Standard issue

Wander around agencies today - especially those on the west side, not that I'm making certain assumptions - and you'll see a lot of similar accoutrements.

There is of course the open office seating plan, designed to increase communication, stimulate creativity, create departmental interaction and drastically lower agency overhead and reflect better on the annual P&L audit by not having to build out offices for everyone.

Guess which one of these it does best.

You'll probably also see the Peet's Coffee machine, offering lattes, extra shots of vanilla and chocolate, hot chocolate made with water (just like mom used to make), as well as dark, strong coffee's bastard red-headed stepchild, tea.

There'll be no shortage of hipster planners with knit caps, tight jeans, iPhone 6's, piercings and piercing insights into the clients business. Things like "People buy (CAR NAME HERE) because they want an innovative, reliable car."

You'll see The Meeting Place. This can be a basketball court, an inside park or even a large centrally located staircase where staff meetings can be held for any number of reasons. Winning a client. Losing a client. Pep talk. Annual work review. Birthdays for that month. The reason isn't really the important thing. The important thing is it's usually about an hour no one has to do anything except eat bagels and pretend they're listening.

More often than not, what you'll also see is a foosball table. It's usually located near the vending machines, or in a former conference room along with a well-worn leather couch and some leftover swivel chairs.

Riddle me this: what's the deal with foosball?

I can count on one hand how many times I've actually seen anyone using them. Of course, I can also count on one hand how many times a planner has given me an insight worth a tenth of what they're being paid. I might be getting off topic here.

The point is, how about 86'ing the foosball table for something people actually use to blow off the stress of coming up with outdoor headlines like, "The 2015 (CAR MAKER) (CAR MODEL)."

Sure, we make it look easy. But it's not.

I'd like to suggest a pool table, because everyone likes holding the cue and pretending they're Paul Newman in The Hustler. Since there's no smoking allowed within twenty feet of the building, you won't be able to let a cigarette with a burned down ash dangle from the corner of your mouth the way Newman did. But maybe if no one's looking you can get away with a vape e-cig.

Or a ping pong table. The ball makes a nice sound, and it's easy to ace the other player if you're serving. Plus you can take that half crouching, swaying side-to-side stance that, combined with the creased brow and intense stare, makes it look like you're playing a game that really matters.

I believe foosball tables have seen their day. The time has come for them to be relegated to history's scrapheap of agency furnishings we once thought we couldn't live without: The bean bag chair. The cork wall board in offices (when they had offices). The oversized Lichtenstein print.

Classic foosball tables can run over $5,000. If an agency is going to spend that kind of money, it may as well spend it on something more meaningful and worthwhile.

Like a higher quality pizza at the 2 a.m. regroup.

The party line

Years ago, I worked for Wells Rich Greene, one of many New York ad agencies that had decided to open a west coast outpost in Century City. It was my second job in advertising, and it was exciting. The people were smart, funny and creative. I couldn't wait to get to work every day and spend time with them.

You know, just like now.

Anyway, there was this rather dapper and flamboyant account guy named Tom Baker, and he invited a lot of people from the agency, including me, to a birthday party he was throwing himself at his house in Santa Monica Canyon.

It was a spectacular house. Literally on the side of the mountain, you had to walk a staircase halfway down the hill to get to it. Not the famous Santa Monica staircase off 4th Street where all the joggers exercise, piss off the neighborhood and congest traffic. The other one.

Here's what I remember. It was a great party. The champagne was flowing, and I had more than my fair share. A lot more. Up until that party, I'd only had a sip of champagne here and there at a wedding or anniversary party. But it tasted like soda - really good soda - and they were pouring it like bottomless drinks at Islands, so I couldn't see any reason to stop.

The other thing you should know is I didn't have time for lunch and hadn't had a lot to eat that day. I think you see where this is going.

It didn't take long for all my champagne dreams to catch up with me. I stumbled my way outside to the stairs, and just plopped down on one of them. I was sweating, holding my stomach, rocking back and forth, groaning and grunting like Monica Seles on center court (look it up). The mountain was spinning around me, and I believe if the good Lord had chosen that moment to take me I would've been nothing but grateful.

I've never been that drunk before or since.

Ann Siegel, a girl I'd been talking to at the party who also worked at the agency, had wondered where I'd gone and came outside to find me. She immediately saw the shape I was in, put her arms around me, held me as I rocked back and forth and told me over and over it was all going to be okay.

I have no idea how long we were like that, but I do remember at one point I broke from her grip, leaned over the side of the steps and projectile tossed what seemed like bottles of champagne on the side of the hill. Ann asked if I was okay, and I remember babbling on just thanking her over and over for sitting and staying with me.

To which she said, "That's okay. Just don't kiss me."

The next day, I asked her to a movie, and we wound up going out for a year. Whole other post.

Here's what I don't remember: Saying goodbye to anyone, walking back up the stairs to my car and driving home to my apartment in Brentwood.

My memory picks up again at climbing the stairs (again with the stairs) to my second floor apartment, and pounding on the door.

My roommate Ned opened the door, and when I saw him I said, "I'm really drunk." Although he didn't have to be Columbo (look it up) to notice the fine perfume of alcohol, sweat and vomit emanating from me.

