Happy landings

At the recent D23 expo, a convention for all things Disney, chairman, CEO and personal friend of Rich Siegel Bob Iger announced the Magic Kingdom was going to get even more magical thanks to a property their Imagineers had nothing to do with. And their accountants had everything to do with.

To the delight of thousands of squealing fanboys, Iger said plans are underway to build a Star Wars land at Disneyland. I think it's safe to say the force and the lines will be strong with this one.

So it got me to thinking (in case you were wondering what it would take), what if advertising agencies were divvied up into lands of their own. They're already divided into departments: Creative, Account, Media, Strategy and Pizza After 7.

But I think we could segment the shops even more. Specifically:

Clientland

This is a magical land where nothing is as it seems. Yes means no. Start means stop. Good means bad. In Clientland, the rides start but for some reason stop half-way through. And on the ones that do finish, the journey isn't quite as much fun as you expected it to be. Still, at least you got to ride. There are people waiting in line who'll never get on.

Researchland

If words like intuition, gut feeling and common sense send a cold shiver down your spine - and the word spine does as well - you'll feel right at home in Researchland. Those people walking around in the black robes? They're call Extractors, and their job is to remove all the funny lines you liked because a mother of two who had some time to kill and needed a free meal didn't think it was funny. Researchland has lots of dark, twisting tunnels that look like they lead somewhere, but actually don't. Problem is you don't find that out until you've been through them. There are also lots of funhouse mirrors, where you can see people who come in but they can't see you. All they can do is kill your idea before they finish the ride. Sometimes you can actually pass through Researchland and no one will tell you. But if you see your spot and don't even recognize it, you've been there.

Meetingland

In Meetingland, the ride feels like it's never going end. The cars are designed like little conference tables, and oddly enough the decorative plastic bagels in the center that you use to steer taste just as good as real meeting bagels. Everyone in your car talks at the same time. And no matter how long you ride, the one thing you can count on is you'll end up exactly where you started.

Weekendland

The least happy attraction in the park is Weekendland. People are grouchy and wishing they were somewhere else. All the concession stands serve is crappy pizza. And when you're inside the rides, all you can think about is how good the weather is outside. In Weekendland, there are warning signs on all the rides: This ride may cause depression, time lost with your spouse and your children, and excessive bad attitudes.

Of course, just like the Magic Kingdom, you'd be able to buy an annual pass to all of these agency lands that's good all year round.

But after your first visit, you'll wish they were all blackout days.

Calling in well

Anyone can call in sick. When you’re fighting muscle aches, nausea, diarrhea and a 101-degree fever it’s a no brainer.

Of course, we’ve all been around those people who drag their sorry selves in no matter what, looking like they just finished auditioning for Contagion II. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps an overdeveloped sense of importance, a crippling fear of being fired if they miss a day, or just to get even with everyone they work with who don’t give them the recognition they deserve, they feel it’s their civic duty to keep working until they drop.

But if you ask anyone who’s ever worked with me, after they stop denying it, they’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that’s never been my problem.

Sniffles? Home for three days. That’s the spirit.

I used to work with this guy at an agency who would occasionally call in well to work. He’d wake up in the morning feeling great, optimistic, ready to take on the world. On those days, he’d call the agency, get someone on the line and say, “I won’t be in today. I feel too damn good to come to work.”

I’m all in favor of the concept.

Some shops give you a couple mental days or personal days off a year. I suppose they think you should use those if you’re going to call in well. I think it’s a matter of expanding the definition of sick. As in, it would make me sick to go into work feeling this good.

Which brings me to another point (assuming I had one in the first place): maybe it’s time to reconsider the name “sick days.” If people are going to start calling in well – as they should – the days allotted should reflect that policy.

Maybe a combination of sick and well, a term that would define and describe the days for exactly what they are. Let’s call them Swell Days™.

Although technically, that could be any day you’re not in the office.

No joke

If you haven't seen the trailer for next years' Suicide Squad, have a gander at it here.

Besides looking awesome, and making people forget Will Smith starred in After Earth, the trailer reveals the next incarnation of the Joker, frighteningly played by Jared Leto.

I was never a Leto fan, and in fact he wasn't even on my radar until I saw his brilliant performance in Dallas Buyers Club (btw,I was among the first to call Oscars for McConaughey and Leto).

I was also a purist, of the belief no one could ever come close to Heath Ledger's embodiment of the Joker in The Dark Knight. At least right up until I heard Leto had been cast. The casting director deserves an Oscar for this one.

The look of joy and glee on Leto's face as he delivers his memorable, quotable and infinitely creepy line in the trailer gives me chills every time I watch it.

