Raised by MadMen

This one’s going to be short and sweet. And it isn’t going to be so much a blogpost as a love letter.

The best way I can describe it is this: I had a moment out of time today. After not having seen or really talked to them in too many years, I found myself sitting at lunch with two of the most influential men in my career and my life.

One of them—an advertising Hall of Fame legend—saw something in me I didn’t see in myself, and gave me an unexpected and life-changing opportunity when he made me the first junior copywriter ever at Wells Rich Greene/West.

The other—a highly accomplished and award-winning creative director, and now internationally acclaimed photographer and artist—showed me how to navigate the new responsibilities that came with the title. The essentials, like how to treat, respect and direct talent. The steps involved in producing a television spot.

Both of them lavished encouragement on me, allowed me to let my imagination and humor run wild, reigned me in when needed, made a real writer out of me and always had my back. Together, they taught me the importance of being a decent, inclusive, caring man in a business with no shortage of the opposite kind.

I was sitting at lunch today with two men who are forever a part of my fabric and I love dearly: Howie Cohen and Alan Kupchick.

My wife, who worked with Alan at the agency where we met, and later for Howie at his agency, was also there. Together the four of us filled in the memory blanks on names, events and stories, of which there were just as many we got to as we didn’t.

There are very few occasions in life where the saying "time flies when you're having fun" actually applies. But as Howie put it, it was a three-hour lunch that felt like three minutes.

Yes it was. And I can’t wait for our next three minutes.

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.

Hitting the target

You're probably already familiar with targeted marketing. You might have also heard it referred to by that other name the monumental douchewhistles running Facebook and Instagram give it: relevant ads. You know, ads you'll appreciate interrupting your otherwise perfectly good scroll.

These are those creepy ads that appear within five minutes of you talking about something that interests you while you're in earshot of your iPhone, Alexa, Google Home, Apple Homepod or other digital assistant. Devices that listen in on your conversations even though at the same time the companies that make them are paying for ads and running interviews everywhere telling you about their committment to privacy.

I hate 'em as much as the next guy. But I have to admit, I'm at a meth-laced crossroads when it comes to this little number that popped up in my inbox.

If you've followed this blog at all, and with all that pandemic time on your hands you have no excuse if you haven't, you know I'm a fairly hardcore Breaking Bad fan. The fact I've binged it fourteen times was probably your first clue.

So a few months ago when Omaze was runnng a contest to have Bryan Cranston and Aaron Paul cook breakfast for me and a friend in the RV they cooked meth in on the show, it's safe to assume I entered. Several times. And then a few more for good measure.

But did I win? No I did not. Apparently Elissa and Heidi got to enjoy the breakfast that was meant for me. Apparently they forgot I am the one who knocks!

I may have gotten off track here. Anyway those nice folks (algorithims) at Omaze remembered and sent me the personalized invite to their latest contest to spend a little time with Walt and Jesse.

Now I'm not naive enough to think I'm the only one who got the invite. I'm sure everyone who entered the breakfast contest (and lost to Elissa and Heidi) received one as well. But it does make me reconsider my take on targeted marketing.

I guess the bottom line is I'm good with it as long as the ads are Breaking Bad, Springsteen or sushi related.

Non-essential personnel

There’s been a great deal of discussion about essential and non-essential workers these past ten months. In the middle of a devastating pandemic, we quickly found out who we absolutely needed and who we could live without.

And the surprises weren’t all that surprising.

The people we take for granted day in and day out—grocery checkers and stockers, delivery people. Obviously the frontline medical heroes. The under siege postal workers (buy stamps). People who keep security and infrastructure going. As well as a long list of others.

And hey, you'll never guess who wasn’t considered essential. Give up? I hate for you to hear it this way but it's people who work in advertising agencies. I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

But here's something we know deep down in those places we don't talk about: the harsh reality is that was true even before the pandemic. And it’ll be true after.

Truth can be such a cruel mistress.

Come to find out in a non-existent survey not conducted by Gallop, that in the time of Covid, turns out people across every demographic—including some that haven’t even been segmented yet—actually set priorities about what's essential and what isn't.

While people are busy worrying whether a cough is just a cough or whether it's a debilitating virus that's going to have them fighting for their lives in the ER, oddly enough they don’t consider banner ads, screen takeovers, wild postings, commercials of any kind (with the exception of those two Match.com Satan ads), radio spots repeating the phone number three times, bus shelters, outdoor, paid social, email, direct response tchotchkes (no I didn't look up the spelling, yes it's correct), online surveys, YouTube pre-rolls, theater ads that piss you off before the movie (remember movies?), product placement in those movies, brochures, endcaps, welcome kits and more essential.

