Encore post: Book Report

I've taken the easy way out this fine Monday morning (again). I was planninng on writing a new post about a musician I discovered over the weekend, but then the Google started giving me all sorts of Captcha issues with embedded videos in Blogger. The musician post will be here tomorrow.

In the meantime, you can happily fill up a few minutes with this encore post about my pal Rich's fine book. Now I'm not saying I expect a commission on any additional book sales as a result of this post. Then again I'm not saying I don't.

Monitization. It's all the rage. Anyway, please to enjoy.

I don't make a lot of money from this blog. And by a lot I mean none.

However being in advertising, it's occurred to me from time to time I probably could break open a few corporate wallets by selling ad space on here. After all, the very desirable demographics of my readership are the same as Disneyland's - 8 to 80. Plus it is the happiest blog on earth, so there's that.

Advertisers would have a direct line to the 11 people who read this blog on a regular basis. I know that may not sound like much, but it's 11 people they wouldn't have otherwise.

Before I go climbing up the corporate ladder asking for money, I probably should have proof of concept: an example of how well advertising might work on this site, and could work for them.

So as a trial run, I'm going to plug my pal Rich Siegel's book, Round Seventeen & 1/2: The Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Inefficient.

The title comes from his popular blog of the same name. In it, Rich covers a diverse variety of topics like advertising, sex, the situation in the middle East, why he sucked at being a creative director and poo. More than one post about poo.

Alright, maybe not exactly the same demographics as Disneyland.

Anyway, I haven't read the book yet. But I had lunch with Rich a couple weeks ago, and I did get to hold a proof copy of it. And I have to say, I was duly impressed. It had everything the great, classic books throughout time have had.

There are pages, lot's of 'em. And on almost every single page, words. Lots of 'em. Like Moby Dick and The Bible, it also has a front cover and a back cover.

What more do you need to know? If you need a good laugh, and really, who of us doesn't, then pick up a copy of his book today. You can order your copy here.

And once you're done with it, if you don't mind I'd like to borrow it. Because, you know, twelve bucks is twelve bucks.

Unwinding

A few weeks ago, my showbiz son who has a high-salaried, high-powered creative position working for one of the major studios—not saying which one, but I do love their TVs and videocams—moved out to be closer to his place of employment. He was going to make the jump a year ago, but you know, covid. So he worked from here, stashed his money, and now that it looks like the lot will be opening up soon he’s shortened his commute time considerably.

That’s not what this post is about. Stick with me.

In the wake of his relocation, I was finally able to access one of the closets in his bedroom without stepping on any land mines of Star Wars toys, keyboards, books, scripts, musical instruments, clothes and an assortment of other items placed there with the sole purpose of making me go ass over teakettle in the space of ten feet.

Rummaging through the closet, in a box buried and forgotten about 20 years ago, were a bunch of reel-to-reel and cassette tapes of radio spots I’d done very early on in my career (pausing to laugh hysterically for using the word “career”).

I vaguely remembered a few of the titles, but because I don’t own a reel-to-reel or a cassette player I had no way to listen to the solid gold copywriting craftsmanship that was no doubt waiting on them.

Leave it to the interwebs. I went to the Google and found a company called King Tet Productions just slightly south of me in the lovely seaside town of San Diego. I shipped the box down to him, and three days later got back a CD with all the spots restored for my crystal clear, quality listening pleasure.

I raced out to my car, put it in the CD player and listened to them all.

And you know what? They were garbage.

Time is a cruel tease, because in my mind, at the time I wrote them, I thought they were great. After hearing them, I remembered a few of the recording sessions with some of my favorite voice talent. The sessions were great. The writing was awful.

Bad puns, hokey ideas, crummy needledrop music and cliched lines. I have no excuses other than I was just starting out (actually the other excuse I have is "The dog ate my homework" but I didn't think it would apply here). But here’s the thing. They all got sold, produced and aired. Insert something here about clients getting the advertising they deserve. Or maybe it’s just that in the last 20 years my taste has improved, I’ve honed my skills as a writer and marketer, worked on perfecting my craft and have just become better over time.

Nah, I’m just funnin’ ya. That’s not it.

I remember one of them was the first radio spot I ever did. It was for Frings at Jack In The Box, a new product that was a combination of french fries and onion rings in the same bag. The same bag!

Anyway, I recorded it at Wally Heider Studios (bet at least two of my readers haven't heard that name in awhile), in the big room. Jack Angel was doing a Bogart impression, and I had an end line about how the Frings taste better and better "...as time goes by."

