Life unsubscribed

If you're anything like me—smart, talented, funny and...what's the word...oh yeah, humble—you can remember there was a time when opening email was something to look forward to. Most of those emails in the past came from friends that, because they're my friends, were funny, insightful, enlightening, thought-provoking and worth the time they took to read them.

But like cheap gas, my 32-inch waist and Springsteen tickets under five-thousand dollars, it was a long time ago.

The good emails gradually got overtaken by offers from Nigerian princes, barristers in London with multi-million dollar inheritances waiting for me, hot Ukranian girls who wanted to meet me (can you blame them?) and an assortment of enhancement, diet, prostate, muscle-building and relaxation pill offers.

I never opened them. I'd see the subject line, block the sender and mark it as junk mail.

In the same way baseball, leaves changing and pumpkin spice latte are seasonal, so is email. And in case you haven't noticed, right now we're in the heart of election season.

I've always been the kind of person to put my money where my mouth is, especially when it comes to electing democratic progressives and making sure we defeat all the nazi-lovin', election-denyin', vaccine-fearin', propaganda-spreadin', fear-mongerin', insurrection-incitin', trump-followin', top secret document-sellin', fascist-lovin', cult-obsessin', crazy-lyin' candidates and their base that make up today's GQP.

And if you're not getting the picture, let me make it a little clearer by bringing it down to a personal, one-on-one level in a way you can understand: if you support, identify with, condone, contribute to, defend or in any other way align your political, spiritual or social views with those of Cadet Bone Spurs, Gym Jordan, Marjorie Traitor Greene, Moscow Mitch, Snake Oil Dr. Mehmet Oz, "Little" Marco Rubio, Lauren Bobert, Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, Kevin McCarthy, Lindsey Graham, Ted Cruz or any one of the other cowardly, traitorous, brainwashed Republicans trying to take down democracy, then fuck you.

Twice.

Anyway, because I've donated to people and causes I believe in, my email address has found it's way onto lists for virtually every democratic candidate running in any race anywhere in the country this season. As a result, my inbox is being flamed with political messages all with subject lines like:

"It's not looking good"

"We're short of our goal"

"Respectfully asking"

"I need your help to defeat..."

"Have you seen our TV ad"

"Your contribution will help to..."

You get the idea.

I understand money is the lifeblood of politics. And while I've gladly and enthusiastically contributed several times to Raphael Warnock in Georgia, Val Demmings in Florida, AOC in NYC, Beto in Texas, Mark Kelly in Arizona and John Fetterman in Pennsylvania among others—and will continue to whenever I'm able—I just can't keep getting 75-80 emails a day asking me to pony up. Sometimes up to ten or more from the same candidate.

"Care to make that a recurring monthly donation?" No I do not.

So I've hit my limit and hit the unsubscribe link. Hopefully this will reduce the amount of daily political hat-in-hand posts that clog my inbox and take up far too much time deleting. I know who I want to donate to and the candidates I want to win, and I'll give as much as I can and do everything I can to make sure they do.

In the meantime, they'll have to trust that I'm thinking of them even if they're not hearing back from me. Ten times a day.

Resist the urge

Let's say you're at the Rose Bowl with a close friend, and you have something you have to talk about with them. Something personal, private. You figure with all the hootin' and hollerin' at the game, the two of you can have the conversation fairly discreetly.

I'm guessing what you don't do is run down to the center of the field with your friend, position yourself in front of the same microphone the sixth-place runner up on The Voice from season three used to sing the Star Spangled Banner, and have that private conversation loud and clear in front of 90,000 people.

Because if you did, it'd be that kind of squirmy uncomfortable and even irritating for the thousands who paid triple scalper prices to be there to watch the game, not listen to your sad life problems.

That's more or less what it feels like when people at work hit Reply All to work emails.

First of all, I love email as much as the next guy. Alright, not so much the ones trying to sell me Viagra or send me my hundred-million dollar inheritance from an Egyptian prince once they receive my bank account and social security numbers. Who falls for that stuff?

By the way, that check should be here any day now.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Emails that aren't strictly business matters at work are for the most part unnecessary. You know the ones I mean. The one or two word ones, that, for some reason, the people sending them feel need to go out to all 245 company employees in the email directory.

"Have a good weekend!"

"Great job!"

"Did the client see it?"

"Lunch?"

"Can you believe this weather?"

"Did you see La La Land?"

"Want to go for a walk?"

How about a long one off a short plank.

For whatever reason, people are too lazy to look at which button they're hitting when they reply. At least I hope they are. It's just too sad to think they want everyone in on their conversation.

And by the way, if the two people who are engaged in the conversation and are replying to all with their personal chit chat are actually friends, can't they just pry their fat derrieres out of their ergonomically enhanced Herman Miller Aeron chair and walk fifteen feet down the hall to the long, open office seating table and talk to their friend face to face?

Don't get me started.

