Hi honey

Being the perfect physical specimen I am, I've never been one to jump on health fad bandwagons. For example, you're not going to sucker me in with all that new age, unproven "eat well and exercise" propaganda. I may have been born, but it wasn't yesterday. I'm just not falling for it.

But I'll be the first to admit, every once in awhile something comes along that catches my interest, and makes me think I should get my flabby ass up out of my extremely comfortable T.V. chair and give it a go.

And if we know anything about me, it's that I do like to milkshake things up a bit (SWIDT?).

My art director partner, who eats mung bean salads, feels guilty when she doesn't go to the gym and takes long walks at lunch, decided she had to tell me—despite the fact I'm obviously in such perfect physical shape (did I mention that?)—about the wildly beneficial medicinal qualities of chocolate pound cake, black and white cookies and Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia.

No, wait. That wasn't it.

Oh right. She told me about Manuka honey.

I immediately called for a Lyft, had them drive me from my chair to my laptop and went straight to the Google to read all about it.

Come to find out Manuka honey comes from Manuka bushes (what're the odds?) which are found in New Zealand. This honey, more than any other, including the one that comes in that plastic bear bottle with the yellow cap, has been found to have all sorts of healthy and restorative benefits.

It's an anti-inflammatory.

It's rich in antibiotic properties.

Helps with low stomach acid and acid reflux.

Combats staph infections.

Treats burns, wounds and ulcers.

Prevents tooth decay and gingivitis.

Improves sore throats.

Boosts your immune system.

Helps allergies.

Improves sleep.

Because it helps sleep, it also lowers the risk of heart disease, type 2 diabetes, stroke and arthritis. And did I mention, you know, it's honey.

I could go into all the whammy-jammy about how Manuka honey is much higher in enzymes, which increases its nutritional profile by four times that of regular honey. But that's honey nerd talk, and may be a little more than anyone needs to know.

But for all the good Manuka honey does, there is some bad news: it's pricey. Very pricey.

An 8.8oz bottle rated UMF 20+ (which has the most benefits) like the one pictured above costs $64 on Amazon. And at a dosage of four teaspoons a day, it doesn't last near as long as I'd like. I suppose I could experiment with a smaller dosage. But I could also experiment with diet and exercise, and like I said before, I ain't falling into that cult.

Still, I'm going to bite the bullet, pony up and give this honey a chance.

Because if I can eliminate most of what ails me by eating a few spoonfuls of honey every day, that's a sweet deal no matter what it costs.

The rafters

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

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

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

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

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

He was saying he loved me.

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

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

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

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

Organizational chart

It's always great when someone teaches you about something you didn't know. Like the time I was in a radio session with Tress MacNeille and she taught me the word "dirtnap." Which I always try to use whenever I can.

For example, "Looks like that campaign idea is taking the big dirtnap."

Anyway, my art director pal Kathryn and I were working on an assignment. She had a great idea, and to help me see what she was thinking she had us look at a website called Things Organized Neatly.

It was love at first landing page.

It's a web blog that's exactly what it says it is: from typewriters to car parts to crayons to movie props to sets of scissors to bicycle parts and more, all perfectly organized and displayed neatly.

I'm not a neat freak, but if I was doing a production of The Odd Couple I'd be Felix. A fatter, more Jewish Felix.

I have trouble breathing when things are too out of whack and unorganized. I like order, and knowing where everything is. The way I do that is I put things back where they belong every time. That way I don't have to send out a search party when I'm looking for my phone. Or my keys. Or my shoes.

The site is also inspiring in it shows that anything with more than one component can be organized neatly. Music to my eyes.

I want to be clear. I'm not saying things should look sterile or unused. I don't want everything to feel like the couch wrapped in plastic at Grandma's house that no one can sit on.

I'm just saying if you're going to use something every day, make a point to put it back where it belongs. (Mike, Lori and Imke: you know the joke that goes here).

Because I'm a giver, tonight I thought I'd pass along the site for your perusal in case you appreciate things organized neatly as much as I do. Frankly, I could look at it all night long.

But I have to finish organizing my books by height. Right after I alphabetize them.

Lesson learned

This isn't going to be a funny post tonight (I know, why is this post different from any other post?). But for some reason a particular incident has been on my mind and I can't stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I worked at an agency which shall go nameless. Y&R. There was an art director I worked with there who I never clicked with, nor she with me. Her creative sensibilities were completely different from mine, and it made for a lot of disagreement. Nonetheless, during the occasional times we worked together, we managed to forge ahead and get it done.

I'd never describe us as friends, even though she did ask me to write her wedding invitation because she thought I was talented and funny (some truths can't be denied). I wouldn't say I was glad to do it for her, but I was pleased she liked what I came up with.

It was a cool relationship at best, and only got cooler when I was assigned another art director—one of my favorites to work with and a great friend to this day—and she was going to supervise the project.

Here's where my memory gets a bit like an oil company executive at a senate hearing. I can't recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason she didn't like what my art director partner was doing and decided she wanted to get him fired.

I would have none of it.