I know. It hurts just to read it.

But it was the first radio spot I'd written, and I remember being so excited when I was shopping in a retail store and heard it come on over the speaker. I wanted to tell everyone I'd written it. Not so much anymore.

I guess the lesson here is we all have to start somewhere, and not to worry too much. Because the more you write the better you get, you know....

Nope. Not gonna make the same mistake twice.

The client side

It’s a little bit the grass is greener, a little bit you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

Last September, when ten incredibly talented individuals and me (I know that reads like I'm not incredibly talented, but work with me) were unceremoniously and, dare I say, unjustifiably laid off from an agency, I had a decision to make.

Was I going to go back to the known routine of agency life? Or would I make a concerted effort to go client side? I know. The suspense is killing me too.

On one hand, it would mean going back to the all-hands-on-deck weekend fire drills, the bad pizza, the uninspired pep talks, people who think we’re curing cancer, anti-social creative directors with bad hair and worse taste in music, hoping against hope to save accounts that are out the door, and watching great work die a thousand deaths before it ever sees the light of day.

But it'd also mean working with friends I’ve known forever, some of the most creative people in the world who challenge me to up my game every day, not having to be there straight up at 9AM, longer than an hour lunches where food, ideas and occasionally drinks flow fast and furious, dressing like a fifteen-year old, the satisfaction of cracking the code on an assignment and the adrenaline rush of selling the work and seeing it produced.

Since it was coming up on the holidays, I decided to take awhile off to think about it.

When January rolled around, I thought maybe I might like to give client side a whirl. I'd had a taste of it when I freelanced at the Game Show Network for about five months—it was awesome. I loved every minute of it with the exception of having to sit through endless hours of Family Feud reruns.

”Survey says…..not this again!”

Come to find out from an agency producer I’d worked with who was now at a tech company (which happened to be about five minutes from my house) there was a position open I might be right for.

I wasn’t ready to give up bingeing Breaking Bad again yet, but I figured it’d been a long time since I’d had to interview anywhere and at the very least it’d be good practice.

The process was a long one. First there was a phone interview. Then another phone interview. Then a third. Once my new phone pals had been won over by my undeniable charm, razor-sharp wit and overabundant humility, it was time for the in-person interviews.

I met with four people—the person I'd report to, her boss and her boss's boss. I also interviewed with someone who worked with my potential boss and who loved a certain musician that I do (even though I used the word "boss" four times in this paragraph it's not the one you're thinking).

Next was a background check. I gave them two of my former colleagues for references, and they both gave me glowing reviews (P.S. the checks are on the way). I got a copy of the report, and was surprised and a bit unnerved to see how in depth it was beyond the interviews. It contained things I didn't remember, but at least no one asked about those two guys in Jersey. That would've been a dealbreaker.

It was almost a two-month process, but finally I got the gig. It was that intoxicating feeling of excitement and dred. I was really, really, really enjoying my time off, and now it had an expiration date.

I mentioned the company is close to home. But thanks to COVID, my five-minute commute is now a thirty-second one. I haven't worked in the office since I started, and I've never met most of the people I work with in-person. Although they all look good and clean up nice on Zoom.

I'm still adjusting to corporate culture. It's a tech company, but not in the loose way you might picture people working at Google or Apple. When my company used to have "jeans Fridays" it was a big deal. Of course now that everyone's working from home it'd be a big deal if they had "pants Fridays."

Many people have been there fifteen years or more. It's a company people like and want to stay at.

Unlike the freewheeling, improvised, do it on-the-fly nature of agencies, in my new corporate side of the world turns out there's a process, manual or paperwork for everything. Sorry, I meant everything.

All in all, I have to say it's been going pretty well. In the short time I've been there, I've already written and produced four spots starring an internationally famous sports figure. I'd tell you who, but I've said too much already.

As far as I've been able to cipher, the people I work with are lovely. They're hard-working, supportive, encouraging, understanding and appreciative of the work I do.

You know, just like in agencies. (Stops for a minute until the laughter dies down).

Anyway, I'm four months into it and learning a whole new way of operating in a new world. Each day I'm enjoying it more and more.

And I'm not just saying that cause I get the employee discount on all the cool stuff.

My high school girlfriend

If you know me, or follow this blog regularly—and if you do someone really should show you what a library looks like—you know once I get hold of a joke I like I hang on tight and ride it straight into the ground.

Now normally, after that last sentence, I'd follow it up with "Just like my high school girlfriend." It's my version of “That’s what she said” —an easy joke I've used numerous times in more posts than I can count. And I'm sure more posts than you wanted.

