You may already be a wiener

Seems you can’t go a day without reading or hearing about a labor shortage hitting one industry or another. Well, here’s the good news. Opportunity is knocking where you’d least expect it.

Oscar Meyer is looking for Wienermobile drivers.

You’re probably asking yourself the same question I did: Where do I sign? Before you make the jump and become an official “Hotdogger,” you should know there are some other responsibilities that go along with the position besides just riding around all day with a giant wiener.

Which, trust me, isn’t as easy as it sounds.

Anyway, here’s part of the job description on their recruitment site:

To represent Oscar Mayer as a brand ambassador through radio and television appearances, newspaper interviews, grocery retail and charity functions. To “meat” and greet people from coast to coast.

So far, so good. But if you take a closer look, there’s a little line they managed to slip in there that would have me clenching my buns:"To maintain company car". Apparently you’re expected to keep that giant wiener up and running.

Don’t quote me on this, but I’m guessing it's not covered by AAA. So let’s say your giant wiener keeps going down. Now what do you do? You're gonna have search for a tow truck to rent, and the last thing you want is to be seen pulling your big wiener across state lines. AmIrite?

It seems to me wiener maintenance like oiling and polishing it should be provided by the Oscar Meyer company. I mean really, is it that hard?

Anyway, if you’re up for the challenge, or as the site says, ”Do you cut the mustard?” , you can always send in an application and see what happens.

I don’t relish the idea of waiting for an answer, but you might handle it better.

Encore post: The new apathy

Is it possible to care too much about your work? How would I know. That's never been my problem.

Sure, I'm paid and paid well to care enough to do the best possible job I can for my clients. And I do, because I'm just that professional.

So maybe the right word isn't care. Maybe it's "serious."

Here's the thing: on the big, long list of things in the world worth taking seriously, advertising just isn't one of them. In fact, advertising is on that other list - the one that includes hybrid cars, Justin Bieber and guys who wear their pants below their ass.

Everyday I work with people who could sell ice to eskimos. But the one thing they can't sell me on is taking the business I'm in too seriously.

Don't get me wrong: I'm a firm believer that there's a reason, purpose and tangible benefit to marketing communication. The impact it can have on defining a brand, engaging the consumer and shaping a business when it's done right - I'm looking at you Apple - is nothing less than remarkable.

The part I don't take seriously are the people who take themselves so seriously.

It's always amusing to go into a meeting and see how serious everyone is. They're straightening their notepads, setting their iPhones within arms reach (you know, for that very important call that could come. At. Any. Minute.), and sitting up attentively in the chairs they've adjusted to just the proper height. Wait a minute, is that image on the screen coming wirelessly from that iPad? Is that a Powerpoint presentation? Man this is getting serious.

The other thing I've found is that the main contribution from people who are too serious is riding the brakes and slowing the process. They bring up issues and detours that aren't salient to either that process or the outcome.

And I believe all that seriousness belies a lack of trust, often in themselves.

For all the efforts they make to stay steeped in pop culture and the trends of the moment, apparently one thing they don't do is read the papers (alright, some of them read the paper on their iPad during those meetings, but still...).

There are bigger things happening in the real world that actually matter and impact lives. It's true all those ads that butt their big, fat noses into your tv watching, radio listening, online surfing, magazine reading and automobile driving also impact lives. But it's also true most of them don't do it the way those very serious faces in the conference room want them to.

Some of the funniest, most brilliant, most creative people I've ever met work in advertising. So do some of the tightest butt-clenchers and people with sticks where they shouldn't be. Maybe they could lose the sticks if they didn't clench so hard. Just a thought.

I understand everyone's doing their job the best way they know how. I just think they could do it a lot better if they didn't take themselves so seriously.

Besides, just because you take yourself seriously doesn't mean anyone else does.

It also doesn't mean you're good at your job.

In what I thought had to be a joke but wasn't, a colleague of mine actually had a Facebook post saying he loved advertising so much it made him cry. Well, it makes me cry too. Just not for the same reason.

Anyway, I hope you can forgive my little rant here. I just had to get it off my chest. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't care.

I know I don't.

Firing squad

I've said it before and I'll say it again. If you get fired in advertising, all it means is you showed up one day.

Jobs in the ad biz hinge on a number of factors, and often job performance is the least of them. How you get along with A) the creative director B) the client C) the clients' wife D) creative services or any number of other individuals can affect how long your shelf life is at an agency. Decisions that determine your fate at an agency are almost always entirely out of your hands, and can be made based on campaigns you've sold (or not sold), the shirt you're wearing (or not wearing) that day or the color of your eyes. The tag line for this blog says "We didn't invent random." Ad agencies did.