The line is "I'm not gonna kill you. I'm just gonna hurt you really, really bad."

Which, if you work in an agency, may have a slightly familiar ring to it.

Gimme shelter, or not

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

Marathon man

There are plenty of reasons to look forward to holiday weekends. No work, that's a good one. Another is no work. Then of course there's also no work, which makes them extra pleasant.

One other reason, equally as good, is the annual Twilight Zone marathons.

Usually on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends, somewhere on the six-hundred cable channels Charter overcharges me for, Rod Serling is telling me there's a place between light and shadow called the Twilight Zone. And he does it for forty-eight hours.

It's a given that at least two weekends a year I'll get to see William Shatner freaking out about a gremlin on the wing of his plane. Or about a fortune-telling machine with a devil's head on it in the booth at the diner.

I'll watch Burgess Meredith break his glasses, just as he has all the time he wants to read. I'll also get to see him square off against Fritz Weaver, explaining why he's not obsolete.

John Carradine will tell H.M. Wynant not to remove the small staff locking the door of the howling man, because he's really the devil. SPOILER ALERT: He doesn't listen and has to pay the price for it.

Captain Lutze will visit Dachau, and the ghosts of a million Jews will haunt him and eventually drive him insane.

And of course Ann Francis, as Marsha White, will go to the nonexistent ninth floor of the department store looking for a gold thimble, where she'll run into some familiar looking mannequins.

Under the guise of brilliant storytelling (Note to agencies: this is what real storytelling looks like), the Twilight Zone tackled real issues like racial prejudice, equal rights, crime and where an insatiable greed in all its forms inevitably gets you.

It's a testimony to Rod Serling's talent and imagination that decades after their original airing, the themes, stories and conclusions drawn on the Twilight Zone continue to be relevant.

Which I suppose makes it a sad commentary on us.

Brace for no impact

My good friend, former office wife and best-selling author Janice MacLeod had a way of putting what we do (what she used to do) in perspective, summing it up in six precise, well-chosen words.

We’re creating a legacy of garbage.

Besides agency holding companies, the digital team and the person who schedules the meetings, I don’t know of anyone who can’t wait for more advertising to burn their eyes. They say the average person is exposed to roughly anywhere between 500 and 7,000 advertising messages a day.

Whichever number is right, it’s too damn much.

No wonder advertising doesn’t have the impact it once did. If it ever really did. Sure there are quantitative and qualitative studies showing the effectiveness of any given message in any medium. Except digital. No one buys anything because of digital, no matter what the guy in the knit cap and ironic t-shirt says.

They can test the results as much as they want, but as an old friend used to say to me, "The only thing testing proves is that testing works."

There’s a lot of job justification that goes on in advertising. It’s the reason Powerpoint was invented. But every time I sit through a presentation where someone is telling me how effective the advertising has been, I’m reminded of William Goldman’s great line about Hollywood: No one knows anything.

Advertised cold bottled water during the heat wave and sales went up? Who could’ve seen that coming?

There are $6000 rebates on cars during December, and year end car sales set records? Must’ve been that exceptional retail car spot, you know, the one with the running footage and giant supers.

I could go into what I think of brand loyalty, but Bob Hoffman over at The Ad Contrarian said it perfectly. I suppose there’s an argument to be made that consumers wouldn’t know about these deals if advertising didn’t tell them. Fair enough, but like so much of retail advertising, the ads are just the messenger. The deal is the closer.

There are only a handful of ads with enough inherent greatness and lasting impact to make you want to talk about them reverentially. The go-to example is the Apple 1984 spot directed by Ridley Scott.

Seeing it thirty years later, it still stands up and stands out as one of the greatest commercials of all time. You can never underestimate the power of a great looking blonde with a sledgehammer.

If I was looking for a profession where I could create something lasting people loved, talked about and made them feel glad every time they saw or thought of it, I might not have chosen this one.

On the other hand, Michelangelo never got to stay in a penthouse at the Essex House for a shoot on the company dime. So I suppose it all evens out.

What am I getting into?

My final repost of the week, then it's back to all new articles I'm not sure you'll want to read the first time. Anyway, this classic from November 16, 2010 asks the question we should all be asking before we start anything.

Who among us hasn't asked themselves that ominous question? I for one have asked it any number of times in my life.

On my wedding day.

Signing escrow papers.

Buying a German sports car.

Buying a German Sheperd.

Having children (still asking).

I think the fact that I'm a freelancer just puts me in more situations where it becomes a reasonable question to ask.

