Agency side. Client side.

If you’ve followed this blog any amount of time, first let me say thank you and I understand your disappointment.

For those that have in fact been following, you may already be aware I've gone client side and am no longer on the agency side of the table. In case you're not familiar with my job-hopping journey (pausing to laugh for using the word journey), here's a quick little recap.

Near the end of 2019, I left—and by left I mean was laid off in a 12-person sweep—from my cushy, high-paid, high-powered, impressively titled, glamorous job introducing a new luxury car brand to a grateful nation from the tony beachside offices of a Korean owned advertising agency that shall go unnamed.

Innocean.

You might also know that afterwards, I enjoyed six bliss-filled, worry-free months of freelance, matinees, lunches with friends, bingeing Breaking Bad (again), cutting down the stack of books on my bedside table (not reading them, just cutting them down), playing with my dogs and spending daylight hours with the family.

But while I was living the good life and cashing the freelance checks, come to find out this nasty little virus was making its deadly way around the globe. And suddenly every headline in the trades was screaming about layoffs and furloughs, cutting freelance budgets and dwindling product inventory as infection rates were rising.

It was at that point I decided maybe the smart play would be to park myself somewhere for a while until this covid thing blew over. You know, one day just disappeared like a miracle. Fuck Trump.

Anyway I knew I wasn’t ready to go back to an agency. And even if I had been, they weren’t hiring.

Coincidentally about this time, a friend of a friend I used to work with who had gone to a tech company mostly known for their printers, scanners, projectors and sports personality spokesperson, told me they were looking for a writer. Long story short—if that’s even possible at this point—I went, I interviewed, I charmed, I brought the funny and I got the gig. I’m assuming my friend got the referral fee.

Normally this is where I'd make the joke (again) about not naming the company, then I'd name the company. Comedy gold. But when I signed on with this tech company, in the slew of onboarding paperwork there was something about mentioning them in social media or a blog, and what else I'd have to say if I dropped their name. I really should read these things more thoroughly. And while I usually like to gamble, my Jedi instincts are telling me not to do it today. But I've given you enough to go on—you can figure it out.

Alright, against my better judgement here's one more clue: their first product was the EP-101, and every product after was considered the son of the EP-101. What do you need, a roadmap?

Anyway, here's what I've learned since being on the client side: she’s a whole other country. It’s like the United States and England. You know you’re both speaking the same language, yet there are still different ways of saying the same thing that are unique to the territory.

Agency: “I know it’s 10am but we need it by noon.”
Client side: “We’re already past the deadline. I can only give you 5 more days.”

Agency: “I’m going shopping after lunch. I’ll be back later.”
Client side: “Lunch is from noon to 1PM. If you’re taking a late lunch please let your manager know.”

Agency: “This is pretty edgy. Let’s see what happens.”
Client side: “Can you make it duller? (not the stupidest thing ever said to me, but still deserving of a post all its own—coming soon)

Agency: “Where did you get those ripped jeans – they’re rad!”
Client side: “We’re pleased to announce jean Fridays!” Please see the employee manual for specifics.

Agency: The creative director will never go for that.
Client side: "Tell creative we're changing it to read like this."

There are things I miss about being in an agency creative department. The flexible hours, the money, dressing like a 17-year old, the money, being with sharp, funny, talented, creative people all day every day, the money, and the sense of all of us being in the foxhole together and working as a single entity—not unlike the borg in Star Trek. And of course, the money.

But client side at my company—look at me talking like a team player—does have its advantages. For one thing, my job isn't at the mercy of a creative director who had a client meeting go south. Or a client's spouse who thinks their nephew could do it better. It also helps that we're a financially solid global technology company that's done very well even in the time of covid. In fact, we were designated an essential company because many of our products are designed for home office use, and made the transition to working at that new Ikea desk under your bedroom window easier.

So the bottom line is I'm glad I made the change. And while I have the occasional feeling of buyer's remorse and the grass is always greener, I see myself here for a long time, doing some pretty nice work with our cool spokesperson and a group of genuinely nice people.

Right up until the next time someone tells me to make it duller.

Raised by MadMen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The coasters

I'm a riddle. Wrapped in an enigma. Sometimes I'm difficult to please, but that's usually only in my waking hours. Other times, the simplest things bring me an unreasonable amount of pure, unadulterated joy.

Or maybe I've been locked up in my house too long.

