Place your credit card in the upright position

Surprisingly, thank God, there are still a few things you don’t know about me. One of them is I used to be deathly afraid of flying. So much so in fact, that years ago I couldn’t bring myself to get on a plane to New York to actually meet Bruce Springsteen and party with him at an SNL after party.

Long story. I’m not proud.

However I’m pleased to tell you—and if you're flying with me you'll be pleased to hear—that’s no longer the case, and hasn’t been for the last twenty-eight years. The way I conquered my fear of flying was simple: I wound up doing a whole lot of it.

When I lived in Santa Monica, I got a freelance gig at Foote Cone Belding in San Francisco. Since these were the before days when you actually had to be in the office, that meant I had to commute up there on Monday mornings and back down on Friday nights. I figured even though I’d be sweating like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, I could probably white knuckle my way through a forty-eight minute flight twice a week.

Well imagine my surprise when my first week on the job I flew up to San Francisco, then separate round trips to Dallas and Atlanta for focus groups, then back to San Francisco to pick up my clothes at the hotel, back to Los Angeles for a friends birthday party then back up to the bay area.

It was immersion therapy—nine flights in one week.

In the nine months I commuted back and forth, sometimes two or three times a week, I got extremely comfortable with flying. I learned what the noises were. I chatted with pilots. I educated myself about different planes (Boeing 757, sports car of the Boeing fleet). And since I did most of my commuting to the bay and back on United, when the pilot made it available I also listened to channel nine, which was the communications between the plane and various flight controllers along the route.

My thinking was if they’re not worried, I’m not worried.

All this to say the other thing I figured out while I was logging all that airtime is where I like to sit on the plane so I’m the most comfortable and the least stressed.

Here’s a hint: it’s not in the back.

I’d buy books of upgrade coupons and, depending what sections the aircraft was divided into, fly in either first or business every time. One time I flew the eleven minute flight from San Francisco to Monterey and upgraded to first. My motto was, and still is, no trip to short for first.

I know how that sounds. But even though there's no upside in it, I have to face facts—I’m not a small person. And a wider seat—on the chair, not on me—makes flying much easier. Dare I say, enjoyable.

In yet another example of bad parenting, I've tried to pass this philosophy on to my kids, although it hasn’t stuck. Fortunately their current incomes dictates where they sit on the plane. So does mine, but then I figure that’s what credit cards are for.

If you happen to be flying somewhere with me and don't want to pony up for the front of the plane, I understand completely. Just know it'll be like that episode of Seinfeld, where Jerry is flying with Elaine but there’s only one open seat in first and he takes it.

Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk after we land.

What's in your wallet?

The day after Christmas, somehow I was able to overcome my food coma from our annual Christmas morning brunch and actually get a few things done. One of them was something I'd been meaning to do for years (if you said "Get a real job" calm down - you're not the first).

For some reason I never was able to find the time for this particular chore. But after years of procrastination, it finally happened: I cleaned out my wallet.

Oh sure, it may not seem like a big accomplishment to you, but considering the amount of paperwork and junk I was carrying around it was definitely life-changing. Well, okay. Pocket changing. The best way to describe the process is it was alternately a trip down memory lane, and a slog through a land fill.

If you know anything about me - and after over 1000 blogposts you probably know more than you want to - you know I'm usually an exceptionally organized person. As a rule, I like to clean as I go. I'm good that way. I put things (and when necessary, people) in their place in real time so I don't have to come back and do it later. Occasionally though, it's not always possible to do.

For example, my wallet was loaded with restaurant receipts I meant to file away in my incredibly organized tax receipt folder the day I got them. It's December, and I was clearing out receipts from as far back as March. The nice part was getting to reminisce about the meals, remember who I had them with and relive them a little bit.

The bad part was my wallet looked like the one in Costanza's hands in the picture.

Also in the billfold were souvenirs from trips I'd been on this past year, mostly in the form of hotel room card keys. I had my Comic Con hotel key from last July, my San Francisco visit room key from October, and discount coupons from each of those hotels for cocktails in their swingin' bars.

There were little notes to myself about things that seemed important at the time, and a few lines I thought were funny and I should remember.

The big surprise was that I'd actually been carrying around more than a few of the 500 Innocean business cards I got when I first started there. Of course now, they're collector's items which could probably fetch in the high $1's on eBay. A lot of the time I keep stuff using the "just in case I need it..." approach. Pretty sure I won't be needing them. And besides, my shredder needs something to do.

The nice part about all that clutter out of my wallet is it's considerably thinner now, and folds comfortably in my front pocket.

Plus now when I hug somebody I don't have to say, "Don't worry, it's just my wallet."

My compliments to the chef

The happy gentleman in the picture is Michel Richard, a French chef and former owner of Citrus, which was and will always be my favorite restaurant in L.A.

Citrus was novel for many reasons. Location was one. On the northwest corner just one block off Highland on Melrose, Citrus was at the end of an unassuming residential block. It had a closed in patio, with large umbrellas and a roof that could be drawn back, although it rarely was.

Instead of hiding the kitchen in the back of the house, Richard was one of the very first who chose to separate it from the dining area with a wall of glass, turning it into a gallery where diners could watch their food being prepared.

