Bringing home the bacon

I've never made any secret about it: I'm a devout believer that bacon makes everything better. In fact, a little over eight years ago I wrote this post about it. Can you believe it?

Not that I wrote about bacon. That I've been cranking out this crap over eight years.

Anyway, I've never been a fan of Dunkin' Donuts. Not because I don't like them, but because the one near my house is in a weird intersection that's impossible to get to. I'm all about easy. But their newest item might just be the thing to get me to go around the block, down several one-way streets and edge my way out onto the demolition derby traffic on 7th Street to get to their store.

And it's not even a donut. It's their new Snackin' Bacon. Mmmmmmm. Bacon.

I'm surprised it's not some newfangled donut variety, or a new blend of their legendary coffee. Obviously the fine sugar-coated, donut gourmet chefs at the DD R&D labs (that's a lot of D's - just like my high school report card) have seriously outdone themselves by coming up with this proprietary recipe.

I'm pretty sure I've cracked the code. Stay with me here: it's a bag, filled with bacon. Genius.

I can see where some might say that, new product wise, they just gave up and took the easy way out. I say they took the brilliant way out.

Next time you run into me at Dunkin' Donuts and see me standing there staring up at the menu board with a glazed look in my eyes, you'll know it's not because of the donuts.

Portlandia: The Sequel

It's taken me a few years, but thanks to Jet Blue and Even More Space™, I finally made my way back to Portland.

It's one of the cities I happen to have big love for. Quirky, unexpected, innovative, creative and unbelievably great coffee everywhere you turn.

I'm staying at the Benson, which is where I stayed last time—although for a very different reason.

What I've learned so far this trip is that, in the same way people who live in San Francisco hate when tourists call it "Frisco", people in Portland aren't crazy about it being called Portlandia. Even though they love the show. Also like San Francisco and New York, they J-walk all over the place, but they feel a tiny bit bad about it.

And coffee everywhere. Did I mention that?

When I got in this afternoon, it was 37 degrees and light snow. Having been born and raised in L.A., my wardrobe is lacking when it comes to winter weather. It's also lacking in anything stylish. And clothes that fit.

Shut up.

So the first thing was to head to Nordstrom, where they carry all sorts of winter coats you can't find in Southern California. I picked up a snappy one (yes it fit), so now the cold isn't so challenging.

Which brings me to this post. It's the one I put up about my last trip here, and since I'm here again it seemed like a good time to revisit it.

It's impossible to be in this city without thinking about my late, great friend Paul Decker. When he passed away, they broke the mold. A brilliant writer, an extraordinary human being and an irreplaceable friend, I know without a doubt you would've loved Paul. Not a day goes by I don't think about him.

There's a link below to a post that goes into more detail about Paul. It'll give you much more of a sense of the kind of remarkable person he was. I think you'll like it.

In the meantime, please to enjoy this repeat post about my last trip to Portland.

I haven't been to Portland in a long time. Somewhere around nine years. And I miss it.

The last time I was there, I lived for three weeks at the Hotel Lucia downtown while I was shooting a commercial for an agency called Perceive that no longer exists (it barely existed when it did). Because we were also editing up there, I had plenty of time to explore the city. If you've ever been there, you already know it's a good walking town.

Alan Otto, my friend (currently) and creative director (at the time) would meet in the lobby every morning. Then we'd pick a direction and start walking for as long as we could before we had to be at the shoot or the edit. One morning we walked to the 97-year old Portland Luggage Company where I picked up a mid-size Boyt suitcase to complete my set and had it shipped home.

I love luggage stores. Whole other post.

Another great thing is that all of Oregon is a Powerball state. And for someone like me who's inclined to play the lottery since I won $5,000 in it once (yes I did), it was fun to play in a multi-state draw where we're talking real retirement money.

By the way, the hotel you see here isn't the Lucia. It's the Benson, just a block and a half up the street. It's one of the grand old hotels you run into, a 100-years old - the one where presidents, foreign dignitaries and celebrities stay when they come to town. In fact when we were shooting up there, at three in the morning Nic Cage was playing piano and singing to Lisa Marie Presley in the lobby.

