, gentler industry, creative directors usually carved out some time - an hour or so a week - to go through books that'd been submitted.

They returned the ones they didn't want with a nice, brief thanks-but-no-thanks note. They called in the owners of the ones they liked for an interview or a meet-and-greet.

They were obviously the most qualified people to do this for a few reasons. For starters, they were creative people themselves. They understood what goes into coming up with an ad, the obstacles encountered in shaping and crafting it to make it great and the hurdles involved in getting it presented and produced. They spoke the language.

They were the first stop on the job tour.

Fast forward to today, where they're the last.

In today's fully-integrated agencies, with their manifestos on their websites, granola in the kitchen next to the Starbucks Via envelopes and planners offering their "insights," there's a position called Creative Resources Director. Or Creative Services Coordinator. Or Talent Relations Supervisor. Or Creative Concierge. However, that's not what they're called by the actual talent.

They're called gatekeepers.

These are the people who make or break you by getting you - or not - into the agency, and getting your work in front of the creative director.

Gatekeepers usually have the full trust and endorsement of the creative directors, even though most of them have never actually worked as a creative in a creative department. Yet there they are, judging on some criteria only they know which books get through and which don't. I imagine it's a carefully worked out formula of quality of work, reputation, freelance budget and have I had my coffee yet.

Gatekeepers, like creative directors (and freelancers), come in all flavors. There are absolutely great ones out there (like the ones at all the agencies where I work - you know who you are, and thank you). These are the ones that return your email, maintain a friendly attitude, negotiate a rate you're both happy with when they bring you in and let you down easy when they don't.

They keep the lines of communication open, and make it clear it's alright to check in every now and then to see what's going on.

Then there are the other kind of gatekeepers. They're what I like to call the meter maids of gatekeeping. They have a uniform so they think they're real policemen. But they're not.

Every creative person has or will run into one of these. They almost go out of their way not to have a relationship with the very people they will at some point want to work for them. They will never answer any emails, yet they will fully expect you to negotiate your day rate to the basement for them when they call you in two hours before they need you. They'll make sure you know how lucky you are they even considered you.

They'll check your availability, and then they'll never check back with you.

In the same way creative people establish reputations around town, so do the gatekeepers. It's well known in the freelance community who the great ones are, just like it's known who the um, less-than-great ones are. Like the French resistance, there actually is a freelance underground where the community has its ways of sharing their gatekeeper experiences with each other. It's a way of looking out for each other even if everyone's competing for the same jobs.

At the end of the day, gatekeepers are something you accept and work with. If they're the good ones - and I can't say this enough, like all the ones I work with - it's always a pleasure dealing with them. If they're the bad ones, you find the grace to muddle through while holding your ground.

By the way, if you happen to be a gatekeeper and you're reading this, you know the meter maid crack wasn't about you, right?