They could see the chefs at work. The attention to detail. The timing. The skill. And, vicariously, they could experience the pure joy of creation.

Citrus was also the home of my favorite restaurant dessert ever. Michel Richard's raspberry tart. Now, I'm not a fan of raspberries, and I'm not crazy about tart flavored items. But the way this dessert was made, the blend of flavors, the impossibly smooth texture, the thickness of the crust, the balance of flavors. It was perfection.

Citrus was around during the years I happened to be doing a lot of commercial production in Hollywood. And as any creative team will tell you, there's no lunch like a production company lunch. Or a post-production house. Or music production. If you had a good idea and a budget, you were wined and dined at the restaurant of your choice.

And since all the production companies and editorial houses were within five minutes of Citrus, the choice was easy.

I'm not saying I took advantage of that as often as possible. But I'm not saying I didn't.

Here's the thing. I can remember a lot of great meals I've had and restaurants I had them in: Jeremiah Tower's Stars in San Francisco. Emeril Lagasse's NOLA in New Orleans. Laurence McGuire's Lambert's in Austin. George Lang's Café Des Artistes in New York. Great meals and chefs to be sure.

But for me, none of them match the feeling of adventure, comfort, happiness, camaraderie and satisfaction of eating on the patio at Citrus.

Sadly, all good things come to an end. Citrus closed in 2001. Another incarnation opened at the Hollywood nightclub Social (cleverly called Citrus at Social- go figure). But the experience was never the same, and that version shuttered in December of 2009.

Michel Richard is no longer with us—he died of a stroke in August of 2016. But he did what every great chef aspires to.

He left me wanting more.

The right connections

Assuming you're going to read this post—and I recognize that's a big assumption—are you going to read it all the way through the first time, or stop halfway, go do something else for an hour, then come back and finish it?

Stop talking, it's a rhetorical question.

If you're going to read it, you'll do it nonstop until you get to the end. And why wouldn't you? It's easier, it takes less time and you can get to whatever you're doing afterwards a lot faster.

All the same reasons I like to fly nonstop.

It's literally been 21 years since I last took a connecting flight somewhere. The only reason was because it was the only way I could get to a surprise birthday party I'd arranged for a friend who was shooting a movie in Ponca City, Oklahoma. If you've never been to Ponca City, the Walmart on Saturday night is the hot tip. You're welcome.

Of course, part of the reason it's been so long since I've been on a connecting flight is I usually fly to destinations that are easy to get to directly. San Francisco. Las Vegas. New York. Las Vegas. Seattle. Las Vegas. Portland. Las Vegas. Austin. You get the pattern.

With how much I love gambling (how could you tell?), you'd think I'd book connecting flights more often. It's always a roll of the dice whether or not it'll be on time, the connecting flight will be there when I land, or the weather will cooperate at the second airport of the day.

I was just in Iowa. I had to fly to Denver, connect to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, then drive an hour and a half to where I was going in Iowa. It was an adventure, but it wasn't fun.

Like visits to the dentist, prostate exams and tax returns, I just prefer to have it done and over with as soon as possible. But because of the airline hub structure, and my need to go to little out-of-the-way towns in Iowa, I don't have as much choice in the matter as I used to.

I suppose the thing to do would be to look at connecting flights as a way to see parts of the country I wouldn't normally see, fly a variety of aircraft I wouldn't otherwise get to experience and rack up more frequent flier miles than I might going nonstop.

I also suppose I could also look at kale as cotton candy, but that's not happening either.

The most important burrito of the day

One of the many benefits of being a freelancer, besides working at home in your underwear—and let's hope it's your underwear—and setting your own lunch break (mine is from noon to 4PM), is that the city is lousy with ad agencies you can choose to dial for dollars or actually work at.

It seems there are almost as many agencies as Starbucks. In fact, some of them are in Starbucks.

Anyway, when I have the luxury of deciding which ones I want to work for, there are several criteria I take into consideration before taking the gig.

First and most obvious is the caliber of the work. Is it smart, entertaining, memorable and effective. You know, like me.

Next, the caliber of people. Besides knowing what they're doing—which is far rarer than you think—are they people I want to work with, that I want with me in the trenches. I don't have to have drinks with them after work or share our deepest secrets, but I don't want to be stuck with people I can't stand for the length of the assignment.

Location, location, location. I've had offers from agencies in cities all over the place, for example New York, Detroit, San Francisco, San Diego and Bakersfield. Guess which one I said no to?

After all how many pickup trucks and country stations can a city boy take, amiright?

But it finally dawned on me there's another important factor to think about before making any employment decisions. Do they serve a breakfast burrito, and how good is it.

When I worked at Chiat, the breakfast burritos were exceptional. Dare I say even good enough to get me in to work early on occasion. Chiat has their own restaurant upstairs (note to all other agencies), so not only could I order a breakfast burrito, I could get it exactly the way I wanted it.

As an only child, having it the way I want it is something I just take for granted.

The agency I'm currently at serves breakfast to the employees once every couple weeks. Today was my lucky day—it happened to be breakfast burritos. They weren't bad, but they weren't custom either.