Anyway, I imagine it'll be somewhat of a let down for them, but the Benson is where I'll be staying when I return to Portland in May. I'm looking forward to it because it's Portland, but also because the reason I'm going is for a gathering to celebrate my dear friend Paul Decker's life.

The good news is I already know what suitcase I'm taking with me.

In the zone

Here's a sign you'll never see in advertising agencies. Not because it's a bad idea, but because you couldn't buy enough of them to cover all the areas, cubicles and open seating that would need them.

That and the fact no one would observe the rule anyway.

There are a lot of ingredients that fuel successful agencies. Coffee. Creativity. Insight. Brains. Energy. Endurance. Optimism. Pessimism. Humor. The ever shifting line between art and commerce. Those innocent, wide-eyed, crazy bounders who believe against all evidence and reason what consumers are really looking for are more ways to engage with your client's brand.

But because of the nature of the beast—buildings loaded with egos, knit caps, planners, egos, man-buns, ironic t-shirts, skinny jeans, millennials, unrestrained enthusiasm, egos, people who know better, egos, people who enjoy inhaling their own fumes, egos and meetings, help me Jesus the meetings—agencies can't help but run on another more fragrant ingredient.

It is after all a sales job. And while there are good salespeople and bad ones, tolerable ones and insufferable ones, at the end of the day (EOTD = ad term, don't get me started) it all boils down to the size shovel they're using.

I know a lot of people in the business will call bullshit on this post.

But that's only because they didn't read the sign.

Fire drill

At the building where I work – like all office buildings - the management company is required by the city to have annual fire drills. When you least expect it - provided you don't see the firetruck and guys in orange vests outside - building management breaks into your work day and makes an announcement over their static-y public address system. Lights start flashing, it's panic at the disco and everyone's instructed to evacuate the building using the stairs, not the elevator.

Slowly and orderly, everyone saunters out to the parking lot, wondering if there’s enough time for a Starbucks run. Then they check in with their company's point person to prove they weren’t left behind in the faux towering inferno.

It’s an inconvenience that interrupts work for a bit, but the intentions are good and this kind of fire drill can actually make a difference in a genuine emergency. Which is exactly the opposite of the fire drills you usually find in an advertising agency.

Sadly, people working in agencies are well acquainted with the other kind. The pain-inducing, frustration-increasing, time-wasting, resources-draining, brain-numbing, soul-crushing kind.

Agency fire drills are notorious shape-shifters. They can come in the form of an account person yelling in the hall for everyone to “Look busy!” as a new client prospect tours the agency.

They can be an all-hands-on-deck, cancel-your-weekend-plans mandate to try to save an account that’s been going out the door since they got it.

They can even be the creative director’s kids graduation, engagement, wedding or circumcision announcement that has to get done first, before the actual paying work. Don't even get me started on headlines for the circumcision announcements.

"Take a tip from a mohel who does!"

"Is your mohel good enough to make the cut?"

"It's time to put some foreskin in the game!"

The common characteristic of agency fire drills is they’re all, without exception, monumental wastes of time. They’re the original model for the hamster wheel. And the unlucky ones who are "volunteered" to participate are rats in a maze, who manage to find their way out the other side without reward for their effort.

Agency fire drills happen because people high enough in the food chain to call them have placed a misguided sense of importance on whatever the drill is. They’ve entered a state of denial regarding exactly what the results of everyone dropping what they’re doing to do something else will accomplish.

None of this should come as a surprise. Despite how lean, nimble, agile and responsive the agency website says they are, I have yet to work in a shop that runs as efficiently and effectively as they do in their fantasy life. The one that lives in their manifesto on their website.

Anyway, once the real-world fire drill is over, everyone shuffles back into the building, takes a crowded elevator back to their floor, and picks up where they left off.

And if they're really lucky, maybe they get a venti cappuccino out of the deal.

Don't ask: Watching your stuff

Continuing my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such wildly popular and praised installments like Don't Ask: Moving, Don't Ask: Picking Up At The Airport, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Sharing A Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Writing A Letter For You and the perennial Don't Ask: Sharing My Food, comes this timely post dealing with my latest irritation sweeping the nation: Complete strangers who ask me to watch their stuff.