I am not impressed

I've never been a morning person. For as long as I can remember, the night has been my friend. I like late dinners, late movies, late concerts. I stay up late, go to bed late and whenever possible—usually not by choice—sleep late.

One thing I don't like late at night: email.

Here's the thing. Whenever I get one, I know that somewhere, some account person I work with is up way past their bedtime and pay grade, relaying what they believe to be an essential piece of information on something that barely matters to me at 10am, much less 2am.

By the way, I use "account person" as the example because like aliens, unicorns and the holy grail, I've never seen a late night email from a creative person. At that time of night, we're busy, you know, creating.

It's like when I watch a high speed chase on the news, I always ask the same question about the drivers: "What do they think is going to happen?" People who send work emails in the middle of the night are those drivers. And I ask the same question every time I get one.

I don't know if the 3am time stamp on emails is supposed to let me know that they're a conscientious worker, an insomniac, someone with a serious lack of priorities or maybe a little of each.

When someone says "Can I ask you a question?" I tell them, "Sure, you can ask. But it doesn't mean you'll get an answer."

That's especially true if you're asking at 3 in the morning.

FAQ this

It's become as much of an accepted acronym as LOL, OMG, WTF, SMH, IMHO, SWIDT (my personal favorite) and TBT. I'm speaking of FAQ.

It stands for Frequently Asked Questions, and you'll find a link to it on virtually every company website you visit. There you'll find the same questions every other person in your situation asks over and over, along with many no one asks. It's supposed to be a convenient way to get answers when you need them.

The operative word is supposed.

From personal experience, I think a more appropriate name for these sections would be FUQ - Frequently Unanswered Questions. More times than not, they don't even come close to addressing the issue at hand.

In those instances, I'm made to go to the contact section, where I then have to spend time tracking down a phone number to reach a voicemail thread to find an extension to leave a message for the assistant of the person who might be able to answer my question. Right after they route my call through the customer service rep in Kuala Lumpur.

Or I could just let it go. But if you know anything about me, and really, if you've been following this blog for any amount of time you should know everything about me, you know letting things go just isn't in my wheelhouse.

Usually what winds up happening is I don't get an adequate answer—meaning the one I'm looking for—and then I sit my ever expanding derriere down at the laptop and fire off a Jeff Letter to the CEO of whatever company I'm having the dispute with.

To help you get your questions answered, and because I'm a giver, here's my FAQ section regarding Jeff Letters.

Should I send my letter email?

I don't usually send an email. When I have an issue I want the top dog to take seriously, in my experience a letter on my personal stationary, sent snail mail, with a Harry Potter postage stamp seems to have more heft and impact. Emails are easily ignored. CEOs like clean desktops, they don't want hard copy letters lying around. If you're out of Harry Potter stamps, use the Star Trek ones.

How do I know they'll give me the answer I want?

I always ask for the order. I don't leave it up to them how to resolve the situation. With full bluntness and tone that lets them know I mean business but isn't overly aggressive, I ask for what I want. That way they know what I'm expecting. Most of the time it works, and many times they'll even go above and beyond to make sure they keep your business.

What do I do after they've gotten back to me?

Once they've replied in a positive manner, and taken the action I've asked for, I make a point of sending a follow up letter thanking them. They get complaint letters all the time. Complimentary ones are a breath of fresh air for them, and will help get you remembered should you have to contact them again. Besides, in letters, as in life, manners count for a lot.

Does your personal website have an FAQ section?

As a matter of fact it doesn't. I use this blog to answer most of the questions I get.

What if I can't be bothered to follow your blog?

You don't really want to hear my answer to that.

Telling right from wrong

There's a way of judging work many creatives share. Let me explain it in the simplest way I know how: if the account people don't like it, it must be good.

This may seem like a contrarian way to evaluate work, but more often than not it's more accurate than the Hadron Collider (timely reference: you're welcome). And it's been especially on the money with my most recent gig.

Working in the glamorous world of direct (which my pal Janice so succinctly calls "a legacy of garbage"), my partner and I developed several emails and direct mail pieces for the client. When we presented to the deciders at the agency, the ones they absolutely hated were the ones we loved. To their credit, they presented them to the client, although I believe just as straw dogs to sell against.

You know how this story ends.

The client loved the ones we did. And now the account people are tripping over themselves saying how great they were, and implying they were their choices the whole time.

If you're doing work that doesn't scare or make anyone nervous, no matter what media form it takes, it's not worth doing.

It'll always be an uphill battle. But if you can get it in front of the client, more often than not they'll help you win it.

Clocked out

My pal Rich Siegel at Round Seventeen wrote a great post about the expectation of you working late if you work at Chiat. Which, if you've ever worked there, know is absolutely true.

But it's not only true of them.

Here's the thing: if I'd wanted to keep doctors hours, I would've been a doctor. Which would've made my parents very happy. Then, I wouldn't have had to explain what I do over and over to them. They never understood. Many times I don't either.

I didn't become a doctor for many reasons. One of which was that I didn't want to be on call at all hours of the night. I think it came right below "I'm not smart enough," "I'm not doing prostate exams," and "Who'd be stupid enough to have me as their doctor?"