Even more non-essential? People who create them.

But fear not fellow agency people. Remember that many great artists aren't appreciated in their own time. Eventually this too shall pass, and people will come out of the plague culture and discover they hold a deep appreciation and fond nostalgia for all the ads they saw that began with "These are challenging times..." and ended with "We're in this together."

Someday the world at large will see the sense in theoretically normal-thinking adults putting their health and the health of loved ones at risk to bring them commercials that involved people breaking into dance for no reason, running footage, bite and smiles and people who aren't doctors but play one on television.

You know, the same as usual except now the people in them wear masks.

I've heard the arguments: we're keeping the economy going during a bad time. Bringing information people would have no. other. way. of getting. Setting an example by being at work, etc.

I got news for you. Essentially, you're kidding yourself.

The sweet spot

What with the ‘rona and all this year, everyone I know seems to have grown more than a little tired of not just learning to bake all the sourdough and banana bread the world can bear, but actually baking it. If I never see a group of squishy, brown bananas again—don’t get me started.

Needless to say, this frame of mind doesn’t bode well for all the baked goods you promised yourself and your pudgy little cousins you’d be making over the holidays.

So I'm thinking maybe the first gift you ought to give yourself is letting the exceptional Detroit Baker handle all your holiday baking needs.

Full disclosure: the Detroit Baker happens to be my good friend Claire. And, I say this objectively, everything about her is exceptional. She's talented, smart, funny, beautiful and an awesome individual. The world could definitely use more people like her.

But the good news is you can have someone just like her baking all the sweet treats for you and yours this holiday season.

Claire and I used to work together at an agency, and I used to enjoy all her baking for free. Whenever there was a birthday, work anniversary or special occasion, all of us looked forward to her bringing in some incredible, imaginative, original baked treats. They’d be in the coffee room, and throughout the day I’d just casually and (so I thought) inconspicuously keep sauntering in to have another bite.

I’m sure my co-workers would’ve loved some, but he who hesitates and all that.

I once told Claire about the fact that I'm allergic to chocolate. She looked startled and said, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Anyway, visit her site at DetroitBaker.com, and order some of the many sweet treats she has to offer. Or if you have something specific in mind, she'll make it one-of-a-kind custom just for you.

And while you’re there, do me a favor and remind her about my chocolate allergy, and let her know I'm still waiting for the oatmeal raisin cookies.

Encore post: This is what advertising is like

A lot of people have asked me what advertising is like. And it's hard to put into words, especially when you're trying to explain it to working professionals who have to dress like adults, keep regular hours and actually show something for their efforts at the end of the day.

I wrote this little gem almost eight years ago as a way to try to explain what working in the ad biz is like. It captures it fairly well.

So keep your hands and arms inside the basket, buckle your seat belt and enjoy the ride.

So many metaphors, so little time.

Not too long ago, 20 people boarded the Windseeker ride at California's other amusement park, Knott's Berry Farm. It takes riders up 300 feet, spins them around, takes their breath away and then lowers them safely back to the ground. All in about three minutes start to finish.

I have a big appreciation for things that take 3 minutes start to finish.

Anyway, that particular day was a little different than every other day because the riders got stuck at the top for over three hours until ride mechanics rescued them.

This is exactly what advertising is like.

At first you're whisked away to dizzying heights, and what with big production budgets, location shoots, vendor lunches, comp subscriptions and days at a time out of the office, the view is spectacular. In fact, you can't see another job you'd want for miles and miles.

You start to think it'll be like that every time, but then one day you get stuck. Fighting for the work. Fighting for the budgets to execute the work you've been fighting for. Fighting the client to get them down to one thought instead of ten in a :30 second spot.

The bad news is no one's coming to rescue you. You have to do that yourself.

It often involves getting off one ride and hopping on another. And another. And another.

It's an odd way to manage a career (pause for laughs for using the word "career"), yet it's just standard operating procedure.

Besides, when it comes to amusement, you can't beat it.

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.

With friends like these

Say what you will about advertising…no, really, say what you will. I’ll wait here. Okay, now that you’ve got it out of your system we’ll begin.

Advertising has lots of currencies depending on what time of day it is. Sometimes the currency is liquor. Occasionally it’s pizza. Once in awhile it’s the camaraderie that can only come from sitting in a dark, cold edit bay for 57 hours straight.