To make it easier, they color-coded the wrappers. The red was made with ham, the green with bacon and the black with no meat at all (that's just crazy talk).

They were cut in half like the picture, and there was hot sauce and sour cream in bowls next to them—that's about as customized as they got.

Still, since my agency's tsunami adjacent, I can look out the window at the ocean, or eat out on the patio and feel the breeze, and somehow it makes the burrito taste much better than it otherwise would.

What am I saying? Just that if you're serving a quality breakfast burrito, odds are you're going to attract a higher caliber of talent.

And if you have Taco Tuesdays, dammit, I'll sign on the line.

Drive time

A good commute can be the difference between happy Jeff, and his evil twin – pissed off, short-fused, grudge-holding, horn-honking, lane-changing, one finger saluting, swearing like a drunk longshoreman Jeff.

So what makes a good commute? Well, for starters—and this should come as no surprise—distance.

For a long time, in what I believe was a very strange coincidence—or was it?—my commute to the agencies I was working at was exactly 26 miles each way. It seemed to be my travel threshold.

Even though 26 miles doesn’t sound like a lot, you can do the math - and if you can't then I believe it's a damning indictment of our public education system. Don't get me started. Where was I? Oh, right. It's 52 miles round trip. But at 8:30 a.m. or 6 p.m. going against traffic on the 405, they feel like dog miles. It may as well be a 1000.

All this to say my commute now is spectacular. The agency I’m currently at is right at the beach (or as I called it the last time I wrote about it, tsunami adjacent). I don’t have to get on a freeway to get there, I just cruise down Pacific Coast Highway from my house. There’s never any traffic on that stretch of PCH at that time of day, and it takes me about 20 to 25 minutes to arrive unstressed and un-pissed off at work.

Which brings me to the second component in a good commute: the destination.

I’ve worked for a few agencies in San Francisco over the years. They all have the same politics, personalities and British-accented, insight spouting, knit-cap wearing planners every other agency has. Here’s the difference: at the end of the day, I’d open the door to leave, and I’d be in San Francisco. It made up for a lot of ills. Flight and all, my commute to the San Francisco shops from my house was often faster than my commute to Orange County.

Another item that makes for a good commute is the scenery. You can have a short commute where you get to work in no time, but if it takes you through the senseless murder district coming and going, it’s still not very pleasant.

Since my commute du jour runs down PCH, I get to see the ocean, surfers, joggers and beach rats while I drive there and back. If I’m working a little later (stops to laugh at the thought of working later), I can even manage to catch a summer sunset. Like the old saying goes, getting there is half the fun.

Of course, depending which agency you're commuting to, it just may be all the fun.

Turnaround

I was in Austin for a few lovely days, and then flew back last night. I was home about eleven hours, unpacked, re-packed, then was back on a plane to San Francisco this morning.

By the way, lest you get any ideas about paying the house a visit, my German Shepherd, alarm system, wife, and, the thing you should be most afraid of – my teenage daughter – are still on full alert guarding the ponderosa.

It all feels very jetset-y, until you’re waiting at baggage claim and three planes worth of luggage come cascading down the slide onto the carousel, and everybody pushes you out of the way shouting, "Mine's the black one!"

Then it feels like water-boarding would be a viable option, for them. Not you.

There’s a rhythm to travel, hopping from one plane and place to the next, blowing into town long enough to see the family, then heading out again until next time. Like jogging and eating beets, if you do it often enough you build endurance for it. I think what I’ve learned is I don’t do it often enough.

The glamour of air travel is a long, lost notion – something I wrote about here four years ago. As far as I can tell, now it’s just mainly exhausting.

But, and it's a big but, just like the person in the middle seat next to me on the way up here, I have to confess - I still like the process. Getting the flight I want. Choosing my favorite window seat (aisle seats are for people who think flight is just a theory). Seeing what kind of plane I'll be on. I also like the perks that come with sitting in the front of the plane: early boarding, a bathroom less traveled, bigger seats, more space and eavesdropping on the flight attendants as they tell passenger horror stories.

If I sound like I'm sending mixed signals, it's because I am. I like it, and I don't like it. Not unlike my high school girlfriend.

It's hard to believe years ago I used to have a crippling fear of flying considering how much I love it now. I guess if I'd known about that front of the plane thing I would've gotten over it a lot sooner. I used to take what I called my "Flights To Nowhere," four or six flights a day between cities just to rack up mileage so I could maintain my Premier status in United's frequent flyer program. Like Clooney in Up In The Air, I didn't do anything, buy anything or stay anywhere that didn't reward me miles towards my goal. I even had a nickname: Flyboy.

Anyway, these days flying for me has become utilitarian instead of recreational. Which is okay.

Because the truth is now that I've racked up all those miles, I'd hate to use them.

Travelin' man

Depending how much you enjoy packing five days worth of clothes into a carry-on, TSA pat downs, crying babies (on the plane, not at the agency), and off brand hotels your per diem more than covers (always a bad sign), travel can be one of the better perks of working at an advertising agency.