Like many people who make ads that make America buy, I've been laid off a few times in my career (pausing until giggling fit is over for using the word "career"). And I can tell you from experience, it takes a village. It's not as straightforward as it once was. No one says, "You're fired! Collect your things and get out!"

Well, they say the second part, but now they say it in accordance with state labor laws.

Here's an example. I'm not going to name the agency I was working for, Y&R, but I was let go after almost three years there. I'd originally been brought in as a freelancer, but the creative director and I hit it off and he decided he wanted me to stick around. So he offered me more work and less money, and I said, "Where do I sign?"

Fast forward a few years later. I'm in a meeting in Versailles, which was the agency's big conference room. For some reason, ad agencies love to name their conference rooms after cities. Or cars. Or explorers. Or movie characters. We take our creativity where we can find it. I worked at this one shop that just had numbers for their conference rooms. It was a nice change of pace.

Where was I? Oh yeah.

As I'm in this meeting, my creative director pokes his head in the door and says, "Hey Jeff, can I talk to you for a minute?" This is how it always begins.

I walk out of the room with him, and while we're walking he's making uncomfortable small talk about the meeting he pulled me out of. I notice we're going upstairs towards HR. When I ask what's up, he says to the office of the head of HR.

Alright, so I know what's coming, and I said, "Are you kidding me?" To which he said, "It's out of my hands. There was nothing I could do." To which I said, "Really? I thought you were the boss. How about you let me speak to the person in charge?"

I was pissed.

In the office, he sat uncomfortably to the side, not making eye contact - as they always do - while the head of HR told me I was being let go, gave me an end date, paperwork, blah blah blah. I learned shortly thereafter I was one of five people let go that day. I'm sure it was out of their boss' hands as well.

I came back the next day and spoke to both of them about getting more severance. My boss said nothing, and the head of HR said no. But this story does have a happy ending.

Some time later, that head of HR got let go - ironic ain't it? I was talking to a mutual friend, and come to find out the former head of HR had wanted her to ask me if I'd write some copy for a website she was setting up for her post-agency life.

I'm nothing if not a giver, so after a nanosecond of thought, I told my friend I'd like her to relay my two-word answer to the former HR head verbatim.

Since this is a family blog, I won't repeat them here. But they were exactly the two words you think they were.

The polished man

It's been a little over a month since I last posted here, and judging by the endless flow of heartfelt emails and texts asking what was wrong, I've come to the conclusion I probably could've taken another month. Or two.

What I'm saying is thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

So here's the thing: when I think about other career opportunities from time to time, as many of my co-workers have suggested I do, hand model has never been high on the list. In fact it's never been on the list at all.

As you can see by the picture, unless I've underestimated the market for sausage-fingered, mildly spotted, chubby hands holding all kinds of consumer products, I'm probably going to stay where I am.

One other career I've opted out of is Photoshop artist. You can probably tell I tried to soften the visible wear-and-tear on my paws, although I'm not sure to what degree of success.

The one item that isn't photoshopped is the black nail polish on the pinky (really, what color did you think it would be?). Now I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not going through my metrosexual stage or trying to upset my wife any more than I usually do.

There's a very worthwhile organization called Polished Man that raises awareness and money to fight violence against children. If you go to their website here, you'll get the whole story, including the reason a painted nail is the representative gesture.

Here's a fact: the reason only one nail is highlighted is because one child is a victim of violence every five minutes. It's a finger thing. And a math thing. And a sad thing.

If you want to support the cause, pamper yourself a little and get a nice manicure. And while you're there, ask them to polish one of your nails. Then go to the website and give time, money or support in any way you're able.

As far as jobs go, hand model is definitely out. But lending a hand to prevent children from being victims of violence definitely feels right.

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.

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.

Are you the gatekeeper?

Once upon a time, when it came to getting into an agency, whether for a full time position or freelance, hopeful creative people sent their books (portfolio of their work in layman's terms) or promo piece (remember promo pieces?) to the creative director. That's because in a kindler, gentler industry, creative directors usually carved out some time - an hour or so a week - to go through books that'd been submitted.

They returned the ones they didn't want with a nice, brief thanks-but-no-thanks note. They called in the owners of the ones they liked for an interview or a meet-and-greet.