But the most valuable, most consistent currency in the biz is, always has been and always will be relationships.

There’s an old idiom (Who’re you calling an idiom? – BAM!) that tells you to be nice to people on the way up cause you’ll see the same ones on the way down.

Funny story. The other day I ran into someone where I’m working who I worked with at another agency. I haven’t seen this person in about three years, but he recognized me and greeted me like we were long lost war buddies, shaking my hand like it was an Arkansas water pump and asking how I was. He could not have been happier to see me.

I actually felt sorry for him, because - even though I'm not a doctor - I could tell immediately he was suffering from an serious case of amnesia. At that other agency, he was a creative director and I was a freelance copywriter. Many times I had occasion to present work to him, only to have it shot down in what I would consider an unnecessarily arrogant and rude manner.

Clearly, his amnesia has made him forget that when we worked together, he treated me like, oh, what’s the word…oh yes. Shit.

My guess, and I'm going out on a limb here, is that his newfound fondness for me is because he was unceremoniously fired from that other agency, and has been forced to take a sudden deep dive into the freelance pool. Waters which I've been swimming in for a long time.

But, and here's an example of how much I've grown and how mature I can be if I really try, I want to give him the same benefit of the doubt I hope anyone would give me. He may be a different person now than when we worked together. Perhaps he's grown as an individual and creative person. He might be more confident in his talents, and therefore has no reason to treat people the way he treated me in the past.

So I'm going to step up, put my big boy pants on, be the bigger man and let bygones be bygones.

I know you're waiting for the zinger put down at the end here. But not today. Today I'm about forgiveness and generosity to someone who treated me badly in the past.

Which is why I'm not telling him my day rate. It would only upset him.

Bed check

I'm not a scientist. And I'm not particularly well versed in the theory of time and space. But after years working in them, I can definitely tell you that time in advertising agency creative departments is a relative thing.

One of the beauties of it is that it's not as structured as other occupations. Creatives usually roll into the office between 9 and 10, and roll out when their work is done—whenever that happens to be. Or not.

Creatives tend to have a tough time shutting down the production line when it comes to thinking of ideas. And even if we make a concerted effort, the ideas just have a way of breaking through.

At the stroke of midnight. In the shower. On weekends. During holidays. At weddings. In the middle of funerals. Almost anywhere, the wheels are always turning. That's because the wheels don't punch a time clock, and they don't always turn as well with all the distractions of the open floorplan office. Don't get me started.

Apparently management at the last agency I worked at wasn't quite in sync with the creative process and the irregular hours it involves. So they did bed check on our group in the morning and late afternoon. One or two people would casually stroll through the office, acting as inconspicuously as possible with their heads swiveling from side to side and a notepad in their hands. Without regard to whether people were at the client, in a meeting, at lunch, working from home or just in the bathroom, they'd tally up the empty desks and report back to headquarters.

My creative director made a point of bringing it up in one of the creative meetings we'd have every few weeks where all the teams would gather to, you know, catch up and be family. Agencies are very big on being family.

The way these meetings usually went is everyone would gather at a long table in the conference room, then be encouraged to talk about how their day was going. What they were working on. Or vent about anything that was bothering them.

What was bothering most of us were these damn meetings.

The creative director said he was taking a lot of heat about the empty desks the management spies saw during bed check. To which I say if you can't take the heat...

Anyway, he made a point of saying he didn't care if we were there or not, as long as the work got done. (Hear that buzzing sound? That's the needle on the lie detector going into the red).

The upshot of it all was that for about three days after, people dragged themselves in at the expected hours, the ones we were reminded were the regular business hours as listed in the employee handbook. But to no one's surprise, the handbook wasn't a bestseller in the creative department. Within days everyone was back on creative standard time.

I think as long as the work gets done, you're available somehow when people need you, it really doesn't matter where the magic happens. There are any number of technologies that make it easy to be on the job without being at the job. And any number of coffee shops with free wifi.

Plus no one's doing bed check at Starbucks.

Agency opening ceremonies

Next time someone at your agency starts yapping about team players, and trust me, someone always does, tell them to put their uniforms and flags where their mouth is.

In just a few months, the 2020 summer Olympics in Tokyo will be upon us. Because the Olympic committee didn't ask me when they should schedule the games, they happen to start around the same time I'll be in San Diego for this year's Comic Con, so you can let me know how many gold medals we won later.