For example, I find myself asking it right after I get the phone call or email inquiring about my availability. Again when I hear their reaction to my day rate. Yet again after I cave and let them negotiate my day rate down - usually in tandem with, "What the f&#% was I thinking?"

Regardless of the account, even if it's something I want to work on, when I hear what it is the question comes up again.

It's always top of mind when I hear who they want me to work with, whether I've worked with that person before or not.

And if the office is a hellish, brain-deadening, soul-killing commute to a foreign and frightening land, for example Orange County, I ask myself the question on the crawl in.

Then, just before I enter the brick building, designer warehouse, high-rise tower, faux-hip loft, converted fire station, hotel or craftsman house where the offices are located, I pause for a tentative moment outside, look at the doorway I'm about to go through, and ask it again.

But here's the thing: the question itself is a cruel tease. Because it can't be answered until you're actually there.

Of course by no means does that imply everyone won't try to answer it for you. But it's really one of those questions, like, "How much of this can I take?" "Is it worth the pain?" and "Is Super Shuttle hiring?", that only you can answer for yourself.

If I'm being honest with myself, and if you know anything about me you know that's something I hate doing, I have to say the answer I almost always arrive at is "something great".

I wonder if you asked yourself the question before you started reading this post.

It's okay. I don't need to know the answer.

Well shut my mouth

Tonight's repost from April 6, 2012 is a tale that's hush-hush, on the Q.T. and very confidential.

It's not brain surgery or rocket science, but some ad agencies would have you think it is.

I recently had to sign an NDA (a Non-Disclosure Agreement, sometimes called a confidentiality agreement) before this one firm would hire me for a freelance gig. It's become common practice the last few years. But here's my question: what exactly are they protecting?

If you work on a fast food account, you get asked to work on other fast food accounts. Same for cars. Same for airlines. Same for most categories. Like any profession (stops and laughs hysterically for using the word "profession"....okay, regaining composure...), leveraging your experience is what keeps you employed.

No one goes from one job to the next yakking about everything they did, saw, wrote and learned at the last one. You just assimilate it all into your own personal database.

Just like the borg, except without all that nasty face metal.

Agencies like to flatter themselves that what they do is so proprietary, their processes so innovative, that spilling the beans will cause them "irreparable damage and financial loss and hardship."

Here's the reality check: there are no beans to spill.

Every agency has a catchy name for their process. You say tomato, I say tom-ah-to. They're all doing the same things to win, keep and grow business. And the idea that your car client doesn't know what the other guys car client is up to is a sweet notion from a bygone era.

A copywriter friend of mine was fired from an agency because he had the unmitigated gall to post an ad he'd done on his website, along with all the other ads he's done. It's a common practice. But his agency blew a fuse, saying he was not only violating his confidentiality agreement but was trying to steal the business. Neither of which was true. To my way of thinking there are felonies and misdemeanors: if they were upset he didn't ask first, they should've reminded him to next time and moved on.

Here's the thing large agencies have in common with small ones: the level of paranoia, based on nothing, is genuinely frightening.

Does an account get stolen from time to time? Of course. Do employees get poached from one agency to another? Sure. But if either were genuinely happy where they were in the first place, it would be a lot harder to do.

The other thing about these agreements is there's usually a time period attached to them. Agencies don't want you to write on an account in the same category for 1, 2 or 3 years without getting signed permission from them.

Good luck with that.

In case you don't know, this is how I make my living. I can be writing on Taco Bell one day, and Del Taco the next. Or Land Rover and Chevy Tahoe. Southwest or Jet Blue. That's the nature of freelance.

Fortunately I know how to use the strikethough option before I sign one of these contracts.

Don't misunderstand what I'm saying. I believe your word and honor are all you have, and if you sign a contract you should abide by it.

But some contracts, like the one on the back of your ticket in the parking lot, just aren't worth the paper they're printed on.

I'd tell you which ones, but I'm not at liberty to say.

Ready? Set? Wait.

Here are two things you need to know about Rich Siegel, proprietor and managing editor of Round Seventeen: First, he'll be very happy I started this post with a link to his blog. Second, he's away camping - as Jews do - and reposting pieces he's written while he's away. So yesterday, I took a page from his blog and did the same thing. It went pretty well. So even though I'm not away camping (my idea of camping is a hotel without cable), or out of town, in solidarity with my vacationing friend and colleague I'm going to take the week and revisit the classics. And by classics, I mean posts you may have missed, forgotten or wish you'd forgotten. The more cynical of you might think it's an easy way out of having to come up with a bunch of new posts this week. Shhhhhh! Have a gander at this one, originally posted April 4, 2011.

