The rafters

I put up a Facebook post recently about my trip back to New York to see Springsteen On Broadway. In the comments, I saw my good friend Shivaun put one up asking me if I saw anything in the rafters. I was startled by it, not because of what it said, but because she remembered. It was a reference very few people in my orbit know about, and an experience I hadn't thought about in many years.

And Shivaun, if you're reading this, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of it.

It begins, as so many of my stories do, at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Bruce was doing a five-night gig at the late, great Los Angeles Sports Arena. My girlfriend at the time—now my wife—would always go with me to the opening and closing shows of his multi-night gigs. So it didn't come as a surprise that she didn't want to go to all five shows this time—two were enough for her.

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

Naturally I wouldn't have missed the shows for any reason, but this tour it was more important than usual that I be there. My dad had died unexpectedly a couple months earlier, six years after my mom had passed away. Being an only child, after I lost my dad, I jokingly (kind of) referred to myself as an orphan. My spirit—sad, defeated, lost and feeling very much alone—was in dire need of the kind of lifting only a Springsteen concert can give me.

I don't remember which show in between the opening and closing one it was, but with me that night was an art director, friend and one-time roommate of mine named Monte Hallis.

Now anyone who knows me knows I'm long past believing there's any concert worth a few hours sitting in the nosebleed seats. Unless of course that concert is Bruce Springsteen. If it means the difference between being in the building and not, I'll sit wherever I can get a seat.

Monte and I sat in the very definition of nosebleed seats: the very last row where you could reach up and touch the ceiling of the arena, at the complete opposite end of the building from the stage (may I direct your attention to the yellow arrow in the top picture).

It was just after intermission, and Bruce came out to start his second half of the show. Because I'd already seen it two or three times, I knew the first song was going to be Cover Me.

My Bruce tramp pals and me have a name for his songs we're not crazy about. We call them bathroom songs, because if we have to go, those are the ones we don't mind missing. And, I know you never thought you'd read these words from me, but there are songs of his I'm just not crazy about.

Working On A Dream is one. So is Outlaw Pete, or as my friend Kim appropriately calls it Outlaw Pee. And at the top of my list, Cover Me.

So the lights dim, Bruce rips into Cover Me, and I'm just removed from it all. I'm watching Monte watching Bruce. I see the entire arena in front of me rocking out.

Then it happened.

It was like a fog set in, figuratively speaking. Movie like, the sound slowly faded way, way down but not out entirely. The crowd jumping up and down and pumping their fists seemed to be doing it in slow motion. Scanning the building, I tilted my head up and peered into the darkness that lay just up above. Moving my eyes along the rafters from one side to the other, my vision landed on a beam above and a little in front of me.

And a smile came across my face, because that's when I saw him. My dad was sitting on the rafter waving to me.

He was sitting on a horizontal beam, legs crossed and dangling below him. His right arm was wrapped around a vertical beam, and he was wearing the new purple plaid bathrobe my girlfriend and I had given him at Christmas—two months before he died. He had his blue striped pajamas on underneath, and his brown slippers with the fleece lining on his feet. His glasses, like always, were sitting askew on top of his nose that'd been broken years ago and never set correctly.

As our eyes locked in what definitely was a moment out of time, I realized he wasn't just waving randomly at me.

He was saying he loved me.

He wanted me to know everything was going to be okay.

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

I understood, and I smiled and nodded up at him. Then, I slowly looked away from him and came back to the room. The sound dialed back up again, the fans were moving in real time and Monte was enjoying herself immensely.

I looked back up at the rafter, and he was gone.

Take a stab at it

I have a good idea about the first thing you noticed when you looked at this picture. I saw it too. The iPhone makes me look like I still have a 32-inch waist. Damn I love that phone.

The other thing you might have noticed are what look like meth-tweaker track marks on both my arms. "He really needs to stop bingeing Breaking Bad."

I have to admit when they first appeared, they actually were a pretty combination of blue, purple, yellow and green. I sort of stared at them, detached from the fact they were actually my arms. Which is better than staring at my detached arms. Word play, it's ON!

Anyway, I think it was a lot to go through for a regular blood test.

I take a couple of meds for blood pressure and cholesterol. It's a pretty common cocktail. Whenever I start talking about it I'm always surprised how many of my friends are also in the same artery clogging, systolic and diastolic boat. I mean sure, I could drop a lot of weight and I'd be off both pills. But I'd have to have much more self-discipline, will power and respect for myself and my body. That's just crazy talk.

Anyway, every six months I go in for a blood test to make sure the Lipitor isn't acting like a meat mallet pounding my liver into ground round. Just one of the lovely possible side effects of cholesterol medicine, along with short term memory loss and, wait, what was the other one?

See what I did there? I still got it.

Now I'll be the first to admit I don't have the best veins, even though I do work my guns lifting those Double-Doubles up and down. And I've had excellent blood draws in the past. Sometimes it's over before I even know it's happened—which is the case with many things in my life.

Clearly this wasn't one of those times.

One of the downsides to being me, and despite how easy I make it look there are several, is that I have no problem watching while they stick me with the needle and make the draw. I know some people can't watch, but I have to. So I had a nice view of the technician moving the needle around, trying in vain to find the vein (sorry). After what seemed like forever, she decided to try the other arm. You see how that went. But somehow she managed to get enough blood out of me.