I've been working on a major automotive client which shall go nameless - Toyota - that I've worked on before and enjoy.

Only this time I've been doing it through a small, virtual marketing agency that I've never worked at before. The experience has been something short of pleasant (except for the checks: that part's been very pleasant).

For some odd reason, this company is under the mistaken notion I'm on call 24/7, just waiting for their last minute copy changes. Which usually come after their last minute change in direction. The other night, I had no less than eight emails from them that arrived between 1 a.m. and 3:30 a.m.

I didn't read them until I woke up around 7 a.m. And I'm pretty sure if they'd taken a breath and thought about it, they'd have realized those emails didn't need to be sent in the middle of the night. No action was going to be taken on them (certainly not by me), and they could've gotten a good nights sleep (always thinking of others - it's my curse).

My friend Janice used to have this sign in her office:

I think I've found the Christmas card I'm sending to agencies this year.

Point of no return

I have a few pet peeves (if you hadn't noticed). But one of the biggest ones of all is not having calls returned. I use the picture of an older rotary-dial phone, because apparently the idea of returning calls in a timely fashion, or at all, is a notion from the past.

I understand we all have busy lives, but I'm just not buying that everyone is so busy they can't return a call. When Sherry Lansing was head of Paramount Pictures, she had every call returned the same day by someone in her office. It wasn't just PR. I know this from personal experience.

By the way, still waiting for my three picture deal.

I supposed there are better and more significant ways to take stock of a person, but for me, returning calls is high on the list. When I held associate creative director and cd positions, I always set aside time at the end of the day to return calls to reps, job seekers, friends and students.

I never forgot what it was like trying to get a call back from someone at an agency. I still haven't.

Some of the people I'm most loyal to in the business, and who I have the highest regard for are people who got back to me when they didn't have to. I know it seems like such an old school idea. But it's a simple gesture. And it speaks volumes about the person making it.

Friends are sometimes bad at calling back. There's a certain take-it-for-grantedness that comes with friendships or relationships of any length of time. For some reason, we're willing to let the unreturned call from a friend slide more often.

Although I find less so as I get older. Tick tock Clarice.

And in case you were wondering, I consider returning a call with an email the coward's way out. But only because it is.

Anyway, if you have any thoughts about this just leave a comment.

I'll get back to you.

Pen and tell her

This post lent itself to yet another in a series of interactive blog post titles that are fun when said fast (remember this one?).

Fun wasn't it? On to the post.

In the same way listening to an audio book isn't really reading it, a written letter isn't the same as email.

I read today that for the typical American household, two months will go by before a personal, handwritten letter arrives. And the time between them is getting even longer. It's been coming for a while. It's not a shock.

But it is sad.

I know we're all about efficiency and fast, but with the slow disappearance of the written word, the handwritten word, there are two other casualties of the electronic age.

Grace. And impact.

No matter how hard it wants to be when it grows up, an email will never be as personal as a letter. It will always be cold and detached.

It will also never be permanent. It isn't something you'll pick up and read every few years, or keep in a trunk as a memory that can instantly take you back to a time, a place and a feeling (forgive me for going all Don Draper on you).

With the touch of a key - by you or someone else - the email is altered, or deleted. Gone.

Also, and this is a lesson I seem to keep learning over and over, with a letter you actually have time to consider whether you should send it. With some emails I've sent, before my finger is off the send button I wish I hadn't.

The impact of the idea that someone takes the time, makes the effort and gives considered thought to exactly the words they want to say to you, then puts them down on paper, can't be overestimated. Or duplicated.

As a result of email, I believe we've cheapened the currency of the written word. We now have the ability to yammer on about any trivial thing back and forth, all day long. There's no picking your fights. Choosing your battles.

With hands on the keyboard, you think it here, it comes out there.

The art, skill and thought required to compose a letter is being lost, as so many things are when an easier way is found. (Can you name three kids who can drive a stick shift? Didn't think so.)

Even though the postal service is faltering, mail won't disappear entirely. The bills, supermarket flyers, Land's End catalogs and election year propaganda will always find a way to the mail box.

But I seriously doubt you'll be looking forward to any of it.

And iCare because?

I have an iPhone. I love it. And while at one point there might have been a time when I wanted to tell everyone I know that I had one, it doesn't matter now.

Because everyone has one.

So what exactly is the thought behind needing to brag the text or email you sent me came from your iPhone? I don't care. It was kind of a given it had to come from somewhere. When you send it from your desktop or laptop it's not signed off with "sent from my iMac." or "sent from my 17" MacBook Pro."

You want me to be...what? Impressed? Nope. Flattered? Not really. Happy you can afford an iPhone? Yes. I'm very happy for you.

What I do care about is getting a text or email in a timely manner, and having a phone conversation that doesn't drop out every ten feet.

Based on my experience, I'm pretty sure no one with an iPhone is bragging about that.