Anyway, one thing that dials up the happiness factor to 11 for me is the perfect coaster. If you have water rings staining all your wooden tabletops, you're probably not familiar with them. That or you're single.

Coasters protect the furniture. You put them under your drink, and they prevent moisture from leaving an imprint on the wood.

Even before face masks and hand sanitizer, coasters had already become a household fashion accessory. You could get them with scenic pictures. Reproduced works of art. Rock stars. You could order them customized with logos, sayings, quotes and in any size, shape, color or material you wanted.

Over the years, and by no means intentionally, I've collected my share of coasters, mostly from people who didn't want to spend more on a real gift. I have more sets of 6 coasters than I'll ever have glasses to put on them. The funny thing is, like my children, I definitely have a favorite.

Also like my children, it probably isn't the one you expected.

As you take a gander at a sampling of my collection above, I can read your mind. It's not hard. First, you're thinking doesn't he have anything better to post about. And the answer is if I did, would you be reading this?

Second, because of who I am and what you know about me from following this blog so long—and if I haven't said thank you lately, thank you—I'm guessing you're guessing my favorite coaster would be the square-with-round-corners one with the picture of Bruce Springsteen circa the Born In The USA album.

I didn't want you to hear it this way, but you're wrong. Actually, it's this one.

This cork coaster was given to me by my friend Johnny when we worked together and shared an office at an agency in Huntington Beach. It was a creative shop—you could tell because they named the conference rooms after different beaches. I don't know how Goodby sleeps at night knowing there's that kind of creative horsepower competing against them.

I may have digressed.

The beauty of this coaster is it's not beautiful. It's quintessentially exactly what a coaster should be. Form following function, with the lip around the edge preventing any excess moisture from spilling over. And because of the material, it doesn't slide around on a slick desktop, which means no accidental spills (unless I'm really trying).

When I, along with ten other people, were laid off from the agency at the beach with the conference room names they must've given at least thirty seconds of thought to, the first thing I packed up wasn't the ads I'd done, my laptop or my coffee mug. Literally the first thing was this coaster. Sure there was that whole form follows function thing, but I think it also reminds me of the great times I had working with Johnny as well as my other two office roommates, Nicole and my art director partner Imke.

At any rate, it's a little thing I suppose wouldn't mean much to most people. But it brings me great joy every time I use it.

I can only imagine how happy I'd be if Johnny would finally pony up for the other five.

A no-day work week

Last week was a four-day work week for me. I took a paid day off on Friday because I wanted to catch up on a few things I didn't have time to get to over the holidays.

And because I could.

My timing was impeccable as always. Friday was the day I came down with the flu. This is Wednesday night, and for those of you keeping count, I've been down and out with this misery for six days.

However, in a bold gesture of generosity and consideration for others, I decided not to force the issue and drag myself into work and risk giving this cold/flu-ey thing to everyone who has managed to dodge it so far. It's the kind of thoughtfulness I wish the person who gave it to me had exercised. I'm not naming names, but you know who you are.

Anyway, I'm at the point of being bored and restless out of my mind, yet not well enough to drag myself back into the office yet. Even the dogs are ready for me to be out of the house. I think the coughing is keeping them awake during the day.

So, as if I had any other choice, I'll just ride it out.

And to my colleagues who are the picture of health, working hard, exercising at lunch on the beach and taking the stairs up to the office without having to nap for three hours after, I just have two words for you.

You're welcome.

Drive time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Don't ask: Moving

You have to look closely to see it. This is a picture of me helping you move.

I know what you’re thinking: it looks like a couple on a tropical beach, enjoying a few beers and some special time together, far removed from all their cares. And yours.

Yes. What I said. Me helping you move.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at a certain age - maybe around 40 - I made the decision there were just certain things I wasn’t going to do anymore. Like help you move. In fact I decided I don’t have any friend I like well enough to help move.

So don't take it personally.

Sure, there was a time when renting a van or borrowing a friends pickup, dragging your stuff down the flight of stairs from your old place up the flight of stairs to your new place, and being rewarded with cheap pizza and beer at the end of it all sounded like a good time.

But that time has come and gone. Now it just sounds like lousy pizza, warm beer and a bad back.

I'll be happy for you and your new place, and I'd absolutely love to come over and see what you've done with it once you're moved in. Which actually should be pretty easy since there are over 25,000 moving companies in the United States.

It's just that now, I'm not one of them.