In the early stages of my career (pauses to consider fraudulent use of the word "career"), it seemed everyone was looking for a reason to walk the jetway as often as possible. It usually boiled down to one of three: an out-of-town client meeting, shooting on location (“We open on the Eiffel Tower...”) and the occasional new business pitch (“Every agency needs a casino…”).

A fourth reason that comes up a few times a year is award shows (Cannes) and seminars (wherever Adweek’s having one this week), but those are usually reserved for agency brass. After all they're the ones who've been working on their acceptance speech for your work for a couple weeks, so they should at least get to go.

Traveling for work on someone else’s dime is an easy inconvenience to get used to. Right up until you come home and realize the baby you left a week ago grew two inches while you were away.

Or you missed the piano recital your middle-schooler has been practicing for two months.

And that thing you wanted to do around the house didn’t get done by itself.

Travel happens to be on my mind because I’m currently on an out-of-town gig in San Francisco. A city I love, working with people I enjoy a great deal. If I wasn’t being put up in a hotel that's like the Hotel Earle in Barton Fink - without the warmth - the trip would be perfect.

Since the advent of digital, email and FaceTime, the need to travel doesn’t rear its head very often. I’ve worked for agencies in cities all across the country right from the pampered poodle comfort of my own living room. And let’s just say when I did I was always dressed for the office. Mine, not theirs.

For whatever reason, this San Francisco agency, who I’ve worked with from home for a year and a half, decided for this particular project they wanted me in the office live and in person this week. Happy to oblige.

So here’s the bottom line: Yes I miss the dog (when he’s behaving). Yes I miss the family (when they're behaving). I do miss having my own car (when it's behaving), although I’m getting to be the Lyft king of San Francisco and now know more about Lyft drivers than I ever wanted to.

On the flip side, at the end of the day, I get to walk out the door, be smacked in the face by the breeze coming in off the bay, and I'm in San Francisco. I like to file this under "things could be worse."

To sum it up then, travel is good this time. Missing home is tolerable (I'll be back tonight). I'm in a great city, with lots of chowder and sourdough. And, most importantly, the checks clear.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go present a storyboard to the creative director.

In the first frame, we open on the Eiffel Tower.

Five good things about advertising. You read that right.

I don't know whether you've noticed, but every once in a great while I use this blog to rag on advertising, the monster egos, the hipster planners and the open space seating (don't get me started).

But don't get the wrong idea. Despite my occasional rants, there are great things about working in advertising you don't get in, say, the insurance industry. Or working for the DMV. For example getting to dress like a fourteen-year old every day. Free food every single place you turn. Enjoying some of the most creative people you'll ever meet in any business on a daily basis.

Plus covered parking if you get to work early enough. So I hear.

Anyway it occurred to me I've had some great things happen as a result of being in the biz, and I don't talk about them nearly enough. But all of that's about to change. Here are five good things that've happened because I'm in the business I'm in:

1. I met my wife.

Of all the things that've happened and I've experienced since I've worked in advertising, I have to say the very best has been meeting my wife.

And when I say I have to say, I mean I have to say.

She was on an agency tour her first day, and they brought her around to the creative directors' office where I happened to be. I saw her in the doorway and thought "She's kind of cute." She saw me and thought, "OK, I can work with this."

She is the wind beneath my wings, the woman behind the man. She is my editor - yes I have one - and my best friend. She has the patience of a saint, although she doesn't really need it because being married to me is a walk in the park. Central Park at midnight, but still.

She makes me, my writing and my life better than it had any chance of being without her.

Well I think I've banked enough marriage points for one night, don't you? Love you honey.

2. I saw Springsteen in Atlanta.

I've worked on Taco Bell at three different agencies in my career (pauses until giggles are over for using the word career). And all three times, I had a great relationship with the client.

The first agency I worked on the account, the client was also a Springsteen fan. So when she went on a thirteen-market store tour, one of the stops was Atlanta, and it happened to be the same night as Springsteen was playing at the Omni.

She called their local market agency, and had them get some killer seats for the concert (media people can do anything). Then she called my agency in L.A., and told them to fly me to Atlanta so I could see the show with her and a few franchisees. My creative director told her I was swamped and wouldn't be able to make the trip. She told him she wasn't asking.

Next thing I knew, I was in a Lincoln Town Car on my way to LAX for a flight to Atlanta. That was a great day in advertising. And it was a great show.

3. I talked to Lee Clow about German Shepherds.

If you're not in advertising and don't know who Lee Clow is, suffice it to say he's an advertising legend. The real deal. Google him now.

If you're in advertising and you don't know who Lee Clow is, then you're not in advertising.

I freelanced for almost a year at Chiat Day, working on the Uncle Ben's account. I sat right behind Lee's office. Since Chiat is an extremely dog friendly agency, one day I brought the world's greatest dog, my long-haired German Shepherd Max to work with me. He was two and half at the time.

I started to walk Max past Lee's office, and Lee, who was with a group of people across the agency, saw him and immediately came over to us. He got down on his knees, started petting Max and asking me about him. Then he took us in his office, where he showed me pictures of his shepherds, both past and present. One of them looked startlingly like Max.