After several attempts by her to get rid of my partner, I unloaded and read her the riot act. I did it loudly, in the middle of the department, and at length. It was not my finest hour, but in the heat of the moment, lines clearly drawn, loyalties clearly defined, I was unable to stop. I was a bully in the worst, most unprofessional way. To her credit, she kept her cool and listened to my angry ranting until I was done.

Needless to say we didn't work together after that, and my partner never got fired. Surprisingly, neither did I.

Years later, after I'd left the agency, I heard she was battling cancer. A few years ago, she lost her battle.

I was invited to her memorial service by several people, but I didn't go. It wouldn't have been right or honest given the nature of our relationship.

As I think back on it, she didn't deserve any of my angry antics. Not because she became ill, but because she was a human being.

I believe so much in the golden rule, and I'm embarrassed and shamed by my complete abandonment of it during that encounter. If I could go back and do it differently, I would in a heartbeat. If she were around, I'd tell her I'm sorry, and I had no right to treat her like I did.

But she's not.

What I can do now is pray her two children grow up healthy, with their loving father and nothing but beautiful memories of their mother who was taken too soon.

Sadly, I'm in a position now where I do get to have the last word. So here it is. I'm sorry I treated you that way. You didn't deserve it. And if it's any small consolation, I'm a better person as a result of it and it's a lesson I'll always carry with me.

Rest in peace.

You never forget your first

I think it's pretty clear that, judging from the very first ad I ever wrote which you see here, I was destined to become a world-class, award-winning, creative-championing, sushi-loving, lunch-taking copywriter. Destiny was calling. Or maybe it was laughing. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

I've covered my illustrious career path before here, so there's no reason to repeat myself. Other than I get to talk about myself again, and being an only child I think you know how happy that makes me.

But I'll spare you. If you don't know the world revolves around me by now, remind me to remind you again tomorrow.

I remember being so excited when this ad actually appeared in Reader's Digest I told everyone I knew about it. My friends, my parents, my girlfriend. It was a much bigger deal at the time. I'd be in supermarket checkout lines, and casually pick up a copy and flip to the ad, talking loudly about how I'd written it.

This tactic always seemed to work better when I wasn't shopping by myself.

Of course, as you can plainly see, despite my illusions of grandeur and for almost every reason, it sucked. Plus the junior art director I worked on it with was a notorious asshole known all over town. He eventually went on to own his own successful asshole agency, until he was thrown out when it was acquired by another agency that didn't want assholes. He was an extremely unpleasant part of my first copywriting experience. It wouldn't be the only unpleasant experience I'd have with this asshole, but that's for another post (guess what the title will be).

Anyway, since the subject of the ad was how the "bite-sized pillows" were designed, his breakthrough idea was to make it look like a schematic and put it on graph paper. I was new to this ad writing thing, but even then I still knew how to roll my eyes.

I shouldn't be too critical - after all, this is the ad that launched me into a career path I never expected, and one that's been very rewarding both personally and professionally. In hindsight, I now realize it taught me a couple of extremely valuable life lessons that I think apply not just to advertising, but to virtually every industry. To this very day, I carry these learned philosophies with me to every job I do.

First, whether it's an insurance policy, a work of literature or an ad, if you're going to put a product out in the world make it as creative, entertaining, informative, thought-provoking and relevant as possible.

And second, don't work with assholes if you can avoid it.

Leftovers

I know what you're thinking. Here comes a post about holiday leftovers, turkey sandwiches, tryptophan naps and the best way to store pumpkin pie (kidding - there's never leftover pumpkin pie).

As good as that sounds, no. I'm talking about a different kind of leftovers. The creative kind.

Every person who works in the creative department of an ad agency - copywriter, art director, creative director, producer - has ideas, campaigns, starting thoughts, visuals, jokes, taglines, directors and media placement suggestions for work that never was. Work they loved that, for reasons ranging from "I don't get it" to "It'll scare them," in other words the ridiculous absurd, never saw the light of day. Never made it out the door.

Of course, like holiday leftovers, if stored and handled properly you can always heat them up and serve them at a later time. The word for this, in agency parlance, is "repurposing."

I'm a big fan of repurposing, especially in an era of parody products with extremely little to differentiate them except the advertising. Repurposing works especially well if you're lucky enough to draw a good hand and get a creative director that can't remember what they had for breakfast, much less what you showed them two days ago. The campaign they killed on Monday is the same one they love on Wednesday. Second time's a charm.

A lot of people tsk tsk the idea of leftovers, but it's the word that throws them. Just because an idea's a leftover doesn't mean it's not original. Or entertaining. Or attention getting. Or right for the brand. It just means it was killed the first time, and deserves a second chance - which can come in the form of a new client, new creative director or new agency.

And who among us couldn't use a second chance.

Case in point: I just re-read this post and I'd love a second chance at writing it. And if you've read this far, I'm betting you're willing to give it to me.

You're gonna need a bigger box

It never stops.

If you work in an ad agency, you know there's one thing people working there love to do more than anything. SPOILER ALERT: It's not creating ads.

It's complain.

Two disclaimers right off the top: first, there are plenty of valid things to complain about. Second, I've definitely contributed to the culture. I have a reserved seat on the complain bandwagon. Ok seat, could be closer. Armrests don't work as well as they should. More padding wouldn't hurt. SWIDT?