My friend Janice, a swell writer with a blog of her own, used to have this sign in her office. I think she hoped it would work as a deterrent.

But she knew better. After all, she worked in an advertising agency.

Hurry up and wait is standard operating procedure at virtually every agency I’ve ever worked at. It usually falls somewhere between their mantra and their mission statement.

The philosophy manifests itself in several forms, and when it strikes it can happen quicker than Charlie Sheen going from $2 mil a week to zero.

The way it usually begins is they - you know, “they” - hastily assemble a team of whoever happens to be unlucky enough to be in the building.

Everyone is quickly gathered in a conference room that hasn’t been cleaned since the Eisenhower administration, and wreaks with the sweet perfume of cold cuts and bagels.

Serious as a heart attack, they brief everyone with the few threadbare morsels of information they got from a casual conversation with the client. Then they send everyone scrambling to do work that has to be presented in two days.

Two days! 48 hours!

“We’re pulling out all the stops on this one people!”

"This is our chance to make a real impact!"

"We won't have this chance again so it has to count!"

So, everyone puts on their thinking caps and scrambles.

And even though we cry like babies and complain like Rosie O'Donnell when the buffet is closed, we’re all professionals. After a round-the-clock coffee, pizza and cynicism fueled night, we deliver everything that’s been asked for: tv spots, web site, emails, print, radio scripts. The whole shootin’ match.

We present our work to extremely non-committal reactions, then wait to hear.

And wait.

And wait.

Oh, the meeting got pushed back? So you didn’t need it in two days? Uh huh.

Ah, and the client’s not sure he really has the budget to do the program? Huh. Might’ve been a good question to ask up front.

So you want us to wait, and you’ll get back to us on next steps.

Okay. We'll wait here.

What’s that you say? Maybe we can think about it some more until you decide what comes next.

Yeah. We'll get right on it.

Like a version

If there's one thing ad agencies are it's repetitive. Let me say that again - see what I did there? Especially when it comes to revising the work.

As anyone who works in the creative department of an agency knows, sometimes a project will come around an absurd amount of times. My friend Rich Siegel named his blog Round Seventeen as an homage to the number of times he's had to revise copy.

I'll see your Round Seventeen, and raise you the revision number I had on a piece of car copy yesterday. The number was 68. Now, if you're reading this post as a civilian, I suppose you're thinking with all those versions the copy must change dramatically from one to the next.

Not so much.

Revisions come from all sorts of places. Proofreaders. Account people. Low level clients. Mid-level clients. The big cheese client. Legal. The product guy. The client's wife. The cleaning crew on the third floor. It goes on and on. It's usually a word or two they obsess over ("Is this too light? Too flip? Too...you know...). More often than not, it just a change for change sake so they can feel like they were part of the process, and get their name on the credits when they fill out the award-show entry forms.

I hear the Client's Wife category is going to sweep the shows this year.

There's an old adage, one I subscribe to, that says the secret to great writing is rewriting. It's a nice thought, but working in an agency will knock that sentiment into the next zip code mighty quick.

Anyway, old Albert had it right. And I'll be he got it on the first try.

Technically, no

Agencies like to put copywriters in silos. There are the car writers. Fast food writers. Pharma writers. Fashion writers. Packaged-goods writers.

Then there are tech writers, which as you might imagine are a hot commodity these days what with agencies and clients drinking the digital Kool-Aid in big, sloppy gulps.

The good news no two definitions of a tech writer are the same.

Every single time in my career (sorry, taking a time out to laugh hysterically for using the word career) when I’ve been asked if I’m a tech writer I’ve always said no. Then when they ask the inevitable follow up question, which makes zero sense given my answer to the first question – can you write tech? – I always say yes.

And I’ve always gotten the gig.

Here’s my approach to tech: someone else will fill in the blanks. I do what I always do - write consumer facing copy that’ll be conversational and fun to read, and explains the technology of whatever it is I’m writing about in an everyman kind of way.

Kind of like the Apple website, except with better headlines (there goes that gig).

Then, when it comes to the actual tech part, the hardcore specs and stats, I let someone else fill in the blanks. I know they can do it better. They know they can do it better. The American people know they can do it better.

I’ve worked on Pioneer Electronics and Western Digital. Sony VAIO and Motorola. Verizon Wireless and Sharp Electronics. I’ve written web content for a zillion clients. The list goes on and on. And judging by how many digital agencies are popping up like weeds, and how many new tech companies are appearing daily, the list is no doubt going to get even longer.

Which means technically there should be plenty to keep me busy.