The good news is I don't have to go through it again for another six months or so.

Until then, I'll be working on getting in better shape. And by better shape, I mean taking more pictures of myself with the iPhone.

Answer the call

You can’t overstate the ability of advertising people to inhale their own fumes. It may be part of the job description. I’ll have to check with HR.

Many of them have what I’d call an unrealistic sense of consumer behavior that should rightfully be filed under wishful thinking. For example, against all evidence from the beginning of advertising time, there’s a prevailing thought that just because you bark an order at the consumer and tell them to do something, they’ll actually do it.

If it were only that easy.

How else to explain the fact almost every piece of—let’s call it marketing communication—that gets produced has what’s referred to in the biz as a CTA. In civilian terms, a Call To Action.

It’s the instruction from the advertiser on what they want you to do next. And it’s not one-size-fits-all. There is no standard CTA. It can be anything from Learn More to Call Now. Sign Up to Get Started. Take the Survey to Talk To Us. Let’s Go to Join Free For A Month (that was Netflix-it was a great month).

It’s a good thing it’s there. Otherwise how would you know what to do, amiright?

Here’s the truth: agencies consider a 2% click rate on web ad CTAs a resounding success. If you were getting a 2% return on any investment in your life you’d be looking for a new place to invest. But when it’s a 2% click through on banner ads (don’t get me started), the champagne is flowing, the overgrown frat boys are high-fivin', backs are being slapped and the junior team is getting assigned the agency promo piece touting their digital prowess.

On every agency brief—the six to eight page document explaining the assignment and showing that otherwise educated people don't know what brief means—there’s a description about what the agency/client wants the consumer to do as a result of seeing the CTA. For example, “Include CTA to visit website to drive user to website.”

Hey, Captain Obvious, what color was George Washington’s white horse?

Anyway, it occurred to me how much better agency life would be if there were CTAs, like these, that you could click on when the situation called for it.

Make It Stop
Anytime anyone calls a meeting about what they discussed at the last meeting, and what they'll be discussing in the next meeting as a result of this meeting, all you do is click on this CTA and immediately all the sounds stop coming out of their mouth. Their lips are moving, but they're not saying anything. Oh wait, that's already happening.

Go Away
This one's a lifesaver. Great for personal space invaders, hallway talkers or the smug, self-righteous contrarian that lives to argue with everything you say. It's essentially the CTA that wishes them into the cornfield. I'm guessing that's going to be one crowded cornfield.

Not This Again
Remember that revision the client wanted, and you made, and then they took it out? And now they want it back in? This happens on a daily basis on every account in every agency. It just makes you shake your head and ask if they've always had this much trouble making up their mind (well, yes and no - BAM!). Hit this CTA, and it resets time back 15 minutes before the original request got re-requested. Normally only Superman can turn back time by flying counter clockwise to the earth's rotation. This will make it a lot easier on him.

Drop It
Basically a trap door for every occasion. Whatever they're doing to bother you, just hit this CTA and a trapdoor opens under them. Laugh and smile as they go plummeting down an endless tunnel that will eventually land them in the seventh circle of hell.

Or another meeting.

Land of hope and dreams

Since the very first time my friend Jeff Haas played it for me, Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road has been my favorite song. And being the fan we all know I am, it won't surprise anyone when I say that if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it at least ten thousand times.

Except here’s the funny part: last Saturday night, I felt like I heard it for the first time.

I flew to New York last Friday for the weekend to see Springsteen On Broadway, Bruce’s new and first Broadway show, where he tells stories about his life, sings a set playlist of songs and reads from his autobiography, Born To Run.

I'm just thankful we didn’t get the understudy.

What I wasn’t prepared for was how intimate, raw, emotional, joyful, tearful and brutally honest the evening was. I can’t imagine any other artist being that open with their audience (not that I spend a lot of time thinking about other artists). But then again, that’s always been part of the attraction to Bruce. He's not hiding behind his songs, he's revealing our shared experiences and feelings through them.

In the show, Bruce tells the stories of his life—his family, his rockstar journey, pays tribute to his late friend, sax player and sidekick Big Man Clarence Clemons, unflinchingly declares his love for his wife Patti— punctuating and adding perspective to them with carefully chosen songs from his library of forty years. I’ve heard every one of these songs dozens of times in concert. Yet, set in the context of the show, as I said, it felt like the first time.

It’s a scripted show—a considerable change from the mix it up, multi-night gigs and audibles he calls during his arena shows.

And speaking of arena shows, the 950-seat Walter Kerr Theater is about as far as you can get from an arena.

Easily the smallest venue he’s played in thirty years, it’s difficult to imagine a more perfect place both acoustically, artistically, historically and spiritually for Bruce to tell his stories. Yes it's a Broadway theater, but it is every bit as much an essential character in this transcendent experience as the music is.

I don’t want to give away a lot about the show, because I have friends who will be seeing it soon. I will say this: be ready to laugh, cry, reflect, rejoice, pray (you heard me), be grateful and celebrate with 950 of your newest, closest friends.

There is a point in the show when Bruce talks about his music and the journey we’re all on, hoping he’s been a good traveling companion along the way.

Frankly, I never would have made the trip without him.