Ad agencies, while sometimes a hotbed of creativity, can also be an unrelenting cacophony (waited 780 posts to use that word) of privileged, overpaid people who have it good whining about how bad they have it. Cue the violins.

They work too hard. Nobody understands them. People just don't get it. The traffic sucks (well, that one's true). There are too many meetings (also true). They should be promoted. That guy should be fired. The food guy always has the same sandwiches. This isn't as fun as it used to be. This coffee is awful. They hated my ideas. They only had an hour forty five for lunch. They had to work the weekend. The client is an idiot.

I used to work with this art director who liked to quote an old boss of his. He used to say, "You get paid four-times what the average person makes. I expect you to work at least twice as hard."

It's like the kid who cried wolf, and keeps crying. At first it's deafening, then after awhile you don't even hear it anymore. Somebody call a waaaaaaaaambulance.

I know what you're thinking: who the hell are you and what've you done with Jeff? I get it. And I'll be the first to admit, for the second time, I'm as guilty as anyone else - it doesn't take much of a push to get me started. When the complaint wave hits, I want to hang ten just as much as anyone. But when I complain about work, at least somewhere far below the surface - in a quiet little voice only I hear - I'm at least grateful I have work to complain about.

As I crawl at a snail's pace into the office every day on the world's largest parking lot, the 405, I look around at the coffee grinders, rust buckets, rattletraps and jalopies slogging it out in the lanes next to me, and that same little voice tells me to be glad I have a really nice car to wait it out in.

In my experience, complaining about people is a useless exercise. I've found they're not changing on my account anytime soon, so I try not to let them get to me. I make an effort, often unsuccessful but at least I'm trying, to use a little grace in dealing with people I disagree with. And by disagree, I mean they're wrong. At the very least, even when that's true I go out of my way to try and treat them as I'd want to be treated.

Since every agency I work at has open floorplans, maybe the complaining just seems louder because it echoes off the polished concrete floors.

Don't get me started.

But it's become a runaway train. Everyone wonders why it's gotten so, so bad. It's like the person who crosses the middle of the street, gets mowed down by traffic (when it's moving), then denies their contribution to the accident.

My suggestion is we all - including myself - try to dial it down a bit, and focus on the more positive things about agencies (yes there are some) for awhile. Like the fact we don't work in the insurance business. What we do isn't exactly breaking rocks or digging ditches (although I've occasionally watched someone dig their own grave). And that paycheck, at almost every level, is at least twice the national average.

Maybe November will be the No-complaining month. Let's see how that works.

Of course, if you don't like that idea, by all means feel free to complain about it.

Mr. Tee

A few years ago, I was looking for something I could do to add on to the monumental fortune I've made in advertising. Preferably something not involving monster egos, all-night work sessions, talking to account planners and unimaginably bad pizza.

So my friend and art director extraordinaire Kurt Brushwyler and I kicked around escape plans for a while, and came up with a business idea we could both get behind: t-shirts.

Alright, so it wasn't the most original idea. But we were going to do it in a way that managed to combine two things we loved - t-shirts and Vegas.

I forget the name of it, but for a while there was a little newsletter/brochure you could pick up at any restaurant, usually near the restrooms by the sponsored post card rack and outdated copies of the L.A. Weekly. It listed all kinds of bizarre classes that not only reinforced every stereotype about L.A., but also that no legitimate institution of learning would ever offer.

One of them was How To Get Into The T-Shirt Industry. Coincidence? I think not.

So one night after a long day freelancing at Chiat (is there any other kind?), Kurt and I hopped in his Prius and drove over to the world-famous, two-star Marina Del Rey Marriott for a three-hour class taught by guys who'd hit it big making t-shirts and selling them to Paris Hilton for $95 a piece at Kitson.

It was actually an interesting and educational evening. Needless to say the part about having to go to Vegas at least once a year to hawk our wares at the Magic Fashion Convention was quite appealing.

Our master plan was to get those cart/kiosk things you see in the main promenade of The Forum Shops at Caesar's and sell the t-shirts off of them. It was going to be our test run. If they did well, we'd approach each of the casinos and holding companies about making exclusive t-shirts for their gift shops, with funny lines tailored specifically for each hotel.

I wrote about a couple hundred Vegas/hotel lines, and Kurt started working on designs for them. It was ours, and it was fun.

Right up until I called The Forum Shops to find out about the carts. Come to find out - and if I'd thought about it for a second I would've realized it - that Caesar's owned all the carts in their mall. They didn't rent them to outside vendors.

But since we both come from advertising, and are used to rejection, adversity, broken dreams and plans going awry on a daily basis, we knew exactly how to handle the situation.

We gave up.

Every once in awhile, when Kurt returns a phone call (my hair was black when I called him) or when I see him, we kick around rebooting the idea. But then we move on to more important things, like which sushi place to go to for lunch.

We still own the URL and still have the lines. Plus there are a whole slew of casinos that weren't there the first time around we could approach. So I'm not ruling anything out - we might come back to the idea at some point.

All I know for sure is if we do, there'll definitely be a lot of research involved.

Stair masters

The agency I’m working at right now is in Huntington Beach, right next to the water (or as I like to call it, tsunami adjacent). It’s an awesome location, an even better view and a dream commute.