He helped me stagger to my bedroom where I collapsed on my bed. The room was spinning faster than Karl Rove on election night. Ned brought me a damp washcloth I put on my head, then standing over me, arms crossed, he took a beat and said the line I'll never forget.

"So, is this what all the girls find so attractive?"

The thrill of the chase

I've written here about how hard it is for agencies to let an account go, even when the hour is late and it's way past time for them to say goodnight.

The flip side of that, and no less sad and demoralizing, is when agencies somehow manage to get themselves an invitation to pitch an account they don't have a chance in hell of getting.

The advertising landscape is littered with storyboards from small, start-up agencies with one office, a purple bean bag chair, a five-year old laptop and a staff of three who all thought they had "just as good a chance as anyone" to land General Motors. Or American Airlines. Or Budweiser. Or Hilton.

It's only after these global accounts go through the review, and do what they were inevitably going to do in the first place - award their business to a global agency - that these agencies feel the cold water tossed in their face, and come to the grim and true-from-the-start realization they never had a chance.

Never. Had. A. Chance.

Despite the amazing creative they did. The unbelievably thorough presentation deck. And the supermodel receptionist, who's brother's cousin's nephew's best friend went to an improv class six years ago with one of the hundred and seventy brand managers, which is how they weaseled an invite to the dance in the first place.

Lot of good your principal involvement, unmatched agility, media agnostic positioning and social integration did you.

It's not hard to see why they take the shot. Every agency wants to play in the big leagues. They all want a showcase account they can hopefully do some killer work on, then use it as a calling card to get into pitches with other global clients they won't stand a chance with.

There's some lesson to be learned here about a sense of entitlement. And believing that just because you have some brilliant insights that's going to be enough get the job done.

Sometimes, many times, with clients that big, sad but true, great ads are the least of it. They're looking for infrastructure, global presence and some actual media leverage to support the effort. Or maybe they're just looking for an agency with some maturity, both figuratively and literally.

The point is, in every industry there's a hierarchy. Steps to climb. Dues to pay. Even if you've been in business a while, it still takes time to arrive.

Everyone wants to be the agency that has the insights the client is going to spark to. But even more valuable to them would be an agency who knows who they are. Knows what they can do and can't do.

Not that you asked, but my suggestion would be to play to your strength. Build your story by going after accounts you can actually win.

If you're as smart as the presentation deck says, you'll know who they are.

Yours, mine and hours

If you know anything about me - and you probably know more than you want to already - you know I'm not by any definition a morning person. Every day, without fail, morning gets here too quickly (it might have something to do with me going to bed after midnight every night, who's to say). I find just as morning rears its ugly, ugly head happens to be the exact same time I finally hit my deepest sleep.

Then, thanks to a clock, my wife, a kid or the dog, it's BAM! - wake up little prince.

When I'm up and moving around in the morning, it's actually not in a truly wakeful state. It's more controlled sleepwalking until I can get the haze out of my head, stop bitching about being up so early and actually get the day going.

What does help, and it's not often I say this, but fortunately I'm in advertising.

Anyone who's ever worked in the creative department of an agency knows the hours we keep are anything but conventional. Creatives don't arrive until anywhere from 9 to 11, and don't leave until between 5 and 10.

My sweet spot is the 9:30 range. By then I'm awake, I'm alert and not only am I ready to hit the road running, I'm ready to work smart.

The working smart part is the reason I'm not one of the creatives there until 10 or later.

My pal Rich Sigel at Round Seventeen wrote a great post about not working late unless it's absolutely necessary. Which on the rare occasion it is. But for the most part, working into the night, eating bad pizza and hanging out with the boss who doesn't want to go home for reasons only he/she knows is a suck-up move.

It can be a test of loyalty. I can be loyal without taking the test.

In more conservative, traditional industries - like insurance, law, finance or government for example - it's difficult for people to understand the laxness when it comes to workday hours in the agency business.

I'd be happy to meet with them one morning and explain it. Anytime after 11.

Danny

I don’t know if other industries are like this, but the ad community is a small one. Especially in L.A. Because of that, you wind up seeing a lot of the same faces at different agencies around town. Sometimes a good thing, sometimes not.

In the case of Danny Alegria, it was more than a good thing: it was a blessing.

Danny either worked in the studio or was the studio manager at three agencies I had the good fortune to work with him at: DBC, DDB and Y&R.

Ad agencies just love their initials don’t they?

Danny was always a bright light in what could be a dark environment. Being in the studio, he was ground zero for stressed out account and creative people throwing fits when it came to getting something they usually needed yesterday out the door to a client, or materials for a big presentation or new business pitches.

Regardless of the pressure and tantrums that came his way, he had a good word for everyone (something extremely difficult to do at agencies). And there was never a question about him getting what you needed done.

Even though I’d known him for years, I’d never really sat down and talked to him until one very slow day at Y&R about nine or ten years ago. We wound up sitting down and literally talking for over three hours. He told me about his time in the Navy, his background as a singer, his years as a jockey, exactly how horseracing worked (not the way you’d think or hope), his family and more.