They were obviously the most qualified people to do this for a few reasons. For starters, they were creative people themselves. They understood what goes into coming up with an ad, the obstacles encountered in shaping and crafting it to make it great and the hurdles involved in getting it presented and produced. They spoke the language.

They were the first stop on the job tour.

Fast forward to today, where they're the last.

In today's fully-integrated agencies, with their manifestos on their websites, granola in the kitchen next to the Starbucks Via envelopes and planners offering their "insights," there's a position called Creative Resources Director. Or Creative Services Coordinator. Or Talent Relations Supervisor. Or Creative Concierge. However, that's not what they're called by the actual talent.

They're called gatekeepers.

These are the people who make or break you by getting you - or not - into the agency, and getting your work in front of the creative director.

Gatekeepers usually have the full trust and endorsement of the creative directors, even though most of them have never actually worked as a creative in a creative department. Yet there they are, judging on some criteria only they know which books get through and which don't. I imagine it's a carefully worked out formula of quality of work, reputation, freelance budget and have I had my coffee yet.

Gatekeepers, like creative directors (and freelancers), come in all flavors. There are absolutely great ones out there (like the ones at all the agencies where I work - you know who you are, and thank you). These are the ones that return your email, maintain a friendly attitude, negotiate a rate you're both happy with when they bring you in and let you down easy when they don't.

They keep the lines of communication open, and make it clear it's alright to check in every now and then to see what's going on.

Then there are the other kind of gatekeepers. They're what I like to call the meter maids of gatekeeping. They have a uniform so they think they're real policemen. But they're not.

Every creative person has or will run into one of these. They almost go out of their way not to have a relationship with the very people they will at some point want to work for them. They will never answer any emails, yet they will fully expect you to negotiate your day rate to the basement for them when they call you in two hours before they need you. They'll make sure you know how lucky you are they even considered you.

They'll check your availability, and then they'll never check back with you.

In the same way creative people establish reputations around town, so do the gatekeepers. It's well known in the freelance community who the great ones are, just like it's known who the um, less-than-great ones are. Like the French resistance, there actually is a freelance underground where the community has its ways of sharing their gatekeeper experiences with each other. It's a way of looking out for each other even if everyone's competing for the same jobs.

At the end of the day, gatekeepers are something you accept and work with. If they're the good ones - and I can't say this enough, like all the ones I work with - it's always a pleasure dealing with them. If they're the bad ones, you find the grace to muddle through while holding your ground.

By the way, if you happen to be a gatekeeper and you're reading this, you know the meter maid crack wasn't about you, right?

What am I getting into?

My final repost of the week, then it's back to all new articles I'm not sure you'll want to read the first time. Anyway, this classic from November 16, 2010 asks the question we should all be asking before we start anything.

Who among us hasn't asked themselves that ominous question? I for one have asked it any number of times in my life.

On my wedding day.

Signing escrow papers.

Buying a German sports car.

Buying a German Sheperd.

Having children (still asking).

I think the fact that I'm a freelancer just puts me in more situations where it becomes a reasonable question to ask.

For example, I find myself asking it right after I get the phone call or email inquiring about my availability. Again when I hear their reaction to my day rate. Yet again after I cave and let them negotiate my day rate down - usually in tandem with, "What the f&#% was I thinking?"

Regardless of the account, even if it's something I want to work on, when I hear what it is the question comes up again.

It's always top of mind when I hear who they want me to work with, whether I've worked with that person before or not.

And if the office is a hellish, brain-deadening, soul-killing commute to a foreign and frightening land, for example Orange County, I ask myself the question on the crawl in.

Then, just before I enter the brick building, designer warehouse, high-rise tower, faux-hip loft, converted fire station, hotel or craftsman house where the offices are located, I pause for a tentative moment outside, look at the doorway I'm about to go through, and ask it again.

But here's the thing: the question itself is a cruel tease. Because it can't be answered until you're actually there.

Of course by no means does that imply everyone won't try to answer it for you. But it's really one of those questions, like, "How much of this can I take?" "Is it worth the pain?" and "Is Super Shuttle hiring?", that only you can answer for yourself.

If I'm being honest with myself, and if you know anything about me you know that's something I hate doing, I have to say the answer I almost always arrive at is "something great".

I wonder if you asked yourself the question before you started reading this post.

It's okay. I don't need to know the answer.

Technically, no

Agencies like to put copywriters in silos. There are the car writers. Fast food writers. Pharma writers. Fashion writers. Packaged-goods writers.