Because it’s where it is, the office is in a three-story, low-profile building. No doubt it’s not any taller or wider because it had to be approved by the brain trust that is the California Costal Commission.

Anyway, because it’s not some tall, mirrored high-rise office building in Irvine (is there any other kind there?), many people, myself included, use the stairs instead of the elevator to get from floor to floor. It’s faster, it provides a little bit of exercise during the day, and it’s also a few moments of quiet and privacy if there isn’t a lot of up and down traffic.

Also, people don’t point and laugh at you like they would if you took the elevator.

I know what you’re saying to yourself – “Jeff, you’re such a perfect physical specimen, why would you need any exercise, regardless of how little the amount?” While those are kind words you say, the fact that I need an oxygen tank by the time I get to the top of the stairs tells another story.

The last time I went to the gym with any regularity was when my son was born eighteen years ago. It’s fair to say I may have let myself go just a bit in that time. Although I still get mistaken a lot for that guy who plays Thor. From the toes out you can’t tell us apart.

So trotting up the stairs (down is considerably easier) about a hundred times a day for meetings on different floors is a good workout and an incentive to work out even more.

It is some consolation a few of the people I work with, who’ve been here and have been taking the stairs much longer than I have are also winded at the end of their climb.

But like my art director partner Imke says, she takes the stairs because she can. There’ll eventually come a day when she won’t be able to.

And really, that should be incentive enough.

A deliberate cover up

I've never been particularly paranoid. But I will cop to the fact I have a little OCD about certain things.

For example, I check the door several times when I leave the house to make sure it's locked. Then I start to walk to the car, forget whether I locked the door or not, and come back and check it again.

I also check the oven at least two or three times to make sure there's no gas flame on the burners.

Admittedly, I unplug the chargers around the house before I go, not to save on the electric bills but, like the oven, to make sure there's not a short and the house doesn't burn down.

Call it what you will. I prefer to think of it as being thorough.

The other place I always happily err on the side of caution is when it comes to guarding my personal information. At least as much as I can in the age of the interwebs.

When I sort through my mail, I have two piles. One goes in the trash as is, and the other - almost always the larger pile - goes in my heavy-duty, industrial strength, cross-cut, fifteen-page-at-a-time feed shredder.

Next to my kids laughing, hearing credit card applications, bank statements and old tax receipts being shredded is the sweetest sound.

My friend, and occasional art director partner Mike Kelly likes to make fun of me for taking precautions the way I do. When we work together, he loves to chide me with the fact he does all his financial business - banking, taxes, loans - online. He knows it makes me crazy. I always tell him he's an identity theft waiting to happen. But he's never worried about it, and it's never happened to him.

It's happened to me twice. Maybe he has the right idea.

Anyway, my family certainly knows this aspect of my personality, which is why when it came to giving me the perfect gift, they gave me one they had no doubt I'd love.

What this little baby does is pictured above. Basically, it's a home redacting system. Simply run it over the document you want to render unreadable, and then it is. Despite it's diminutive size, it packs a powerful punch when it comes to my sense of security. Okay, maybe I have issues. What's it to you?

Anyway, it's my kind of gift and I couldn't be happier about it.

And let's face it: I can't carry the shredder everywhere.

Endorse this

The first time I ever heard of LinkedIn was about ten years ago from my good friend and sometimes art director partner Imke. She told me about it right after I’d come back to my desk after having been laid off from the agency we were working at.

By the way, if you’ve never worked in advertising, all getting laid off means is you showed up one day.

Anyway, Imke explained what LinkedIn was, how it worked and suggested it was probably a good idea if I listed myself on the site. It's probably still a good idea.

But here's the thing: the site has gotten as annoying as Facebook.

I used to draw a line, a thin line but a line nonetheless, between Facebook and LinkedIn. The former was strictly for friends in the real world. The latter was solely for professional relationships and contacts. Admittedly, sometimes they overlap.

What's happened is that the difference between the two sites grows narrower by the minute.

I attribute it to the fact the gang over at LinkedIn has seen the runaway success of Facebook, and they want a taste of it. So they’re constantly revamping their site to be more like FB. Now on LinkedIn, you can post. Leave comments on posts. “Like” a post. Does this sound familiar?

But in the contest for useless features, the winner by a clear margin is the one that lets you endorse other people on your contact list.

Now, let me just say up front, I appreciate and thank everyone who’s endorsed me in all the various categories I didn’t even know I was an expert in. This includes squirrels and plumbing.

And that’s my point. What does an endorsement really mean? What is its value?

Self-esteem wise, it’s a win. I feel great when I see someone has endorsed me for something. Professionally, I just have to believe that while HR people and agency gatekeepers are looking at my LinkedIn profile, they’re not spending a whole lot of time, as my old art director Doug Morris used to say - sorting the fly shit from the pepper - looking through all the little endorsement squares to find out who, for what and why.

After all, endorsements really only mean something if you know who’s doing the endorsing and the weight it carries. Still, always nice to be recognized, even if it is mostly by friends returning the endorsing favor or asking for one.

I'd like to talk about this more, but I have to go fix a leaky pipe in the squirrel cage.