When I work on a freelance gig that doesn't require me to be at the agency (the best kind), I like to get away from the distractions of home and use whatever Starbucks I happen to be near as my local branch office. Inevitably, as you'd expect in an establishment serving coffee in cups bigger than apartments I've had, people will eventually have to make a trip to the restroom.

For some reason, when that time arrives, I'm the guy they always turn to and say, "Excuse me, can you watch my stuff?"

I usually give them a non-committal kind of half-nod that can be taken for a yes, but that I can use for a no if their stuff goes missing and we wind up in court.

I think it's flattering people think I have an honest face (if that's what they think) and feel like they can trust me with their $3500 MacBook Pros, Swiss Army backpacks and iPhone 6's for as long as it takes them to pee. But the fact is with one house, two kids, two dogs, three cars and having to finance all of them, I have enough responsibility in my life without being a security guard for your stuff.

Plus the assumption I'm going to give chase to someone who's made off with your stuff is flattering, but misplaced. The most I'll do, and only because my sense of right and wrong is so finely honed, is try to get a plate number if they're in a getaway car.

It's an odd thing to me how unlike any place else, Starbucks and other coffee houses seem to work on the honor system. You don't leave your car running at the post office and ask the stranger walking by to watch it for a minute while you run in an mail a letter. Alright, maybe not a great analogy but you get my drift.

Anyway, it doesn't matter how nice you ask - I'm not getting shanked just because you couldn't hold it anymore.

Why not just do what I do? Get up, confidently walk to the restroom, quickly do your business and get back to your table. Make the assumption whoever's about to make off with your things doesn't know if you're watching them from the line or locked in the loo.

If your stuff is gone by the time you flush, don't blame me. I told you not to ask.

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.

The golden rule

So this evening I was sitting in the porcelain chair in our reading room, perusing the pages of Fortune magazine. As one does. I found an article that talked about how much employees who work for the Four Seasons Hotels love their company.

Not their jobs, their company.

Sure there are the perks you'd expect. Ridiculous employee room rates at any hotel in the chain, anywhere in the world. The ability to transfer to hotels in other countries, and live out that adventure in style.

But the one reason they love the company so much, and, by extension, customers love the company so much, is the one main rule they have for their employees: treat others as you want to be treated. Simple recipe for success, right?

They're not the only company that shares that point of view.

There's a little shmata shop you may have heard of called Nordstrom which also operates under the same golden rule. It's the reason their sales people are more like helpful, leave-you-alone-until-you're-ready people.

The sad thing about good service is that it's as surprising as it is refreshing. As customers, we've reached a point where we're so used to bad service it's like being hit with cold water when you encounter someone who's genuinely there to make sure you're happy.

When was the last time you said, "That guy was so nice! I can't wait to visit the DMV again!"

It's ashame more people don't make it a personal philosophy no matter who they work for. I work at a lot of ad agencies where no one treats anyone the way they want to be treated. And if they do want to be treated that way, they have bigger issues to worry about. But most of the time the philosophy is "Do unto others before they do it unto you."

Yes, it is a glamour business.

Still, I'm nothing if not an optimist. I believe the glass is always half full. Sure it's with rusty, dirty, chemically polluted tap water from a municipal reservoir homeless people bathe and pee in, but still.

I remain filled with hope that one day we'll all treat each other just a little kinder, a little better and a lot more like the way we'd like people to treat us.

Now if this asshole in front of me would just make up his freakin' mind. I need an ice vanilla spice latte like you can't believe.

I'd like to make a withdrawal

For the past several weeks, I've had a head-dizzying, rib-aching, throat-inflaming, dry hacking cough. I couldn't get two words out without going into a full on coughing attack. In fact I wrote about it here when it first started.

Early on, I was holding onto hope it was strep throat, or some other bacterial infection I could knock out with antibiotics.

I'm a big believer in antibiotics.

I don't pay no never mind to news reports that talk about drug-resistant strains, doctors over prescribing them or patients abusing them. Antibiotics are like buses - if one doesn't work on what I have, there'll be another FDA approved one coming along any minute.

Better living through chemistry. I'm all for it.

Anyway, three doctors, two physician's assistants and one holistic healer later, I had to face the fact that it wasn't bacterial. Instead, they all agreed it was a virus.