We talked about a half hour, not just about the dogs but about advertising in general, life, family, and then the shepherds again. Then he had to get back to the meeting he'd left when he came over to us. When Max and I came out of his office, the Associate Creative Director who'd brought me in for the job saw us walking out with him. He came up to me after and said, "What was that about?" To which I replied, "Geez it gets so old. Every day, it's 'Jeff, how would you do it?'"

4. I overcame my fear of flying.

You'd never know it now, but I used to have a horrible fear of flying. Now I just have a horrible fear of flying coach.

I'd go out of my way and do just about anything not to get on a plane. One time, I took at train to San Antonio, Texas for a client meeting. At the time, the head of the agency thought I was being creative. Today he'd just think I'm an idiot.

Anyway, years ago I wound up freelancing at Foote, Cone and Belding in San Francisco. I lived in Santa Monica. But I figured it was only an hour flight twice a week, and the odds were in my favor I'd be fine.

Turns out my first week, I flew to San Francisco, then to Dallas for focus groups, then back to San Francisco, then to Atlanta (also for focus groups), then back to San Francisco, then to L.A. for a friend's going away party, then back up to San Francisco. Seven flights the first week. There were also weeks I'd go back and forth from L.A. two or three times.

I earned a lot of United miles, got upgraded frequently and learned to love flying. A friend of mine even gave me a charm that says Flyboy. Of course statistically, flying is still the safest way to travel. And the nicest. Did I mention the upgrades?

5. The friends I keep.

Maybe the best thing about working in advertising are the people I get to work with (for the most part - you know who you are). I get to hang with exceptionally creative people I learn from, and who force me to raise my game every time. We're in the advertising foxhole together, and it makes even the worst days more bearable.

There you have it. Now you can't accuse me of not saying anything nice about advertising. And if I'm going to be truthful, there are many other good things to say about it. So much so, I was thinking maybe I should turn this into an ongoing series of posts, like my wildly successful Don't Ask, Guilty Pleasures or Things I Love About Costco series. But then, I had another thought.

Let's not get carried away.

City of angels

I have a complicated relationship with L.A. It's a love/hate relationship, the kind only someone, like myself or anyone who's ever had a high school girlfriend can appreciate.

And when I say someone like myself, I mean a native. Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else.

All too often, the city grabs my arm, pulls it up behind my back until it hurts and makes me start sentences in that way. "When I was a kid..." and "Back when I was in high school..." and "Let me tell you what traffic used to be like."

The major love/hate component of the city is the weather. I've always been torn. On one hand, I'd love to live in a city with real seasons, for example San Francisco. Yeah, yeah, I can hear all the L.A. people whining about how we have seasons too, just not as extreme.

Listen, I've lived here my whole life. There are only two seasons: summer, and construction.

However if I may be allowed to contradict myself (not sure why I'm asking permission for something I do on a daily basis), there are stunningly beautiful days when the east coast is buried in a blizzard or being hit by hurricane Roker and it's ninety and sunny here.

It's the kind of weather that sets Facebook on fire, with everyone posting the same sunny picture of wispy white clouds, the tops of palm trees or the ocean and sarcastic, mocking greetings to the eastern brethren.

Another cause of so much of my agita (look it up) about the city is the fact it's just such a whore. L.A. won't waste a second tearing down its history to put up a strip mall or new fusion sushi restaurant. Cliché but true.

I've watched it tear down or lose places that gave it character and personality. For every Tommy's or Pink's, there's a Spanish Kitchen that's now a beauty salon. Or a Wilshire Blvd. Bob's Big Boy that's a BMW dealership. At least the former Pan Pacific Auditorium is a park people can enjoy. The city gets older but no wiser.

There are even websites, like this one, that revel in articles why L.A. is the worst place ever.

My entire attitude reminds me of the old joke: "Do you have trouble making up your mind?" "Well, yes and no." That's my ongoing debate about the city of my birth.

But I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full, although not with rain water because we're in the seventh year of a statewide drought. Which in L.A. only means one thing: waiters are required to serve Evian at brunch.

Anyway, for the moment I'm not going anywhere. Even though there are states where I could buy city blocks for what I could sell my house for, I just can't seem to leave L.A. behind.

One last thing that bothers me about this urban sprawl of a city is that, bar none, at every restaurant they always..oh crap, look at the time. I gotta get to my audition.

Hold that thought.

A little foggy on the subject

When I worked at FCB in San Francisco, I developed the very enjoyable habit of going to the San Francisco Ad Awards show every year. Not only was it a way to see the outstanding creative work being done around town, it gave me a great excuse to go up north and catch up with my many friends who live there. Sadly, the SF ad show eventually went the way of southern California’s Belding awards.

Which means I can still go see my friends, I just can’t write it off (as easily).

I remember one year, the show was being held at the historic Fillmore, where icons like Jimi Hendrix, The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Muddy Waters played. You could feel history in the hall.

At this particular awards show, George Zimmer, founder and former CEO of Men’s Wearhouse, was the master of ceremonies. He made a joke wondering why all these other accounts were winning awards for their creativity but his wasn’t. I can only assume it was a rhetorical question.