The take rate

Stunning picture of the earthrise as seen from the surface of the moon. I thought I'd go with this picture because when I googled the subject I'm actually going to write about, the pictures were, shall we say, less than savory.

So just gaze at the picture and enjoy while I talk about my perforated septum. As I've mentioned before here, I basically have a hole in my nose between airways that needs to get repaired.

When dealing with medical issues of any kind, especially those involving a potential surgery - major or minor - I always make it a point to find "the guy." In this case, "the guy" is the Chief of Surgery at the world-renown, major metropolitan hospital where I live. He's responsible for all the surgeries in all the specialties. And, come to find out, his specialty is Ear Nose and Throat. He was also Chief of Surgery for that particular department for six years.

Let's say confidence is high he can get the job done,

I met with him last Friday, and we discussed how he might go about performing the surgery. One way, and the way I prefer by far, is closed surgery where he just works through the nasal passages with really small instruments and precision to repair the perforation. The other far less preferable way is open surgery, where he makes a small incision in the center of my nose, then pulls it back revealing the septum more fully. It gives him a better view, and more room to move. And it only leaves a small incision when he's done that eventually heals to be unnoticeable.

See why I went with the picture of the earthrise?

Basically he has to graft a material over the hole in my septum. As we spoke about it, he told me he was going to talk to reps about which materials had the best take rate, that is the percentage of times the material is successfully grafted and holds. There's always the chance it won't take, which would just put me back where I started.

Afterwards, I started thinking about different take rates in advertising. Like the take rate of creative directors who don't want to get their fingerprints all over every idea presented to them (low). The take rate of clients buying the work unchanged (low). The take rate of planners not giving some asinine insight they think is brilliant, like "the consumer wants a better experience to engage with and advocate for."

Yeah. That's just what they want (lower than low).

I was also thinking about the take rate for people remembering this post after they read it. My take was I probably shouldn't think about that.

Good grief

This is what I get for trying to do the right thing.

I have a Peanuts cartoon I've had since I was a kid. Somehow, even way back then, I must've been peeking through a keyhole to the future and known I was going to wind up in advertising, because the cartoon is the perfect metaphor for the business.

I wanted to use it in this post, but I figured since it was Peanuts, instead of just barging forward and possibly infringing the copyright of a multi-billion dollar, global cartoon conglomerate, not to mention pissing off Snoopy, I should probably get their permission.

Can you guess how this story ends?

I went on the interwebs and found who I needed to contact to get the rights to post the cartoon. Here's the email I sent them:

To Whom It May Concern:

I write a blog called Rotation and Balance (rotationandbalance.blogspot.com). It covers a wide range of topics, but, since I'm a creative director and copywriter, quite often deals with the advertising industry.

I've saved the attached cartoon for many years from one of my childhood Peanuts books. I'd like to post it on my blog under the title This Is What Advertising Is Like.

The blog is not monetized, and I do not make anything from it. I post links to it on my Facebook page which is only read by friends, and my Twitter feed which isn’t read by nearly as many people as I’d like.

Anyway, I wanted to know if I could have your permission – attributed of course – to use the attached cartoon for the blog. Please let me know.

Thank you so much for the consideration.

Friendly, right? I asked nicely. I was respectful, I let them know I'd been a fan since childhood and that the Peanuts books were treasured items in my house. I said please and thank you. But after reading their reply, I feel like someone pulled the football away just as I was going to kick it. Here it is:

Dear Jeff,

Thank you for your email.

Unfortunately, due to legal restrictions, we cannot grant permission for your request below. We’re sorry to disappoint.

We greatly appreciate your interest in PEANUTS and wish you the best.

Regards,

The Peanuts Team

The first thing I noticed about their response was it's a form letter. And if you've been following along recently, you know how I feel about form letters.

Anyway, I can't show you the cartoon, but I can describe it to you. So here goes.

In the first frame, Charlie Brown is with Lucy and he's getting ready to fly his kite. Lucy says, "I appreciate your letting me help you Charlie Brown...I like to feel needed." In the next frame she says, "I bet this kite will fly clear up to the clouds." Charlie Brown says, "Well we'll see." Then, Lucy is holding the kite as Charlie Brown starts running and says, "Ok! Let go!" The kite soars into the air, and Lucy, filled with pride, says "You got it up with my help. Will you tell everyone I helped you Charlie Brown? Will you? Will you tell everybody we were a team Charlie Brown? That we worked together? Huh? Will you?"

Suddenly, the kite comes crashing down to the ground, the kite string tangled all over Charlie Brown. Lucy, walking away from him, says, "I don't know you."