The good news is I'll be retiring that joke for awhile. The bad news is the reason why.

Yesterday I happened to be thinking about my actual high school girlfriend Sandy. She was never the one I referred to in the joke. In fact I never had a specific person in mind—it was just a funny line I could use over and over. And over.

Anyway, when I went to the Google to look up Sandy, what came up wasn't her Facebook profile or her Twitter account. The first thing I saw was her obituary. Turns out she passed away unexpectedly back in October. And even though I hadn't spoken with her in decades, it was still a gut punch that hit me like a ton of bricks.

I remember a few years after we broke up, we wound up getting together for a mini-reunion to catch up with each other's lives. What I found out was that Sandy had a very tough go of it in the years since I'd seen her. She'd had problems with drugs, which I knew she'd dabbled with in high school. She'd gotten married, but her husband was in prison for armed robbery, caught by undercover cops in the middle of a drug deal. And, while she was trying to figure her life out, she was back working at the same dead end data entry job for a car leasing company she'd had in high school.

According to the obituary, she moved to Florida in 2006, and had been working in the mortgage industry for Bank of America. Apparently she was a fairly high-ranking banking officer there. She’d also become a hardcore animal rights activist, and had eight dogs, a snake and an iguana—all of them rescues.

It was nice to read that in the years in between, Sandy seemed to have turned her life around and become an accomplished professional. I hope she was a happy one.

So again, I'm retiring the "high school girlfriend" joke for awhile. While it was never about her, now I can’t say it without thinking of her, even though I know she'd appreciate it. Hey, funny then, funny now.

Besides, that line's not the real joke. The real joke is thinking people who were once special to you will always be around. The punchline is they won't.

God bless you Sandy. You meant the world to me and you'll be in my heart forever. Rest in peace.

Baby you can't drive my car

There are a whole trunkful of copywriters and art directors who, at any given hour of any given day, are working on car accounts. It's their job to put into words and pictures the experience of driving whichever car model their client makes. If your client makes a fun, sporty performance car, it makes your job easier. If they make a minivan, well, it makes your job a paycheck.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But minivan or sports car, the point is it's meant to be driven.

I'm talking about the thrill of driving. Where you feel the feedback from the road through your hands on the wheel. Where your tires stick like Krazy Glue while you’re taking a curved on-ramp at 70mph. And ride like you’re on rails in the straightaways. That never-get-tired-of-it feeling of being slammed back in your seat as you hit the gas and accelerate past some rustbucket doing nothing but standing between you and where you want to go.

You know, the experience of driving. You know that experience? Well forget it.

From Google to Mercedes to GM, everyone is jumping on the new automotive fad of a car that drives itself bandwagon.

To which I say, what’s the point? (I say that to a lot of things, but this – really?)

Isn’t the definition of driving to drive? Not to wax too poetic, but no one wants to be the ballerina that never dances. The thoroughbred that never races. The swimmer that’s never sliced through the water. Alright, so analogies aren't my strong suit. But you see where I'm going.

This is one I really don’t get. I mean, I understand the appeal of driving my car into a parking garage, then getting out and letting it find it’s own parking space while I go off to Five Guys. I mean the gym. But then, I don’t get the full parking experience, an essential adjunct to the driving experience.

Taking refuge behind the cause of "safety," some cities are now installing roadside sensors for cars that drive themselves to follow. This is very reassuring. These cities can’t even repair potholes.

The picture above is a Mercedes prototype called the FO15. It drives itself, although there’s a steering wheel should you become overwhelmed with nostalgia or the urge to shut off the auto-pilot and drive yourself.

This other picture is the inside of the F015. Apparently carmakers believe if you don’t have to worry about driving, you’ll spend your commute time more productively by working on the way to and from the job.

I barely work at work. I don’t see it happening.

There’s a bigger story here about technology for its own sake, and questions that need to be asked. For example, just because we can do something, should we? Coincidentally the same question I asked about my high school girlfriend.

Because there’s a tangled web of liability questions, routes, judgment calls the car would have to make in a split second, I don’t see the self-driving car as a realistic option for decades, if ever.

But in the unlikely event self-driving cars hit the road sooner rather than later, I’d have to tell it the same thing I tell my kids.

If you can drive yourself, you can pay for your own gas and insurance.

Call it a loaner

Yesterday, my car started making what I like to call an expensive sound.

When I hit the gas – or as we say in my country, accelerator – there’s a loud clunk as the car moves forward.