Unacceptable behavior

I'm not sure what it is about advertising, but it seems to attract the very best of humanity and the very worst.

When it comes to the second group, I suppose the lesson to remember is never underestimate the profound, almost other-worldly ability of people to be thoughtless, inconsiderate, rude jerks.

We've all encountered them. I don't need to give you examples of their douchebaggery.

Alright, here's one.

I have a close writer friend who's mom has been battling cancer. She took a turn for the worse, and wound up in intensive care in a hospital out of state. My friend's brother called and told her to get on a plane and get up there if she wanted to say goodbye.

She let her boss and co-workers at the agency know what was going on. Of course, they understood and sympathized. Then she headed for the airport.

While she was in the intensive care unit with her mom - gloved, masked and gowned because it was a sterile, germ-free environment - the agency called her. They asked her to work on some brochure copy that need revising while she was there.

I guess they thought she'd get tired of keeping her dying mother company and would want something else to do. You know, all that sitting around waiting. All you've got is free time.

Since you asked, here's another one.

Unless you've been on a news blackout, you know about the fires that have been raging in San Marcos. I happen to have a close art director friend who had to evacuate his wife and one-year old daughter from their dream house they've been in a couple years, and happens to sit at the top of the hill the fire was rapidly burning up. They grabbed the items they couldn't bear to lose, threw them in the car and drove away from their house not knowing whether or not it'd be there when they got back.

While they were at the hotel, his employer called and said they needed him to do some work, and sit in on a meeting. It was okay with them if he did it by phone.

Because, like my other friend, he should have his priorities straight, right? Forget attending to his frightened family, dealing with the uncertainty, the added expense and the crushing stress of it all. That's just crazy talk.

What it comes down to for me is this gross insensitivity really solidifies our belief in the "It's not my job." philosophy. There's no sense of personal responsibility - when you have a soldier down, you just pick up the slack without being asked. Or without passing it on to someone else to do.

It's also clear to me at the agency orientation new employees get when they start, no one's bothering to instill any appreciation for the golden rule: treat others as you'd like to be treated. If any of the people calling my friends to work were in the same position - and in spite of their supreme jerkness I hope they never are - the last thing they'd want is a call asking them to work. Especially from people like them.

All I can do is shake my head and feel sad for the people making the calls. I imagine how cripplingly unhappy they must be in their lives to be so unaware of others and their situations.

My writer friend's mother has stabilized, and is doing better despite the fact there is an inevitable outcome to her illness. But for now, she's here, she's fighting and she's winning.

As for my art director pal, he got the all-clear to go back to their home yesterday. It is intact and untouched by the fire. They were lucky.

The work they were both called to do never got done. At least not by them.

As it should be.

A cautionary tail

I worked with this art director once. He'd been a friend for years, but was also the most ambitious person I'd ever known. At the expense of anyone and anything - including his friends - he put his ambition above everything else.

And while usually anything starting with "naked" is something you want to see, when the next word is ambition it isn't very pretty. It doesn't always work in your favor.

For example, not too long ago I was in an interesting position. For several reasons, a leadership vacuum had been created where I was working. In spite of it, the team pulled together to make sure everything got done and nothing fell between the cracks. Everyone on the team was freelance, including the last person in who was a junior art director of debatable talent.

The debate wasn't how much, it was if he had any at all.

But even though he was a junior, he had big plans. He taught us all that apparently there is an "I" in team, because one Friday he scurried in to the head of marketing's office, and without telling the rest of the team who'd been there considerably longer, and worked considerably harder, presented a plan for a huge project that the team was supposed to meet about and work on together. He said he wanted to be the point person on it, and in what can only be described as a complete lack of judgment, if not consciousness, the head of marketing said okay.

I suppose there are two ways to look at the situation. One is you could admire the fact this junior art director saw an opportunity to advance and took it, consequences be damned.

The other way - the way I see it - is that this under-qualified, universally disliked and obnoxious little twerp basically betrayed everyone he worked with for his personal gain, without having thought through the fact no one else on the team would lift a finger to execute whatever alleged vision he had for the project.

When the team refused to work with him, it reminded me of that scene in The Right Stuff. He wanted to do it by himself. We were happy to oblige.

Shortly thereafter, the rest of us also went into the head of marketing's office and gave our point of view on the art director, his vision, and his lack of ability and talent to execute it - and made sure he was clear on the fact that the art director would not be receiving any help from us.

Interestingly enough, the following day was this art director's last. And the team carried out the project - with our original idea of how it should work as well as a brutal deadline - without a hitch.

I'll be the very first to admit I've always had a healthy disdain for the phrase "team player."

Imagine my surprise to find out I've been one the whole time.

The real Rosalita

Sometimes you think you know everything about something, and then you find out you don't. Thanks to my great friend Cameron Day, come to find out that's the case with Bruce Springsteen.

I'd never given much thought to the song Rosalita, other than the fact it's always been one of my favorite songs. That, and the one time when I was in the front row at a Bruce concert and sang the line "I'm coming to liberate you, confiscate you, I want to be your man..." face-to-face with Bruce when he was at the foot of the stage. Still trying to hunt down that video.

What never occurred to me is there actually was a Rosalita. That is, until Cameron told me he'd met her.