This, in a nut shell, is advertising. When something is a success, everyone wants to be a part of it, even if that means they were in the bathroom on the other side of the building when you came up with the idea. But if the campaign tanks, they run for cover and deny any involvement.

It's a keen observation by Charles Schulz, and I imagine it applies to any business lousy with glory hogs, scene stealers and outright liars. Although, besides politics, I think agencies have cornered the market on them.

Anyway, I wish you could see it. It'd be a lot more entertaining than reading about it.

When I think about The Peanuts Team refusing my request, I can't help but be reminded of what Snoopy once said.

"I love mankind. It's people I can't stand."

Glad to help

There's a reason I'm showing you the three books you're looking at. And here it is.

Each one of them was written by a very talented friend of mine. And each one of those friends decided to thank or acknowledge me by name in their book.

It's very flattering. Not to mention very inspiring. Unfortunately not inspiring enough to write a book of my own. That's just crazy talk.

Kidding. Okay, they've inspired me to write a book, or at least finish the several I've started or had ideas for. If for no other reason than I'd be able to return the favor and thank them.

If you recall, and why wouldn't you, I actually wrote a post to thank my one time office wife Janice MacLeod for making me the very first thank you in her spectacular book, Paris Letters. You should make a point to read that post, then read Janice's book if you haven't already. After you do your first instinct will be to thank me for the recommendation. I suggest you write a book of your own and thank me there. You know how much I like that.

I've known my good friend (producer, professor, singer, actress, musician) Rona Edwards for over thirty years. She was kind enough to thank me in her book "I Liked It, Didn't Love It" which takes readers through the process, and arms aspiring screenwriters for the labyrinth that is screenplay development.

It's a road she's traveled often and successfully.

I like to think it's my clear understanding of plot and story, my keen insight into what an audience wants and my ability to punch up a script that motivated her to mention me in her book.

Nah, just messin' with ya. I have no idea why she thanked me, other than the fact she's a kind and generous person, as well as one of my oldest (in terms of time) friends.

I've known my friend Josh Weltman for twenty-nine years. We've been partners at agencies we've worked at. And a little known fact is I've flown more with Josh than anyone else thanks to a freelance gig we had at Foote, Cone & Belding in San Francisco for about nine months.

Josh wrote a recently released book called Seducing Strangers: How To Get People To Buy What You're Selling based on his years in the business, and his time as a co-producer on the show Mad Men.

I hadn't seen Josh in quite a while, until we ran into each other at a mutual friend's funeral a couple years ago. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw my name in the acknowledgements in his book.

Given the time that's passed, it was a nice surprise and appreciated kindness on his part.

Of course, you should know now that I've somewhat committed to writing a book of my own, there'll be many more thank you's in it than just the people here. Many of my friends have been encouraging, supportive, critical in the best sense of the word and patient while I've used this blog as an excuse for doing some real writing.

But now that it seems like everyone I know is popping out a book, I guess I'll have to get going on mine.

So thanks for that.

Bad form

I hate form letters, regardless what form they come in.

I just received one from someone I used to work for. It starts off, "Hi Jeff, my name is (HIS NAME) and as one of my connections I wanted to connect with you..." Blah blah blah.

I wouldn't have used the word connect so close to the word connections. That's just me.

Because this person does know me, I think a better idea would've been to cull through his network and personalize his communication to the people he actually knows. I've known him twelve years. I worked for him. He unceremoniously let me go, then washed his hands of it. Then he didn't bother returning any of my calls or emails.

Does he really think I forgot his name?

Don't get me started.

Anyway, I don't like form letters from faceless corporations, and I like them even less from people I know. They're just one more way the world is depersonalizing communication, while trying to give the impression it's very personal. Meant just for you.

It's the direct mail piece you're holding that addresses you by name. You know, the one five-hundred thousand other people got. It's the human-sounding software that uses voice-recognition to get your credit card balance and answer your questions.

Form letters are the equivalent of saying, "I don't really care, but I want to look like I do." They're a lot like my high school girlfriend that way.

Over the years, like all of us, I've received form letters from publishers rejecting my work, banks rejecting my loan application and potential employers rejecting my resume. I've also gotten them from publishers telling me I might already be a winner, credit card companies telling me I'm pre-approved and politicians earnestly trying to have a conversation with me one-on-one.

Actually one-on-twenty million.

In order for a letter not to be a form letter, the sender has to know you. Not know something about you that can be gleaned from your spending habits or website visits. But know you.

I think the feeling they're shooting for is the one you get when you eat at your local coffee shop and they ask, "The usual?" I'm pretty sure they're not going for, "Your hold time will be seventeen minutes."