Sitting here, eating onion rings and a tuna melt—as the best athletes do—and thinking about the upcoming Olympic opening ceremonies, it occurs to me what all those team player loving agency big wigs should do. Every morning, after their warmup stretches and carb-loading, they should lead their various agency delegations into the office in an inspiring, heartwarming, intricately choreographed display of unity called the Parade Of Work™.

Instead of flags, they'd have copies of agency work carried in on poles, blowing aimlessly in the wind—which coincidentally is where you find a lot of it anyway.

People in each department would be broken into teams: instead of luge, cross-country skiing and bobsled, there would be digital. Social. Brand. Retail. CRM. All marching proudly into their open office spaces.

Of course before any of this could happen, the agency would have to devote more than a few non-billable hours to coming up with team uniforms for each division. Not sure exactly what they'd come up with, but I imagine there wouldn't be any shortage of knit caps, torn jeans, off-brand sneakers and my personal favorite, black t-shirts with the agency logo front and center.

The good news is players wouldn't be bothered with oppressive rules like no beards, tattoos, open-toed shoes or friendship bracelets. There wouldn't be anyone left if they were.

And as they get ready to start each day, the team captains would make it a point to remind them about the importance of staying focused, working as a team and good sportsmanship. That and, contrary to what they may believe, it's just advertising.

Not the Hunger Games.

The view from the peer

Round and round it goes, what it'll say nobody knows.

There's a new trend in town, and its name is 360° Performance Review. Here's how it works: everyone walks around the chairs, and when the music stops whoever is standing...no, wait a minute, that's something else.

Ok, I got it now. You're volunteered by an email that shows up to sign up for a performance evaluation app. Then, you're asked to select between three and five of your teammates (post on the term "Team player" coming soon) to request feedback about your performance. The feedback comes in the form of pre-determined questions they receive once your supervisor has approved your choices.

So a few things can happen here.

First, I could give $20 each to the people I choose and say write something nice about me. $50 for something really nice. I could do a quid pro quo—if they write a nice review of me, I'll write a nice one for them. Or everyone can just let the evaluations fall where they may.

It's not exactly crowdsourcing my review, but it seems somewhat adjacent. And I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Time was when your supervisor would call you into an office (when there were offices—don't get me started) and tell you what they thought of the job you were doing. Where you needed to improve. What your strengths were. What they expected of you going forward. Now they get to aggregate the information about my performance from several people who

1) I may have pissed off intentionally or not (probably intentionally knowing me)

2) May or may not have any idea about what it is I actually do day to day

3) Did I mention people I might've pissed off?

Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you I'm always first in line as a cheerleader for forward progress. I fully support indoor plumbing, color television, jet airplanes, rural electrification and the interwebs. Be that as it may, the idea of treating performance reviews—which are highly influential in determining raises, promotions and assignments—as some kind of Kickstarter or Indie Go-Go platform doesn't quite make sense to me.

But then I'm in advertising. Very little of it makes sense to me.

Throwing in the towel

There are a few things you should know about me if you don’t already. First is this: I don’t like what I don’t like, and I like what I like. (Chandler impression): Could it BE any simpler? I’m not complicated. At least not that way.

Next, and I think my current wife and every girlfriend I’ve ever had will back me up on this, I’m a catch. Especially when it comes to household chores like laundry and doing the dishes. You know, the ones everyone tries to avoid. While others are looking for an excuse not to, I charge head-first towards the dryer or the sink, ready to get the job done.

I’m the first responder of household chores.

Finally, in case you haven’t noticed, my personality might be best described as slightly compulsive. Exhibit A: Breaking Bad. Exhibits B, C and D: Springsteen, “my high school girlfriend” jokes, craps tables at the Venetian.

It’s no secret when I find something I like, I tend to go overboard with it. Which brings me to the Stonewall Kitchen dishtowels you see here. I love 'em.

Because one of the things on the long list of things I can’t stand is dishes in the sink—other things include paper straws, toilet paper from Trader Joe’s and whiny creative directors who haven't learned how to put the fun in dysfunctional—I wind up doing the dishes almost every night. And while a lot of that's just rinsing and putting them in our fabulous, whisper-quiet Bosch dishwasher, there’s also a considerable amount of hand-washing ones my wife calls "How many times do I have to say it—that cannot go in the dishwasher." To dry those, I can’t use just any dishtowel.

I need one that’s properly weighted. Thick enough to absorb, but not get water-logged. Not overdesigned with birds or flowers. One that retains its soft-to-the-touch feel before, during and after I'm done.

Stonewall Kitchen is that dishtowel.