At first I thought something in the trunk was being thrown back against the lid. But since the clunk was coming from the front of the car, since this isn’t 1973 and since I don’t drive a VW Super Beetle, I quickly ruled that out.

Next I did what you’d think I’d have learned by now not to do. I went on the interwebs to research the noise. If I wasn’t filled with wallet anxiety before I went on, I sure was after.

Googling (I don’t care how large that company is, it’s still a stupid looking word) the sound and my car model brought up 11,300 results - everything from transmission to power train to wheel bearings to differential to radiator cap (?) and more.

The good news is when I took my car into the dealer this morning, they gave me a loaner to drive today while they gouge, I mean, figure out what’s wrong with my car. The loaner, like the above picture, is this year’s model of my car which coincidentally I’ve been wanting to drive. And it’s a hybrid.

Now, if you know anything about me - and you should, because really, we don't have secrets between us - you know I’m not a fan of hybrid cars. But I’m just going to say it: this one is awesome. Just as much power as mine, all the new model’s gadgets and gizmos, and, most importantly, that new car smell.

I'm also in advertising and understand the meaning of upsell. I realize it's no coincidence they gave me a loaner that's a newer model of a car they already know I love, and would probably want to have the latest model of with all it's bells, whistles and new body styling.

Damn if it's not working. Ad people are the most gullible even when we know the tactics.

Anyway, while I’m hoping and praying my clunking noise turns out to be something minor and inexpensive, I’m also hoping it takes them overnight to figure it out so I can enjoy the loaner just a bit longer. Which I'm sure it will.

After all, that's how loaners turn into keepers.

Job search

Every year I find 100 reasons to hate my job. They come in the form of Fortune magazine's annual 100 Best Companies to Work For issue.

A list perennial, the number one company to work for this year was Google, with things like on-site medical, restaurant, masseuses and a slew of other benefits (noticeably absent was senior care for employees over 25).

The other ninety-nine companies have things like a paid week off to do public service work, weekly meetings with the CEO to talk about what's on their minds, and even Segways to ride from one end of the office to the other.

Some companies boast of the longevity of their employees - over 1,000 Mattel employees have been there 15 years or longer. It's a concept alien to most people in advertising, who change jobs more often than Taylor Swift changes boyfriends.

Speaking of advertising, they may have been there but I didn't notice any agencies on the list. Which seems unfair, because many of them seem to meet the flimsy criteria to get on it. For example, Chiat has a basketball court, restaurant, indoor park and pirate parking stickers. Take that Zappos.

Every year when the issue arrives, I always have the same thought: maybe I'll send out a few emails to the companies that look interesting and see if anyone notices. The problem is it's like trying to buy a Prius after gas hits four dollars - everyone wants to do it.

Alright, I don't know if that's the right analogy but you see where I'm going.

The bizarre thing is I've already worked for many of these companies on the agency side. I know I had a list for some of them, but it was a different list. And while they may have earned their place on it, they definitely wouldn't be bragging about it.

Anyway, I'll keep reading and see if I can find the company of my dreams.

Or at the very least one that offers a year-round "Say It With Cash" policy.

For a few dollars more

Times are tough. Everyone I know - including me - is doing everything they can to keep their bank accounts from hitting an iceberg.

Because I write this blog, this fabulous, random, not too personally revealing, often funny yet thought-provoking blog on Blogger, I'm eligible to use Google's AdSense.

It's a program where Google gets to place ads on my posts, and I get to cash the checks they send me.

On the surface, not a bad deal.

All I have to do is write posts with words that will trigger targeted ads to magically appear on this site. And then, to make the kind of scratch I'm hoping to, people have to click on them. A lot of people.

My friend Janice tried this for awhile on her blog. I think she made enough for a small latte at one of her Parisian coffee bistros.

Oddly enough, that's not what Google would lead you to think.

They like you to see pictures like the one of this guy holding a check from them for almost $133K. That's a lot of clicking going on.

By the way, if that's a real check, more power to him.

I'm in advertising. I've written plenty of web banner ads. I don't know anyone in or out of the business who's ever clicked on one of them for non-work related purposes. They've certainly never clicked on one to buy anything.

So after careful thought and consideration, I think I'm going to opt for keeping this site uncluttered and ad-free. I see enough of them at work.

I know there will be lean times when I'll be filled with regret for not having done it. Times I'll think how nice it would be to have that money in my pocket.

Like for example when the kids need school supplies or new shoes.

It's okay. Besides, that's what crap tables are for.