I couldn’t believe this fascinating person had been steps away from me for years, and yet only now was I just discovering who he was and learning about him.

I had always loved horseracing. In fact, when I was in college I loved it a little too much, to the tune of rent money on occasion. Danny and I made an agreement we’d take a trip out to Santa Anita, and he’d give me the lowdown on the horses and be my betting Yoda.

Sadly, we never got to make that trip.

Danny was diagnosed with cancer. But like everything else in my experience with him, he handled it with grace, honesty and dignity.

He would post unflinchingly on Facebook about how he was doing - the progress of both the treatment and the disease.

As to be expected with cancer as widespread as his had become, there were good days and bad days. But even on the bad days, the really bad ones, there would be a thread of optimism.

On one of his good days, he invited me to come see him give what he knew would be his last singing performance. I wouldn't have missed it. Not only did I get to see Danny perform, I got to see a lot of long, lost friends from agencies past we'd worked with over the years, who were also out in force to show support for him, and his talent that we didn't get to see nearly enough.

Danny was in great form that day, but it tired him out. It was easy to see the toll his cancer was taking.

I would text back and forth with him. I told him I'd come out to where he lived in Riverside and take him to lunch, or if he wasn't up to going out, bring it to him and we'd eat at his place and talk about the race track. I believe he was confined to his bed at that point, but even so he just told me he wasn't feeling well, but as soon as he rallied we'd do it.

Shortly after that conversation, on July 10, 2012, Danny died at the age of 60.

For me, it's certainly a personal loss, as I know it is for his family. But it's bigger than that: it's a global one. The world simply can't afford to lose people as decent, caring and loving as Danny always was to not just his family and friends, but everyone he encountered.

His Facebook page is still active, and every now and then I find myself re-reading some of the posts he put up as he was going through his ordeal. They are honest, inspiring, funny, heartbreaking and hopeful. I'm also friends with his daughter on there, and though I've never met her in person I feel as though we have a strong connection.

She is funny, bright and optimistic. Just like her old man.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about Danny and the meal together I was so looking forward to.

It's comforting knowing he's finally resting in well-deserved peace.

And that he's making heaven a much more rockin' place.

How much is that Gold Pencil in the window?

It's no secret ad agencies like bright, shiny objects. Especially when they happen to arrive in the form of advertising awards.

Well, good news for everyone looking for something to fill up all that empty shelf space: it's awards show season.

That time of year when, without perspective, prejudice or any ability to be realistic about what work actually has a chance of being recognized, agencies frantically, desperately and with an overabundance of misplaced optimism round up almost all the ads they've done for the year and enter them.

A good friend of mine is the awards-entry wrangler at one of the largest shops in town. For years, this shop set the benchmark for creative work not just in L.A., but across the country and around the world. Sadly, for a variety of reasons - not the least of which is who used to oversee the creative and who oversees it now - this shop's glory days are at least 15 years gone. They've lost people, accounts and their reputation as a place where only greatness got out the door.

That not withstanding, this year they'll spend in the neighborhood of $200,000 on award show entries.

And yes, raises are still frozen.

Like creative work, and creatives themselves, not all awards shows are created equal. There are shows, like the One Show, that everyone wants to win. Clios are still nice to have, although their reputation has been permanently tarnished by a fiasco that happened years ago. There isn't a creative around who doesn't like to see his/her work in Communication Arts Advertising Annual. Addy Awards are regional and national - I wonder if the person who writes their copy selling the show itself is eligible? Effie awards are given for how effective the work has been. Account people love it when the agency wins those.

Here's the thing. Awards are like pizza: even when they're bad, they're still pretty good (I almost used another example but this is a family blog).

And with over, well over, 75 advertising award shows to enter, there's a lot of winning to be had. You just have to pick the proper...tier...of show to participate in.

Even though some of these shows feel like they'll go on forever when you attend them, they don't all go on indefinitely in real life. Southern California's Belding Awards and Northern California's original San Francisco Awards show are two examples.

The Beldings were scandalized years ago when a creative produced a commercial the client hadn't approved, bought time and ran it at midnight on a tv station in Palookaville, Nebraska so it would qualify, and then actually won a Belding for it. He was eventually exposed for the fraud, and it resulted in a complete overhaul of the Belding rules and requirements. The show ambled on for a few more years, then basically died because no one cared anymore.

The SFAS went away because Goodby was sweeping the show every year. It finally pissed "competing" agencies off so badly they didn't bother entering work in the show anymore.

No entry fees, no Buck Rogers.

Is it wise in these economic times to spend so much on award shows? I don't know. I do know that everyone - the teams doing the work, the creative director, the account people, the holding companies and especially the clients - love talking and pointing to their award-winning work. It does give one a sense of recognition and appreciation that's become a lost art at agencies.

The subject of the names that go on those entry forms are a whole other topic. I addressed it a little bit here, but I'll save the bigger rant about that for another post.

Instead I'll just wish everyone good luck. And if for some reason those judges can't see the brilliance in your ad, don't sweat it.

Awards shows are like buses. There'll be another one along any minute.