I understand the convenience of a form letter, especially when you have hundreds of connections. It's the easy way out. And while I don't like being on the receiving end, more than most people I appreciate easy.

So anyway dear (NAME), I want to thank your for taking your valuable time to read this post. I know you're busy with raising (NUMBER) children, maintaining (NUMBER) cars and traveling (NUMBER) miles to work and back each day. I hope you'll find time on (DAY & DATE) to read my next post.

Feels good, doesn't it?

Teachable moment

The beauty of working in advertising is agencies continually offer you ways to keep learning.

They want you to grow creatively and intellectually. They believe if your horizons are widened, you'll have a deeper well to draw ideas from. It's one of the many ways they nurture, grow and invest in their employees.

Nah, I'm just messing with you. They don't give a shit.

Still, as you go through the agency day, there's no shortage of teachable moments. You just have to have a little situational awareness, keep your eyes and ears open and be willing to recognize them.

For example, the first time you go over budget on a spot.

The first time you're at a client meeting and your work sells but the creative director's doesn't.

When you park in one of the executive's spaces.

The day that campaign you slaved over wins a Gold Pencil, and you find out your name wasn't even on the entry form.

Giving the creative director an honest answer when they ask "What do you think?"

Giving the client an honest answer when they ask "What do you think?"

Asking the planner if they know account people actually used to do their job.

There are many, many more examples. But here's the point. Every waking, breathing moment in an agency is a teachable one. You can learn about people, what makes them tick, anger management, how to approach sensitive topics and exactly what's required to look busy as a new business prospect tours the agency.

There's no doubt about it. It's some of the best preparation for when you get a real job.

Killing time

The ebb and flow of work at an ad agency is a mystery. Like online metrics, or an account planner’s opinion, it's often unpredictable and unreliable.

Some days it's a hive of activity, with people taking stairs two at a time, foam core boards in hand, comps stuck to them with push pins flying everywhere, racing to solve some important marketing dilemna.

Other days, for reasons equally unknown, there isn’t much to do. And the day goes by slower than Interstellar.

Though if you saw Interstellar, you know nothing could possibly go any slower.

Creative people want to be creative in everything they do, including killing time. As you see from the blurry, lo-res picture above, Matt Groening had some suggestions on the best ways to do that.

I have a few more:

1) Facebook Facebook Facebook
In an era where a disproportionate emphasis is placed on social media (“I can’t wait to engage with my toothpaste online!”), you can literally spend hours brushing up your social skill set.

Sure, to the untrained eye it might look like you’re posting shots of the sunset and cute cat photos all day. But if anyone asks, you’re studying up on Facebook advertising and the algorithms that allow them to target ads to the last subject you viewed or wrote about.

TIP: Make sure no one’s watching when you post your third Most Interesting Man In The World meme.

2) Starbucks Coffee Break
While Groening has already covered coffee break in the cartoon, he’s talking about that brown sludge that barely passes for coffee in the agency kitchen. I’m talking about Starbucks.

All you have to say is, “I’m running over to Starbucks and grab some coffee. Anyone want anything?” Everyone will immediately nod their approval, tell you no thanks they're fine, and then you can leave the building.

Whether you actually head to Starbucks is up to you. When you come back empty-handed almost forty-five minutes to an hour later, you can always say you drank it there. Or the line was too long. Or they ran out of the raspberry pump.

TIP: Don't say there wasn’t a Starbucks nearby. No one will believe you.

3) Your baby-size bladder
Repeat after me: the bathroom is your friend. No one will blame you or even think twice if you make a bathroom run hourly. It can be a little iffy when it comes to how long you can actually spend in there, but there are always lots of things to blame it on.

Like last nights' chili. Warm sushi. Or that agency coffee I was talking about.

TIP: Don't actually have bad chili or get sushi poisoning. This isn't a method acting class.

I'm sure there are a plethora of other ways to kill time. After all, I'm talking about very creative people here. And dear readers, I'd love to hear suggestions from you as well as some of your own experiences in this pursuit.

Hold that thought. I have to run to the bathroom.

An open letter to Morongo Hotel & Casino

Dear Person In Charge Of Marketing,

Being a copywriter and creative director as long as I’ve been, I appreciate better than most people how difficult it is to create great advertising. Or even good advertising, you know, the kind that at a minimum gets the communication across in a somewhat entertaining, memorable, non-offensive manner.