I know what you're thinking: "Jeff's going on and on about a stupid dishtowel. He must be trying to get a bunch of them free from Stonewall Kitchen."

Frankly, I'm completely insulted you'd even entertain the idea that I'd stoop so low and be so obvious about doing something like that.

And I'll let you know when they get here.

Firing squad

I've said it before and I'll say it again. If you get fired in advertising, all it means is you showed up one day.

Jobs in the ad biz hinge on a number of factors, and often job performance is the least of them. How you get along with A) the creative director B) the client C) the clients' wife D) creative services or any number of other individuals can affect how long your shelf life is at an agency. Decisions that determine your fate at an agency are almost always entirely out of your hands, and can be made based on campaigns you've sold (or not sold), the shirt you're wearing (or not wearing) that day or the color of your eyes. The tag line for this blog says "We didn't invent random." Ad agencies did.

Like many people who make ads that make America buy, I've been laid off a few times in my career (pausing until giggling fit is over for using the word "career"). And I can tell you from experience, it takes a village. It's not as straightforward as it once was. No one says, "You're fired! Collect your things and get out!"

Well, they say the second part, but now they say it in accordance with state labor laws.

Here's an example. I'm not going to name the agency I was working for, Y&R, but I was let go after almost three years there. I'd originally been brought in as a freelancer, but the creative director and I hit it off and he decided he wanted me to stick around. So he offered me more work and less money, and I said, "Where do I sign?"

Fast forward a few years later. I'm in a meeting in Versailles, which was the agency's big conference room. For some reason, ad agencies love to name their conference rooms after cities. Or cars. Or explorers. Or movie characters. We take our creativity where we can find it. I worked at this one shop that just had numbers for their conference rooms. It was a nice change of pace.

Where was I? Oh yeah.

As I'm in this meeting, my creative director pokes his head in the door and says, "Hey Jeff, can I talk to you for a minute?" This is how it always begins.

I walk out of the room with him, and while we're walking he's making uncomfortable small talk about the meeting he pulled me out of. I notice we're going upstairs towards HR. When I ask what's up, he says to the office of the head of HR.

Alright, so I know what's coming, and I said, "Are you kidding me?" To which he said, "It's out of my hands. There was nothing I could do." To which I said, "Really? I thought you were the boss. How about you let me speak to the person in charge?"

I was pissed.

In the office, he sat uncomfortably to the side, not making eye contact - as they always do - while the head of HR told me I was being let go, gave me an end date, paperwork, blah blah blah. I learned shortly thereafter I was one of five people let go that day. I'm sure it was out of their boss' hands as well.

I came back the next day and spoke to both of them about getting more severance. My boss said nothing, and the head of HR said no. But this story does have a happy ending.

Some time later, that head of HR got let go - ironic ain't it? I was talking to a mutual friend, and come to find out the former head of HR had wanted her to ask me if I'd write some copy for a website she was setting up for her post-agency life.

I'm nothing if not a giver, so after a nanosecond of thought, I told my friend I'd like her to relay my two-word answer to the former HR head verbatim.

Since this is a family blog, I won't repeat them here. But they were exactly the two words you think they were.

You break it you own it. Again.

Earlier in the evening, when I was much more awake, I was in the mood to write a new blogpost tonight. But that was then and this is now. Nonetheless I didn't want you to go to sleep without a little reading material, so I'm revisiting this little number from a couple years ago. It holds up pretty well. See if you agree.

Now that we're in the hopefully soon-to-be-ending era of the shithole president, it seems every media outlet—or fake news organization as he likes to slander them—is lousy with Breaking News stories almost every minute of every day.

Not that some of them aren't legit, what with the liar-in-chief committing several impeachable crimes and saying (or tweeting) monumentally stupid, ignorant, racist, misogynist, homophobic, climate change denying, lies, uninformed and just plain wrong things minute-by-minute on a daily basis.

But in reality, a lot of the Breaking News is just an attention getting graphic to induce us to stay tuned for not necessarily new information on ongoing stories, reports and rumors that haven't been confirmed or profiles that aren't so much breaking as being updated.

All of which got me thinking (eventually something had to) about what would actually constitute Breaking News in advertising agencies.

Client only wants to see one idea.

Breaking with tradition, a major automotive client today asked the agency to only present one idea for the global branding campaign. "We don't know what you guys are doing all day, but we have work to do. No one has time to sit through three hours of storyboards and ripomatics on ideas your creative director 'Just couldn't let go.' Show us the one and get on with it."