Unfortunately they also agreed the only choice I had was to ride it out. They said they were seeing a lot of this, and it usually ran its course in three weeks. All well and good, except in an extremely rare example of overachieving, mine went on for eight weeks.

Beyond the obvious, one of the drawbacks was I went weeks without sleeping. I couldn't get through the night without waking up on the hour coughing up a lung. I finally resigned myself to the fact I was going to be walking through the world in a fugue state, even more than usual, until I got past this thing.

However after several holistic cough medicines, tons of Hall's Cough Drops (if you own stock in them you're welcome) and daily doses of Robitussin DM, one of my doctors finally prescribed this.

Something something Codeine.

Codeine has always been my friend. Besides gradually, gently carrying me off to dreamland, it found the off switch for the cough. It was a blessing to finally get a few hours sleep straight through.

Here's the funny part. I got really, really, really used to it.

So as the cough started to subside, which it thankfully has, I decided a few nights ago to stop taking the codeine cough syrup.

My body no likey.

Since I quit, I sleep about two or three hours, then bolt straight up - wide awake - for the same amount of time before I go back to sleep for a couple hours again.

And since (Breaking Bad) I watch (Breaking Bad) a lot of television (Breaking Bad) about drug dealers and addicts (Breaking Bad), I self-diagnosed what's been happening as codeine withdrawal.

Sure it's in its mildest form. And you'd think that since I grew up on the mean streets of west L.A. - north of Wilshire - I'd have more experience with this. I haven't, and I have to admit it's kind of interesting and scary at the same time.

I don't expect it'll last much longer. I've polished off the bottle, and soon I'll be back to my usual sleep patterns. But it does go to show how something so seemingly harmless can be quite addictive without you even knowing it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go to Starbucks and get my double shot grande espresso, with an extra shot, and get going.

Twelve chairs

From agency to agency, as a freelancer you have to adapt to all kinds of situations: tiny workspaces, unreliable wi-fi, uncovered parking, bad agency coffee. However those are much more easily overcome than what I think is the worst mountain you’ll have to climb – the communal writing table (or its equivalent, open cubicle seating).

I just returned to an agency gig after a three-month stint on the client side. While there, I had something I haven’t had in a very long time – no, not a 32” waistline – an actual office. With a door. That closed.

Not only was it a trip down memory lane, it was also extremely helpful in shutting out the world and the noise that comes with it. It was significantly easier to concentrate on my writing, or to make that extra special personal phone call to my doctor, banker or wife.

In one form or another, besides the few actual offices with doors reserved for upper management, almost every agency today has an open seating plan. I like to blame Chiat\Day and it’s phenomenal failure, the “virtual office” experiment almost 20 years ago.

The idea was run an office like a college campus. No one had any assigned personal space. You’d come in, see the “concierge” and check out a powerbook and cell phone. You were then free to work from anywhere you liked in the office. What this lead to was petty turf wars, people scurrying for private space and a high absentee rate since you could literally phone it in from anywhere.

The thought was all this togetherness would foster a more creative, collaborative environment and improve the quality of the work.

It did neither.

The other thought was that instead of building out spaces and moving walls to accommodate titles, it'd simply be cheaper to throw everyone into the mix and let them fend for themselves.

Chiat abandoned the experiment when they moved to their current Frank Gehry-designed space in Playa Del Rey. It's wide open, but at least (most) people have desks to call their own.

Whether it's open space or communal seating, it's like trying to work in the world’s largest Starbuck’s, where 200 baristas are yelling orders and names non-stop, and it all echos off the open-ceiling, exposed duct design. Or as I like to call it, Chiat-lite.

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for a time when effort was better spent doing the work instead of trying to block everything else out so you could focus on it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to throw these babies on and get back to it.

For a few dollars more

Times are tough. Everyone I know - including me - is doing everything they can to keep their bank accounts from hitting an iceberg.

Because I write this blog, this fabulous, random, not too personally revealing, often funny yet thought-provoking blog on Blogger, I'm eligible to use Google's AdSense.

It's a program where Google gets to place ads on my posts, and I get to cash the checks they send me.