Here's the story.

Cameron was working with an art director named David Jenkins. As guys will do, the conversation turned to the wives and the story of how they met. David told Cameron that when he met his wife Diana, he fell and fell hard for her. He said to himself, "She's the one." (See what I did there?)

But he was scared. He didn't know a lot about her past, and was fearful there might be deep, dark secret hidden in it that would crush him, or that he wouldn't be able to cope with. His heart would be broken beyond repair. So of course, in a manner so honest and straightforward I can only dream about, he took her to dinner and asked her.

They ordered, and then a little way into the meal he popped the question - the one about her past. Diane hesitated before answering, and David could see his whole future happiness about to Fade Away (did it again).

She paused, looked him in the eye, took a breath and said, as if it were a bad thing, "I dated Bruce Springsteen for three years. I'm the one he wrote Rosalita about."

Diane Lozito met Bruce in 1971 way before he hit it big, and they started dating. In the course of their relationship, naturally there came the inevitable point in time when Diane brought Bruce home to meet the parents. There's a line in Rosalita that goes, "and I know your daddy don't dig me but he never did understand..." The truth of the matter is Diane's dad was a classically trained musician, and hated the fact his daughter was dating a rocker.

That's how that went.

After they were married, Springsteen brought the tour to Dallas. Diane and David went to the show. Afterwards backstage, Bruce came over to talk to them, but spent most of the time talking to David. He put his arm around his shoulder and said, "Let's you and me go have a little talk." And they disappeared for about 45 minutes. When they finally reappeared, Bruce went over to Diane and said, "He's a good guy. Congratulations."

Boss blessings.

I also didn't know there was an actual Rikki (Don't lose that number), but I did know there was a real (My) Sharona because I sat with the lead singer of the Knack, Doug Fieger, one night when I was seeing a friend perform at a comedy club and he was talking about her.

But I digress.

I love the fact that even at this late stage of the game, I still have things to learn about Bruce. Thanks Cameron for giving me the first hand, inside story of Rosalita. Knowing she's around and happy will only give the song that much more meaning the next time I hear Bruce do it in concert.

And please relay to your friend David how glad I am he gets to live happily ever after with his stone desire.

Pharma it out

My late great friend Jim Benedict was talking to my wife one time about my somewhat confrontational style when I think someone is full of sh#t or something is worth fighting for, and he told her "Jeff draws lines." He was right.

And professionally, pharma is one of the places I draw them.

Now before you think it's just my relatively-in-check-for-advertising ego talking, I don't think I'm too good to do pharma advertising. And if you look at some of the...ahem...work I've churned out over the years, I'm certainly not above it. It's just that with the cliche stock photography, see-and-say headlines, painfully corny metaphors and miles of legal copy, I wouldn't know where to start in creating the kind of work pharma clients seem to buy. It's an extremely different sensibility.

I mean to me, two people side by side in separate bathtubs seems counter intuitive for an erectile dysfunction ad. Unless he has another condition we don't know about (insert penis joke here - yes I said insert and penis in the same sentence). But I digress.

I have an art director friend of mine who's been working on pharma accounts for the past year. It's not pretty, but she approaches it like she does every assignment she gets at any agency: she gives 110% and tries to create the best work possible. But it's like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football: she'll never be able to move them beyond where they are. It's a big industry, and they. know. what. works.

Which may be the reason my friend, like so many of my friends, has adopted my tried and true philosophy: the checks clear. And the silver lining is pharma checks clear bigger than most.

I used to pride myself on the fact I could work on any account in any category. But, as Clint Eastwood said in Magmum Force:

I wouldn't know where to start if I was asked to write one of those Sit 'N Sleep spots that litter the radio landscape. And I wouldn't know where to start on an ad for painkillers, catheters, arthritis medicine, yeast infection ointment or any of the other pharma ads that seem to show up on every third commercial.

I suppose as those ads become more and more prevalent, and the drug companies need more and more creatives to do them, none of us should ever say never.

But remember, talk to your headhunter before taking a pharma assignment to see if the job is right for you.

Working on pharma accounts may cause side effects including migraine headaches, vomiting, nausea, dizziness, ringing in the ears, verbal diarrhea, overall discomfort, rash decisions, elevated blood pressure and thoughts of career suicide.

Remembering George

I just got back from a memorial service for my great friend George Roux, who died a little over a week ago. Having known George for almost thirty years, I have a lot of history and stories to tell.

Now sometimes at services like these, they open it up and ask whoever would like to say a few words about the dearly departed to come up to the podium. And there have been times when I've wanted to say something, but truthfully I'm not at my best off the cuff with emotions spilling over, and loud sobbing as background noise.

Plus, being a writer, I like to map out what I'm going to say.

So when I heard about George, my Boy Scout instincts about being prepared kicked into merit-badge readiness. I wrote down what I wanted to say, rehearsed it and was ready for the call.

Come to find out, the call never came. George's service was beautifully planned by his wife Julie, was beyond lovely and went off like clockwork - something you can't do if you just invite people to speak willy-nilly.

Anyway, had I gotten the call, this is what I would've said:

I think the thing that surprised me most is that George’s heart failed him. Surprising because it never failed any of us.