ManifestNO

For a recent new business pitch, none of the agency copywriters were asked to work on a manifesto. Not by the creative director. Not by the account director. Not by the general manager, although he may have tried. Cell reception is bad from the golf course.

Instead of a lofty, cleverly worded, Jeff Bridges, Alec Baldwin or Peter Coyote sound-a-like voiced statement about what the product is, means and how it impacts the world and all who come in contact with it, the unexpected decision was made to just roll the dice and show up with good work.

No insights

In what witnesses called a startling admission and an unintentional moment of truth, the agency revealed it has absolutely no insights. None. Gerard Pennysworth, Vice President of Knit Caps, Ironic T-Shirts and Global Strategic Planning was quoted as saying, "Your guess is as good as mine. I don't know why the hell anyone does what they do."

Agency gives team enough time

Used to only having 15-minute coffee breaks to create global branding campaigns, yesterday a creative team was told they'd have three weeks to come up with a single television spot. When told they were in fact not the subjects of a cruel joke, the team went into shock and required immediate medical attention.

Buzzwords not allowed

Several account people were let go today for violating the recently instituted "no buzzwords or phrases" rule. When asked if perhaps the punishment was a bit too severe, Director of Human Services and People Management Kathleen Laytoff replied, "It's always difficult to let people go, but net-net at the end of the day, they just 'laddered up' once too often."

See you next year

As we wrap up another spin around the sun, I can't help but feel uncharacteristically optimistic about what the next decade has in store for us all.

First and foremost, I believe a return to sanity is coming in November, when the unstable genius is voted out of office (according to the actual count he wasn't voted in - don't get me started), and forced to wear even more orange as he's perp walked out of the White House to a solitary jail cell in upstate New York with neither a gold toilet or internet connection.

Before that happens, I'm hoping as the new decade begins Nancy Pelosi will hold the articles of impeachment from the senate until the traitor-in-chief gives his Hate Of The Union speech. But only because I think a meltdown of that magnitude on national television would be once in a lifetime, very entertaining, and probably something even the red caps and mint julep senator from South Carolina couldn't ignore.

On a more personal note, I'm grateful for many things that happened this past year, not the least of which are the friends I made at my last gig (you know who you are). I anticipate many of those relationships getting even closer now that they can flourish in much saner, more fun and healthier environments. Not that advertising agencies aren't healthy environments (pausing to make my eyes stop rolling).

Also grateful I don't have to see certain people every day anymore. Well, mainly that one guy.

I'm also planning on bringing some projects I've kept on the back burner to a full boil this year. A screenplay based on my favorite book. Another based on a sci-fi story from a famous author that I'm this close to getting the rights to. And a script for a show with one of my aforementioned friends, who is a far better, funnier and talented writer than I am (you know who you are). Oh are those your coattails? Yeah, I can hang on.

Crap, I just put it in writing. Does that mean I have to do it? I mean, no one's under oath here.

Anyway, if there's ever been a year where you could say, "There's nowhere to go but up" this is it. Here's wishing you and yours best year ever. I hope it's everything you want it to be.

Except that one guy.

Gone Dogs

It's taken me years, but I've finally written something I believe people will actually want to read and enjoy (and I think we both know it's not this blog).

Not that you don't already love my spellbinding prose about twin-turbo engines in Korean sports sedans. Or my memorable musings about the unparalleled amenities, Nappa leather and 22-way adjustable driver's seat in the top-of-the-line, flagship of the fleet. And I have no doubt you're waiting with bated breath—and who would blame you—for the next installment of a little gem I like to call Exceptional Lease Offers.

I'm just messin' with ya. I don't read 'em either.

What I'm talking about here is the story I've written about the world's greatest German Shepherd—the late, great Max—in the newly released, beautifully produced coffee-table book Gone Dogs.

A project by dog lovers extraordinaire Jim Mitchem and Laurie Smithwick, Gone Dogs is a heart-warming, heart-breaking and ultimately life-affirming collection of stories about the power of love through our relationships with dogs who are no longer with us.

A call went out to parents of all kinds of pups to submit stories of their dearly departed canines, and I was lucky enough to have the one I wrote about Max selected for the inaugural volume.

Since I am in advertising—I'm not proud—I'm going to be shameless about it and just ask for the order. What you need to do right now is go to Amazon and buy several copies for your dog-lovin' friends. And their dog-lovin' friends. In fact, I know it's only August, but why not beat the Christmas rush and stock up on a few copies for the holidays.