Every year I went, there was the usual grousing from losing agencies about how Goodby would steal the show - much the same way people used to complain about Chiat walking off with the Beldings every year, until they changed the rules and judging criteria. Funny how sometimes entry fees speak louder than the work.

Anyway, the SF show always seemed to be a lot looser and more freewheeling.

I remember the funniest line of the night was from a presenter who starting talking about how grateful he was for his career in advertising, and then rattled off all the things he wouldn’t want to be in life.

At the top of the list was Hal Riney’s liver.

Even then it was a gutsy line. But it just speaks to the no-holds-barred fun the SF show used to be.

In a couple weeks, I'll be heading back up to go to the wedding of a good friend of mine. I'm looking forward to the wedding, the city and the feeling of possibility and originality that seems to go with it.

And if I have time, I'll catch a show at the Fillmore.

The missing chapter

There's the old saying about always leaving the audience wanting more. Apparently Fred Goldberg took it to heart, because that's exactly how I felt when I finished his excellent book, The Insanity of Advertising.

For the outsiders who think advertising's nothing but fun and glamour day in and day out - and oddly enough there are still a few - Fred pulls back the curtain and reveals the true story of just how insane this business is more often than not.

He also names names, which definitely helped make it a fun read. And of course, being the straight shooter I've known him to be, he lets everyone know exactly what he thinks of them. He's retired from the business now, so I suppose it's easier to do. Although I recall in my brief experience with him, Fred never had a problem letting anyone know what he thought, even at the height of his career.

I have to admit I was a little disappointed one story he neglected to include was the pitch for Disneyland his legendary creative shop Goldberg Moser O'Neill was involved in. While I'm sure Fred knows part of the reason his agency wound up being invited to pitch the Happiest Place On Earth, he doesn't know all of it.

Here it is.

I was freelancing and looking for work. One of the places I'd managed to work my way into for nine months was Foote Cone & Belding in San Francisco. I lived in Santa Monica at the time, so I'd fly up there Monday mornings and fly back on Friday nights. I racked up a ton of frequent flyer miles. I got upgraded all the time. I was on a first name basis with the counter people at United. Every once in a while the pilot at the end of the week who flew me home would be the one who flew me up at the beginning of the week, and he'd recognize me. The agency paid for my hotel during the week. It all felt very jet-setty.

That was the good news. The bad news is I was working on Taco Bell.

The way I'd landed the job - which was not really a great way for a creative to get in the door, but what the hell, I was there - was through the client at Taco Bell, a great guy named Blaise Mercadante. Blaise used to be VP of research at Tracy-Locke, where we worked together. I always said if I'd known he was going to wind up being the client I would've been a lot nicer to him.

Anyway, this was a couple years before the Disneyland pitch, and ever since the FCB gig ended I'd been looking for a way to get back up to San Francisco. I checked the want ads in the back of Adweek (remember those?), networked like crazy and sent out promotional pieces (remember those?) that apparently only I thought were clever.

But my love of San Francisco, my memory of the cold, bracing breeze coming off the bay and hitting me as I left the FCB office at night, was strong and seductive enough to make me do something I never did before and haven't done since.

I made a cold call. And I made it to Mike Moser at Goldberg Moser O'Neill.

For some reason, I thought about ten minutes into the lunch hour he'd still be at his desk and it'd be a good time to ambush him. I was right. He picked up the phone and I introduced myself, fully expecting the bum's rush. Instead, Mike talked to me for a good half hour, asking about my experience in general and at FCB in particular, what ads GMO had done that I liked, what was going on at the agency and what their needs might be in the future. He told me to definitely stay in touch.

When I got off the phone with Mike Moser, two things were crystal clear. First, as badly as I'd wanted to work for GMO when I made the call, I wanted to work there a hundred times more after. And second, from that point on no one could ever say a bad word to me about GMO (not that anyone was trying to).

Fast forward a bit. My friend Paula Freeman became VP of Marketing for Disneyland Resort. Both she and her boss, Michele Reese, decided to have agencies pitch the Disneyland business, and Paula asked me to lead the charge as creative consultant on the pitch.

I don't think I have to tell you - even though I'm about to - how fast GMO became the first agency on my list. They had a record of outstanding, impactful creative work on Apple, Dell, California Cooler, Kia and several other accounts. And I had never forgotten Mike Moser's kindness in taking my call.

GMO pitched the business against three other agencies and won hands down. The work was smart and evoked emotion taking the brand to a new level. Oddly, on the heels of the pitch, GMO was asked to pitch again against Leo Burnett from Chicago -- Disney World's agency of record. Burnett wasn't in the original group of agencies invited, and hadn't been invited by any of us. An edict came down from Disney and Michael Eisner, who was close, personal friends with the EVP of marketing in Orlando, that they be allowed to pitch the business. Sometimes, the Magic Kingdom isn't so magical, especially when they turn from the happiest place on earth to the most political and corporate place on earth.

Of course Fred, shooting straight as ever, wasted no time in letting us know how completely unhappy he was, and what utter bullshit it was GMO had to re-pitch a second time. And he was right. But, despite having the feeling the fix was in - a feeling we shared - the lure of a highly visible, blue chip account like Disneyland is worth the extra step, both for what it is and what it could become.