On the surface, not a bad deal.

All I have to do is write posts with words that will trigger targeted ads to magically appear on this site. And then, to make the kind of scratch I'm hoping to, people have to click on them. A lot of people.

My friend Janice tried this for awhile on her blog. I think she made enough for a small latte at one of her Parisian coffee bistros.

Oddly enough, that's not what Google would lead you to think.

They like you to see pictures like the one of this guy holding a check from them for almost $133K. That's a lot of clicking going on.

By the way, if that's a real check, more power to him.

I'm in advertising. I've written plenty of web banner ads. I don't know anyone in or out of the business who's ever clicked on one of them for non-work related purposes. They've certainly never clicked on one to buy anything.

So after careful thought and consideration, I think I'm going to opt for keeping this site uncluttered and ad-free. I see enough of them at work.

I know there will be lean times when I'll be filled with regret for not having done it. Times I'll think how nice it would be to have that money in my pocket.

Like for example when the kids need school supplies or new shoes.

It's okay. Besides, that's what crap tables are for.

The 101st Post

If you know anything about me, you know I'm one of the least disciplined writers around. Even if you didn't know anything about me, you could probably tell that from the infrequency of posts to this blog.

I'm easily, very easily, distracted when I finally make the hair-pulling, angst-ridden decision to actually sit down and write something. Shiny objects. New episode of Dexter. Cold pizza in the fridge. Run to the newsstand (to see what other writers are writing). Catching up on phone calls. Changing batteries in the smoke detectors. Folding laundry. Gassing up the car.

Pretty much anything really.

Since I'm pretty sure no one expected me to get this far, least of all me, I imagine the fact I've completed a 100 posts to this blog won't be a big deal to many people.

Like my friend Rich, who's written over 366 posts since starting his blog. Or my friend, former office wife and partner in snark Janice, who's written over 312 posts since she started her blog.

Here's the difference: they're both disciplined writers who set out with a goal to accomplish a certain number of posts in a certain amount of time.

I know, crazy talk right?

But damned if they didn't. And if that's not crazy enough, now that they've both reached their goal, to the pleasure of myself and the rest of their readers, they're going to continue on with their angry, brave, humorous, insightful, intelligent, revealing, fun to read, fun to talk about blogs.

Truthfully, I'm kind of happy with my little accomplishment here. But I do realize that if I ever hope to catch up with them I'd better get writing.

Right after I get some coffee.

I have more offices than you do

Whenever I decide it's time to head into the office, the first question I have to ask myself is which office will it be. Because, and I'm not bragging here, I have many branch offices all over Southern California.


And it's not just me.

I don't have anything quantitative to back me up, but from what I observe when I'm there, I'm pretty sure most freelancers work out of the same offices as I do. It's much more comfortable being greeted by the young, attractive, smiling barista when you come to work instead of the old, cranky, squinty-eyed security guard in the building lobby.

The parking is usually easier too.

The official home of worldwide headquarters for Jeff International is the one on Bellflower, next to the Verizon Wireless store and across from Weight Watcher's. It's always a good time watching the WW members doing a slow-motion speed walk over to my office for a low-fat blueberry muffin and a 500 calorie white chocolate frappuccino.

It's also down the street from Cal State Long Beach. So naturally, it's part time coffee house, part time study hall. Just like my other office across from Cerritos mall, and also near a campus: Cerritos City College.

Last night - and try not to be too jealous here - I had occasion to be in La Mirada for five hours while my kids were rehearsing a play they're doing for school. If you know anything about me, you know I don't often say this, but fortunately, I had work to do.

I knew there'd be one of my branch offices nearby where I could do my work until rehearsals were over. For the extremely low price of a grandé decaf and the wireless, my five hours in La Mirada blew by faster than I ever would've imagined (apologies to my friends that live there - you know who you are.)

I haven't always had the luxury of rolling in whenever I want, wearing shorts and t-shirts, working at my own pace and having a table all to myself. I've worked on-staff at agencies in high-rises before, and I probably will again.

Hopefully next time I do, I'll find one where the security guard wears a green apron, smiles, then charges me four bucks for something I know I could get a lot cheaper somewhere else.

It would just make me feel better.