I also want to say that I can't thank Jim and Laurie enough for including my story. It means the world to me knowing people will get to see what a magnificent dog Max was, and how much I loved him.

Here's what I'm saying: order yourself a copy today. And when it comes, just sit, stay and enjoy every one of these beautiful, heartfelt stories.

Starting with mine.

Company policy

The two pictures on this post are from actual advertising agency websites. The first describes who doesn't work there. The second describes who they don't want working there.

It’s a philosophical question really. Exactly how many assholes have to be working in an industry before companies are forced to advertise the fact they’re not welcome as employees?

Hospital websites don’t have to tell you they don’t want jerks working there. Neither do insurance company sites. Home appraiser websites. Restaurant websites. Virtually every industry and business assumes you take it for granted they don't want to hire insufferable, egomaniacal, argumentative, contrary jerks and assholes.

Except one. Advertising. Why do you suppose that is? Think for a second….got it? Okay, don’t make me say it.

Alright, I’ll say it. It’s because there are a lot of jerks and assholes working in advertising. (There are also a lot of immensely talented, brilliant, creative, kind, giving people too, but that's not who we're talking about in this post)

Despite all their efforts to keep them out—including garlic, crosses, a no MAGA hat policy and regular pest control service—jerks and assholes somehow seem to find their way into agencies.

I have a suspicion you, dear reader, might believe that somehow I'm directing my ire towards one department in particular.

Not at all.

The fact of the matter is that agency jerks and assholes are equal opportunity players and are department agnostic: they show up everywhere.

All you can do is recognize them for what they are, call them out on it as often as possible, then ignore them and just keep moving forward.

They don’t ever make it easy, and they have this inexplicable, frustrating and unfair talent for failing up. But if experience with these unpleasant individuals has taught me anything, it's that the best course of action in dealing with them is to stay professional no matter what, and not sink to their level.

Because you know who else doesn’t like jerks and assholes? Karma.

I read the whole thing

I can't believe I was there for the whole thing. Well, not the whole thing. But a lot of it.

Let me back it up a bit. It's not often I'll start a book and read it cover to cover in one sitting. But I had a feeling that was going to happen with I Can't Believe I Lived The Whole Thing by my mentor, and the man who gave me my copywriting career, Howie Cohen.

As I've written before, you can blame it on him.

There are two reasons I got through the book faster than Brett Kavanaugh driving to a liquor store near closing time. First, if I can be honest, I wanted to see if my name was in it. Spoiler alert: it's not. Apparently I haven't had the impact on Howie's life that he's had on mine.

Whatever. We move on.

The other is I couldn't put it down.

As reads go, this is a great one. The true story of an advertising legend and Hall Of Famer—did I mention he gave me my start—Howie brings the mad men days of the business in New York to life in vivid, humorous and detailed fashion.

I didn't meet Howie until he moved to L.A. and I worked with him at Wells Rich Greene. I was witness to a lot of the stories he tells in the book. And the ones I wasn't I heard the first time straight from him. Like Mary Wells bringing him and partner Bob Pasqualina into her office, and in front of clients threatening to hang them out to dry for something impolitic they said in a New York Times interview. And I still use the line, "Please excuse the leather smell." when people get in my car.

It'll make sense when you read it.

Here's the thing: I've known Howie for two thirds of my life. His influence on my path cannot be overstated. I know a lot of people have worked with him, and they all like to claim him as their own. It's understandable, I do it too. But only because I'm entitled to because I knew him first.

His book captures the craziness, creativity, relationships, frustrations and rewards of the ad biz in a way only someone who has lived it at the top can. Whether you're in the business or not, it's a great story that'll have you laughing out loud and shaking your head there was actually a time like that.

Personally, I got to relive some of the best times of my professional life (stopping to laugh for using the word professional). As I was reading, I remembered stories Howie told me I hoped would be in the book, and they are. Moments I was there for—like another legend, Mary Wells, addressing the staff after the loss of the Jack In The Box account. And there are the personal battles Howie's fought and won that I never knew about. He reveals them with a disarming rawness and honesty.

Even though my name's not in the book, there are lots of other names that I know and have worked with. And while Howie and I have differing opinions on some of them, it's fun to read his take.

Howie's always had greatness about him, and he's as true to who he is as anyone I've ever known.

You can see it on every page.

The creative review

Here's what doesn't happen in the insurance business. A group of senior management people don't get together in a room with the underwriters every time they write a policy to evaluate how well they've done it.