Goldberg Moser O'Neill presented their exceptional creative work. They were Paula's, Michele's and my first choice to get the business. In the end though, it went to Leo Burnett in Chicago

Insanity indeed.

On a personal note to Fred, as Paul Harvey would say, "Now you know the rest of the story." I enjoyed your book immensely, and hope you're hard at work on a sequel. I know you have many more stories to tell.

And frankly, it'd be insane if you kept them to yourself.

The back room

A few years ago, for about nine months, I had the good fortune to work at FCB in San Francisco. It was a fun, jet-setting kind of gig because I had to commute back and forth from Santa Monica, where I was living at the time. I’d leave Monday morning, and fly back Friday night. Racked up lots of frequent flyer miles, and also got to know a lot of the airport personnel by name. Thank you for the free upgrades.

That was the good news.

The bad news is it was on Taco Bell.

If you’ve followed this blog for any amount of time – and if you have, thank you, but you really need to spend more time outside – you may remember I wrote here about my time up north. One thing I happened to leave out was the night I went looking for trouble.

Normally, trouble usually has no trouble finding me. But on this night, I decided to act on something I’d heard. I don’t remember if it was in a noir motion picture from the fifties that took place in San Francisco, or whether the concierge at the hotel had mentioned it to me in passing. I'd heard there were all sorts of backroom crap games in Chinatown, and I was setting out to find myself one.

I also don't remember where I heard this little tidbit: the best way to find one was ask one of the many Asian cab drivers.

So, very late in the evening, I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Chinatown. When we got near it, he asked for the exact address, and I told him I didn't have one. I wanted to be taken to a crap game.

He laughed, shook his head and told me there weren’t any. By the way he said it, I could tell I’d struck gold with this driver.

I told him not only did I know there were, but I knew that he knew where they were. I was insistent he take me to one of them. After a lot of back and forth, denial and more denial, he finally said he did know of one. But he wasn’t going to take me there.

When I asked why, he said because the games were closed to outsiders, especially Caucasians, and if I went into one I might not come out.

Even if I didn't hear about them in a movie, it was beginning to sound like one.

You know how seeing a police car in the rear-view mirror after you’ve had a couple beers sobers you right up? That’s how fast I lost my desire to play in a back-room crap game.

He took me back to the hotel, where I tipped him generously and thanked him for being so honest with me.

He said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Summertime, Spartans and bagpipes oh my

I have to admit as open and freewheeling as I like to think I am, the truth is I'm probably much more a creature of habit.

For example, there are two staples of my summer every year. The first is a four-and-a-half day trip to San Diego for Comic Con with my son. The second is our family tradition, now in its twelfth year, of a few days in late summer at the Hotel Del Coronado. I look forward to each of them equally, but for obviously different reasons.

I mean, you almost never see women scantily dressed as Spartans from the movie 300 at the Hotel Del. And try as you might, it's just impossible to find a four-piece shrimp cocktail for forty-five dollars at Comic Con (I've taken the liberty of not including a picture - you're welcome).

Each place is unique in its own way.

This year however, in a fit of wanderlust and gypsy channeling, the wife brought up the idea of going someplace different. When I heard her say that, two thoughts went careening through my head: first, by different I hope she means in addition to, because there's no way I'm giving up my two summer traditions (cue Tradition from Fiddler on the Roof).

And second, how much is this going to cost me? Especially at this late date.

Still, I like the idea of adding a third leg to the summer routine.

In summers past, before Comic Con and the Del, we’ve gone up north and spent a few days in San Francisco. One particular time, we enjoyed a week in the Hapsburg Suite at the Fairmont that we'd won in a charity auction. I like to file it under worse things could happen.

But I'm afraid the wife is thinking of a somewhat larger, more distant trip - more along the lines of Scotland.

Now don't get me wrong. I've been told more than once that I have legs that were meant for a kilt. And once I get past the idea that bagpipes sound like a bag of cats screaming to get out, I actually enjoy them.

The problem with a trip like that, as with so many things in life, is timing. We’re already late in the game as far as booking air fare and hotels at any kind of reasonable price. Plus – and this is a good problem to have – I seem to be getting fairly booked up work wise, so I don’t know how I’d clear the days. With freelance, no worky no money.

Still, because I've been known to occasionally act on a whim, pour gas on the credit cards and ask forgiveness later, I’m going to brush up on my brogue and see if I can acquire a taste for porridge and kippers just in case.

If it does turn out to be Scotland, the only thing I know for sure is I’m not playing golf when we get there.

Quick warning: clip has language not be suitable for the youngsters.

Theory of flight

I have a theory about flying. It's a simple one really, and it goes like this: no matter what the destination, there is no flight too short for first.

Elitist? Maybe. Expensive? Definitely. Worth it? Without a doubt.

This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who follows this blog (and if you do follow this blog, you really need to get out more). After all, I've posted before here about the rapid decline in respect for air travel as evidenced by the caliber of people who fly. And by that I mean people who fly coach.

I know how I sound. And, as is typical of first class passengers, I don't care.