George and I met almost 30 years ago. Being in advertising, of course I’d heard of him, how talented he was, the classes he taught at Art Center and Ad Center. For a while there it seemed like you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone who was mentored by George.

George and I were first partnered as a team when we worked at Tracy Locke. And let me say, work was never easier or more fun. Great ideas flowed out of George fast and furious. Besides being an incredibly talented art director, George was a great writer.

And trust me, copywriters don’t love anything more than an art director who knows how to write.

Maybe it wasn’t so much that we worked together, but that I got to watch him work. I would’ve paid for the privilege.

George and I became great and lasting friends. We were also co-conspirators. At Tracy Locke, we came up with a plan to pitch the Yamaha Electronics business by personally delivering the VP of Marketing an invitation to come to the agency. It was during the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. So we made a poster with a headline that read, “We came to your party. Now you're invited to ours.” We went to the show, found him, talked for a few minutes and gave him the poster, which he loved.

He never came to the agency, but George and I had three awesome days in Vegas.

I’m not saying that was the plan all along, But I'm not saying it wasn’t.

George and I also shared an appreciation for crappy horror films. Every time another one came out, we’d sit through it, then come out of the theater saying the same thing: “There’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back.” But we kept going, I think not so much for the films but to spend the time with each other.

George has been there for me at almost every pivotal point in my life. My dad’s death. Break ups, break downs. He was one of the groomsmen at my wedding, as well as self-appointed videographer, lending his incredible eye and talent to turning a wedding video into art. If only the DMV had known about him.

He was the first person I called when my son was born. At every juncture, George was there, offering his experience, insight, jokes, strength and friendship for me to lean on.

We freelanced as a team at several agencies over the years. I remember one conversation with him where I told him how jealous I was because he could do so many things so well: he was an art director, commercial director, illustrator, photographer. He had options. All I could do was write.

He looked at me and said, "That may be true, but nobody writes like you do."

I think he meant it as a compliment.

When George met Julie, he fell and fell hard. And while I’d seen him in relationships before, it was clear he’d just been biding his time. This was the one he’d been waiting for. Julie brought a joy to George’s life all of us who loved him will be forever grateful for.

We used to spend a lot of time together, but as often happens, life overtakes intentions and in the past few years we haven’t seen each other nearly often enough. The last time I talked to George was on his birthday in July. We had a long conversation, checking in with each other and catching up on our lives and families.

I called him on his birthday, he called me on mine. So while the call this year may be long distance, I’m pretty sure one way or another I’ll hear from him. I know he’ll hear from me.

It’s hard to get almost 30 years of a friendship into a few minutes, or to find exactly the right words to tell you about all the experiences George and I had.

It’d be a lot easier if he were here. Not only would he tell the stories better, he’d have pictures to go with them.

When Julie told me the news, we talked about George and how one reason this is so shocking is that he seemed indestructible. He’d been through a bad car accident, by-pass surgery, a home invasion robbery. All of them were like bullets off Superman. Julie also said she knew he’d had an entire life before he met her, and that she knew what she’d signed up for when she married him.

But Julie, I’m here to tell you, he also had an entire life after he met you. A complete life. The one he wanted. The one he was looking for. The one that counted. The one he found with you.

I’d also like to say something to Rachel and George. Your father was an exceptional man, and he loved you both beyond measure. I’m sure you know that. I’m also sure he’d want you to know this: life will be challenging sometimes. It’ll make you angry. It’ll make you weary. There’ll be times you’ll stumble and fall. But in those times, when you don’t know if you can get up or go on, remember, in your hearts, your dad will forever be smiling down, sending his love and cheering you on.

Let me wrap it up by saying words I’d have much preferred to say to him in person.

George, thank you for your kindness, your friendship, your brilliance, your humor, your heart, your decency, your encouragement, your work, your talent, your downright brutal good looks, and your love.

I’ll miss you friend. Before you know it. Love you George.

AT&T Jew-verse

Everyone has to live with a certain amount of denial in life. Otherwise, we'd never cross a street, get on a plane or eat at Jack In The Box for fear of what could happen to us. It's how we manage everyday risk and emotion.

Since, according to this article, the average consumer can be exposed to between 3000 and 20,000 ads a day, and actually see and register about 250 of them, commercials - especially bad ones - have also become one of the things we have to deny in order not to be overwhelmed by them. Out of necessity, they become white noise.

It'd be a second career getting mad about all of them.

However, there is one commercial so bad, so hateful, so grating in the most primal way, I feel pointing it out is less of a gripe and more of a public service. It's this one:

Here's how I'm pretty sure the meeting went.

CLIENT: What do you think the kid should look like?

ART DIRECTOR: Well, he should be...

ACCOUNT PERSON: We were leaning towards a "New York" look. (actually does air quotes)

CLIENT: You mean Jewish.

ACCOUNT PERSON: Yes, you know, curly hair, big nose...

Laughter erupts in the room.

CLIENT: Can we have him say some Jew sounding words?

WRITER: Like fancy, schmancy or for cryin' out loud?

CLIENT: Yes!

ACCOUNT PERSON: (hamming it up - no pun intended) Oy vey, we'll do it.