"I don't know, it just seems to me you could've referenced a more recent actuarial table." "With regards to the deductible, does that line up with the property value in terms of reimbursement?" It doesn't happen in insurance, or most industries. Oh sure, someone takes a quick look before it goes out, but it doesn't have to go through committee.

Because, as any third-grader could tell you, that would be bullshit and a monumental waste of time and resources.

But in advertising, you can't underestimate people's need to be part of the process. And because creative work is the product, it's the one dance everyone likes being invited to.

If you're not familiar with creative reviews, it's where anywhere from one person to several people working on the account, near the account, in the same hallway as the account or in the building next door to the account get together and "review" the work to make sure it's on strategy, saying and doing what it's supposed to. At least that's the theory.

Now a few different things can happen in creative reviews. The work can just go through swimmingly, earning nodding heads, praise, kudos and unanimous agreement from everyone. This rarely happens.

Another way it could go is the creative director will see something strategically off point and, so as not to embarrass the creative team, gently offer up meaningful, constructive suggestions how to course correct to make the work more relevant and effective. This too is a rare occurrence.

Usually, especially if deadlines are tight (they always are) or clients are demanding (they always are), or the creative director has had their own work shot down by the client more times than Glenn Close's dreams of winning an Oscar, it's a complete and total shit show.

There are certain creative directors—although God knows, and let me make this as clear as I can, none that I work with—who just love to hear themselves talk. They laugh heartily at their own jokes, and are constantly taking trips down memory lane reliving their glory days which may or may not have ever actually happened. You can almost set a clock to it—that's right about the time they not so much critique your work as explain exactly how they'd do it. Then they ask you to take another shot at it.

Which, as anyone who's been on the receiving end of that comment will tell you is code for go back to your office—or assigned open office seating space—and do up what they just told you.

Here's the thing: I'm not Hemingway (if you follow this blog even a little you already know that). And while I'm also not a junior reporting for his first day of work, I get the process. Someone with a bigger title and pay grade has to look at the work to make sure it's hitting the marks it's supposed to. But when it's, oh, just for argument's sake let's say an overrated, egotistical, abusive, job-jumping, work-stealing, credit-grabbing, kickback-taking alcoholic who's shut down every agency they've ever worked at and wouldn't know a good idea if they fu..er...tripped over it (family blog)—again, not that I work with anyone like that—then it becomes somewhat frustrating.

On the other hand, it does make for good blog material.

Sounds familiar

Almost six years ago, I wrote the post you see here. I know what you're thinking: "He's been pumping out this crap for six years?!"

One man's crap is another man's shinola, or something like that.

The point is I don't like to recycle my posts, but six years later this one is still as relevant as ever.

How do I know? Because in my day job writing about a luxury automotive brand, I find myself using the same exact words I speak about in the post. I'm not proud.

I guess what I'm saying is even though this is a pre-owned article, it's been through a 140-word inspection and reads just like new. Take it out for a test read, and experience it for yourself.

Like a lot of writers living in Southern California, I’ve worked on many car accounts. From top end $90,000 luxury vehicles to $14,000 coffee-grinders, I’ve written it all.

Commercials, collateral, radio spots, print ads, online banners, interactive content, Twitter posts, Facebook posts, outdoor, customer kits, dealer kits, CPO kits, sale kits, employee bonus kits, warranty kits.

Oddly enough, no matter the price or quality of the car, they all have something in common. The words used to describe them.

Pick a car, any car. I bet it’s exhilarating. It’s probably also a leader in innovation. No doubt it’s been engineered to maximize your driving experience, and designed to turn heads as well as corners.

Let’s not forget the fact it’s also loaded with state-of-the-art technology, as well as class-leading aerodynamics whose job it is to keep you connected to the road. How else could you get a car that makes setting the standard, standard.

But there's no point to any of it unless you're around to enjoy it. That's why the car you're thinking about is loaded with the latest active and passive safety features.

The cars come with airbags. The agencies come with windbags.

Differentiating parity products - different brands with the exact same features - has always been a problem in advertising. Often the only thing that does it is the quality of the creative idea, the consistency of the execution and the personality it establishes for the brand.

I bet you know what BMW builds. But I'm fairly sure you aren't nearly as familiar with the tagline Toyota - which builds awesome cars for all income levels - just spent millions to introduce.

Unless there's a real product difference, almost every category from athletic shoes to cars to fast food use the same words to describe their product. Which makes it even harder to tell them apart.

Sort of like ad agencies.