We used to go see family in Carmel, CA. While my wife and kids would get all excited about the six hour road trip up there (by road trip they meant monotonous drive up interstate 5, with a stop at the McDonald's in Buttonwillow being the highlight of the trip), I on the other hand would make my airline reservations. I'd fly from L.A. to S.F., then take jet-service back down to Monterey.

The flight from San Francisco to Monterey is exactly 16 minutes. Know where I sat? In the front of the plane. I'd buy upgrade coupons from United in books of four, and I wasn't afraid to use them.

So when I went to New York a couple weekends ago to see my friend Holland Taylor in the Broadway show ANN, which she wrote and stars in, there was no question what part of the plane I was going to sit in.

Which is why you're looking at a picture of the left wing and engine as seen from seat 2A.

Northern exposure

I've always loved San Francisco. And a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I had one of the best gigs under the best circumstances ever there.

I like to file it under I won't be seeing a deal like that again.

Basically the head of research I worked with at Tracy Locke became the VP of Marketing for Taco Bell (if I'd known he was going to become a client I would've been a lot nicer to him). FCB San Francisco was their agency. Since I'd always wanted to work in San Francisco, I called him and asked if I could drop his name often and recklessly to get an interview.

He did me one better: he called the creative director and set up the interview for me.

Normally I'd say any way you can get in is good. But when you're a creative person coming in through the client door, you're viewed with a lot of suspicion. All you can do is give it your best and keep showing them you know who's signing your paycheck.

I lived in Santa Monica at the time, and commuted up there early Monday mornings, and back on Friday nights. Obviously this was before I had kids.

My deal was that FCB paid for my commute, all my meals, and the hotel they put me up at each week (the fabulous Tuscan Inn). Plus the cab fare to and from the airport and my house.

I freelanced on Taco Bell for three months, then FCB asked me to come on staff. On the flight back to L.A. that night, I called my wife and told her they'd made me an offer. Coincidentally my wife was interviewing at the now non-existant Stein Robaire Helm at the time, and they'd also made her an offer the very same day. We decided San Francisco was the one we were going to pursue.

Besides FCB covering all my expenses, I also managed to negotiate a six month severance contract (okay, sometimes the client door is a good thing). Today you have as much chance of negotiating a severance contract as you do finding the Holy Grail.

The day my wife and I were going to fly up and look for apartments, my creative director got taken off the business. Never a good sign. We decided to wait and see which way the account was going to go.

The way it went was into review. For the next five months, until we lost it, I worked on both the business and the pitch out of the FCB offices in San Francisco and Chicago to save it.

After freelancing three months, then working on staff for five, I sat out two more months (paid) in Santa Monica while FCB decided what they wanted to do with the Taco Bell group. Although the group knew way before they did exactly what they were going to do.

When they let us all go, I walked away with a check for six months salary. I also left with a lot of new friends I made there. Every time I see or talk to any of them - I'm looking at you Savoy and Martin - I'm grateful for the experience all over again.

Ironically the day I got my severance check I also got my FCB business cards and letterhead.

Guess which one I still have?

Piercing observation

Picking up a prescription at CVS the other day, this woman was ahead of me in line. And, like you, I couldn't help noticing her neck piercing. In fact I was so focused on it, I almost overlooked the one in the cartilage of her left ear.

My first thought was how much it must've hurt getting it. The two reddish dots on each side of the piercing didn't look like the daily alcohol swabbings were going particularly well.

My second thought was why her neck?

As a rule, I don't have any problem with piercings. In fact I wear two earrings in my left ear (it used to be three, but the third hole never healed - let's leave it at that). I got them years ago while I was working at Tracy Locke, and I asked this cute girl I worked with if she liked guys with earrings.

After she said yes, I broke a land speed record getting to a store on Melrose called Maya and had my ear pierced by yet another cute young girl.

Just for the record, that was the last thing I did that either of them liked.

To me, the secret of a great piercing is like buying a house: location, location, location. Why squander a perfectly good one in a location no one is going to see it? Or at least not enough people to make it worth the effort.

But I suppose that's better than going completely overboard like Pinhead over here with so many that absolutely everyone can't help but noticing.

Moderation, so I'm told, is the trick.

The issue occasionally comes up with my own kids. When my daughter was 9, we were on a trip to San Francisco and walking through the Emporium Mall on Market Street. She asked me if she could get her ears pierced while we were there. And, you know, thinking I actually had a say in the matter, I told her sure. She was ecstatic, right up until she saw the horrified look on my wife's face. The one that says to her "You're too young for earrings." And says to me "Maybe you should've discussed this with me before you just blurted out she could have them."

I get that a lot.

The deal we struck was that when we got home she could get them pierced. The plane hadn't even touched down before we were at a Claire's in some mall getting her ears pierced. I would've bet her allowance she was going to cry. She didn't. That was her mother.

My 15-year old son has started rumblings about getting his ear pierced. And I'm well aware that I don't have a lot of ground - as far as setting examples go - when I tell him no.

But he's mighty involved in acting, and nothing looks worse than a piercing hole in a close up shot. So far that's keeping the discussion at bay.

That and the fact I keep telling him if he gets me a potato, an ice cube and a pin I'll do it for him.