And of all the mediums available, from broadcast to print to online, perhaps nowhere is that more true than radio. But then, I don’t have to tell you. I'm sure it's not the first time you've heard this, but your long-running radio campaign for Morongo ranks somewhere between an east-coast sewage spill and a crime against humanity.

I’ve tried to figure out exactly why I have this extreme reaction to your radio commercials. What is it exactly about them that provokes such a visceral, negative response? After some serious consideration, I think I’ve narrowed it down. Everything.

I’ve never been to Morongo Hotel and Casino, so I don’t know exactly what the experience is like. What I do know is if it’s anything like your radio spots, I’d rather stick dull needles in my eyes. Slowly.

I'd also like to offer some constructive criticism, although granted it's hard to know where to start. So let's begin with your tagline: Good times.

In print, on TV and on radio, your announcer or on-camera talent ends the spots saying, enthusiastically, "Morongo! Good times!"

Apparently whoever wrote the spots didn't realize the phrase "good times" is used in everyday vernacular to refer to something bad. For example, one person might say, "I'm number two million twelve on the waiting list for a kidney transplant." The person they're talking to would reply, sarcastically, "Good times."

I don't think the phrase means what you think it means. And no amount of airplay and false enthusiasm will change that.

It's the same as when people say something is bad, they actually mean it's good. Or when someone hears something they want to know more about, they say, "Shut up!"

All I'm saying is a working knowledge of what words mean and how they're used is probably a good thing to have in life and before you start writing radio spots.

Let's talk about talent. I could make a snarky remark like you should try having some in your radio spots. But I'm not going to.

But you should.

Instead of the painfully obvious non-union talent blathering on in the spots, you might try to pony up for union talent that can actually make bad copy sound palatable - a skill that would come in mighty handy in this case. I know, I can hear you griping about budgets and residuals and fast turnarounds. Here's the thing: you're a casino. It says right on your website that by 2008 you had put up to $2.8 billion into the local economy. Crying poor just isn't going to cut it. Pony up for some real talent and polish your public face.

On your radio spot I heard driving to work today, the non-union woman breathlessly says, "Sunday is fun day!" Is it really? It sounded more like "Sunday is being yelled with the direction to sound excited, but not quite making it day."

Also, the phrase "Sunday is fun day!" has been used in bad advertising of everything from mattress stores to car dealerships to coffee shops since the beginning of the Jurassic era. Besides, at a casino aren't all days fun days?

I realize you can't have original music for each spot when you do so many of them. But you can use better needle drop music. Perhaps a track that isn't so forced, isn't trying so hard. Maybe one that reflects a more elegant experience (assuming of course you can provide one).

Finally, the very premise of your spots has been done to death. I'm talking about the top of the spot, where your voice-talent (and I use the word talent loosely) is supposed to be in a recording booth, and we catch him saying something funny when he doesn't think the mic is on. The other problem is nothing he says is funny.

As the movie Spinal Tap teaches us, there's a fine line between clever and stupid. And you are most definitely on the wrong side of the line.

My suggestion would be if you have an agency creating your advertising, fire them and get a better one. And if you don't have an agency, get one. (At the very least, bring in a freelance writer for a fresh point of view. I'm just sayin'...)

There's a huge segment of the population who'd love not to drive all the way to Nevada to gamble and be entertained. And gamble. I believe with media buys that run your spots as frequently as yours do, you can change their perception of Morongo by upping the quality of your radio advertising.

Without attracting new clientele, you can't expect to expand and thrive. Then, if the current customers decide to reduce their visits and average spending, Morongo could wind up just another empty husk of a building, a symbol of excess and broken dreams. A reminder of what could've been if only you'd done better radio.

Good times.

Reading the signals

Since phones aren't actually used much for calling people anymore, there needs to be a better way to get in touch with people when you need them. Sure, texting is fun, but sometimes you have to wait a while before the person texts you back.

What we need is the next text. I'd like to nominate the bat signal.

Every time Lt. Gordon shined that sucker in the sky - and it's a lucky thing Gotham had cloudy nighttime weather - Batman would show in minutes.

I call that proof of concept.

When you're born, besides diaper rash and a Social Security number, every baby should get their own sky symbol to be used later in life on their individualized signals.

Not only would it bring people to you when you want them, it would stimulate the economy by providing work to thousands of designers and graphic artists. Copywriters would get work out of it too, because we all know eventually advertising agencies would find a way to convince people to sell space on their signals for headlines and marketing messages.

Bat ching!

The other thing is the sky is a much bigger screen than even the iPhone 6 Plus. A summoning signal can't help but get noticed, if not by the person it's intended for, at least by someone who knows them.

Then they could send a text and tell them to look up.

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.