ART DIRECTOR: Maybe an argyle sweater, so he looks like the old Je...uh, old "New York" guys you see in the jewelry mart.

CLIENT: I love it. What do they say?

ACCOUNT PERSON: Mazel tov?

CLIENT: That's it!

Laughter erupts again.

Don't get me wrong, I love the Jews on TV. I can even tolerate the stereotyping. But what I hate is a stale concept, long past its expiration date, that's been done a gazillion times before - in this case a kid talking like a wiser, older "New York" grandfather to kids slightly younger than him who, for some inexplicable reason, know how to act their real age.

And wagging the corn dog while he's talking must be a Jewish tradition I'm not familiar with.

It's frustrating because it's AT&T. A big client with a huge advertising budget and decent production dollars to spend, and this is the best they (and their 65-year old, Jackie Mason loving writer/art director team) could do.

Then, just to make sure there's absolutely no escape, they run the crap out of this spot. You can't turn on the TV without seeing it everywhere. Maybe the kid got them the air time wholesale.

The best advice I can give the team, or anyone else associated with this spot is that same advice that works managing life's risks.

If someone asks if it's your spot, deny it.

The stupidest thing anyone's ever said to me in advertising

It doesn't matter whether they're just starting out or seasoned pros, every copywriter and art director I know has a "stupidest thing anyone's ever said" story. In fact, there are a bunch of websites like this one devoted entirely to stupid things people in the business say.

People more frightened, more practical and more employed than me have said I shouldn't name names, because "You never know where you'll wind up and who knows who and blah blah blah..."

So I won't name names. I'll leave clues. See if you can get in touch with your inneR Colombo and figure out the genius who said it to me.

Here's the thing. I was freelancing at this big agency that prints money off its one main automotive account. I'm tempted to tell you the name of the agency, but those same people who say I shouldn't name names also say I shouldn't name agencies, so I won't.

Saatchi.

I was writing the brochure for the 2007 Toyota Matrix. Now brochures aren't something that put a big smile on any copywriter's face. However they do put a big deposit in their bank account, so thank you very much and I'm available for any and all of your automotive brochure needs.

I mean I don't want to sound mercenary about it, but it is freelance. What do you need, a roadmap? Anyway, it's kind of the same way I feel about agency tItles. They're pretty useless. I really don't care if you call me creative director or janitor. As long as you say it with cash.

But I digress.

The person who'd hired me and another freelance writer named Lori neglected to tell us he'd given notice. So the second week we were there, he was gone. Which was fine. Lori and I are both senior people, and we just carried on creative directing each others work and getting the job done. One part of the job was that Matrix broChure. I'd written it, it'd been routed and was virtually on its way out the door.

Right at that point, a freelance associate creative director (speaking of useless titles) was brought in to oversee the work until someone permanent was hired.

Again, not naming names, but I Hope you're reading closely.

This acd (lower case intentional) stopped the presses and wanted to review all the Copy.

This is where it gets good.

In the brOchure I talked about the cargo space in the Matrix, mentioNing all the different kinds of things you could carry in it. It was something along the lines of three mothers-in-law, two surfboards and eighteen wiener dogs.

The wiener dogs are what did me in.

The project manager told me that the freelance acd, who'd been on the job and immersed in the culture of Toyota and Saatchi for a staggering total of two days, wanted to talk to me about the copy. I asked what the problem was, and she rolled her eyes and said I'd better speak to him myself.

So I called him. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, what's up?

Him: I wanted to talK to you about the Matrix copy.

Me: Okay.

Him: Here, where you say "wiener dogs", you're talking about dachshunds right?

Me: Yep.

Him: Well there could be some confusion between that and hot dogs. (by the way, that wasn't the stupid comment, although definitely a close second).

Me: I don't think it'll be a problem. Look - you're a bright guy, you figured it out.

Him: Well, the other thing I'm really worried about is that PETA might come after us. (THAT was the comment.)

I couldn't help myself - it just came tumbling out.

Me: Are you f#$&ing kidding me?!

Him: Well you know Toyota is a big target with deep pockets, and I'd hate to have PETA all over us for this. (Third runner up.)

Me: First of all, driving small dogs in a car isn't animaL abuse. And second, I'm pretty sure PETA has better things to do than go looking through Matrix brochures for things to sue over.

Him: Alright, I'm still worried, but go ahead and use your best judgement.

Me: I already did, but thanks.

Now I know I sounded a little hostile. But the stupid needle was way in the red, and, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have a low threshold. Especially when it's coming from the new kId on the block.

Funny thing is apparently the new kid had a low threshold for my hostility, and the next day, out of the blue, my services as well as Lori's were no longer needed.

So there you go. It would've been nice to finish the gig, but judging from this one conversation we both had sized up each other pretty quickly: he was going to continue to say unbelievably stupid, chickens#&t comments, and I was going to keep calling him on it.

I don't know if this person is a good writer or not. I know he's had a lot of automotive experience. I may have just been on the receiving end of one incredibly stupid comment in an otherwise brilliant career. And now that some time has goNe by, even though I know there's no chance he's reading this, I want him to know I wish him luck no matter where his journey takes him.

Unless it takes him to an agency I'm working at.

Then I wish he just shuts his trap and gets out of the way.