Then there are tech writers, which as you might imagine are a hot commodity these days what with agencies and clients drinking the digital Kool-Aid in big, sloppy gulps.

The good news no two definitions of a tech writer are the same.

Every single time in my career (sorry, taking a time out to laugh hysterically for using the word career) when I’ve been asked if I’m a tech writer I’ve always said no. Then when they ask the inevitable follow up question, which makes zero sense given my answer to the first question – can you write tech? – I always say yes.

And I’ve always gotten the gig.

Here’s my approach to tech: someone else will fill in the blanks. I do what I always do - write consumer facing copy that’ll be conversational and fun to read, and explains the technology of whatever it is I’m writing about in an everyman kind of way.

Kind of like the Apple website, except with better headlines (there goes that gig).

Then, when it comes to the actual tech part, the hardcore specs and stats, I let someone else fill in the blanks. I know they can do it better. They know they can do it better. The American people know they can do it better.

I’ve worked on Pioneer Electronics and Western Digital. Sony VAIO and Motorola. Verizon Wireless and Sharp Electronics. I’ve written web content for a zillion clients. The list goes on and on. And judging by how many digital agencies are popping up like weeds, and how many new tech companies are appearing daily, the list is no doubt going to get even longer.

Which means technically there should be plenty to keep me busy.

String theory

Why are you looking at a picture of Stu Rosen (aka Dusty), Maxine the Crow, Stanley Spider and Scooter the Squirrel? It’s because I don’t want you looking at a picture of me in a black shirt, tights and a bright yellow scarf tied around my neck.

Even though I know how badly you want to see that.

One of the many odd jobs I’ve had was working for master puppeteer Tony Urbano. In the marionette world – and yes, there is a marionette world - there are a few giants. Bob Baker was one. Tony was another.

Even if you don't know his name, you've seen Tony's work in Men In Black (1 & 2), The Abyss and Team America: World Police.

Tony’s studio was a warehouse in a small industrial park in Van Nuys. I’d seen an ad for a job while I was at UCLA (all hour and a half), so I went and applied. I interviewed with Richard who ran the studio, and who’d later become a good friend of mine.

Cue the Twilight Zone theme.

In the part of the studio that opened to the parking lot via a garage door hung dozens of marionettes. Skeletons. Pianists. Crazy looking ones, whose eyes followed you as you walked around the room after closing.

Did that one just turn his head? I’ll swear he did.

Anyway, Tony did shows for corporate and children’s events. He had a road company of puppeteers, of which I was one, and an ingenious puppet stage he’d designed that, when folded, was about four feet by twenty feet and fit on the roof rack of the company station wagon.

I, along with one of the other puppeteers, danced dolls at events in Redlands, Topanga Mall, South Coast Plaza and Universal Studios. We did celebrity birthday parties, although I can’t remember which ones.

It was open puppetry, that is to say we danced them right out in the open and not from behind a curtain to hide us.

Tony was also the puppeteer on Dusty’s Treehouse (remember that picture?) a kids show that ran for ten years on KNXT-TV. It even won a Peabody Award. I got to work on the show many times, and was able to get my AFTRA card because of it.

Here’s one of my fond memories of Tony.

One day we were at the studio and some young kids were playing ball in the parking lot. The garage door was open, and the kids were looking at all the marionettes inside. Richard, Tony and I were in there. Tony was manipulating Maxine as he was going over a new script for Dusty’s Treehouse. One of the kids recognized the puppet, and yelled, “Where’s Dusty?” And without breaking stride, Tony shot the kid a look and in his bitchiest voice said, “Dusty’s dead.”

I felt sad for the kid, but Richard and I couldn’t stop laughing.

The other thing we used to do when Tony wasn’t around was have a little fun with the Piano Player puppet. His hands were sculpted as if he were playing the keyboard. So Richard would grab the strings, fly him around the room, then land him on the side of a plastic trash can. He’d have his hands on the side, and make his head look down in the trash can and make throwing up sounds. It was awesome.

Guess you had to be there.

Anyway, there comes a time in every boys life where he has to stop playing with dolls, so eventually I moved on. Fortunately I found my calling, such as it is, in advertising.

There's about the same amount of manipulation and string pulling.

But at least I don't have to wear the tights.

A little bug

My first question is why does a post-it note need a push pin? These are the things you ponder when you're sick and have too much time to think.

Being sick sucks. I started feeling bad Sunday, with the symptoms getting gradually worse. Runny nose, clammy, aching. Classic signs of a cold/flu-y kind of thing coming on.

I thought the timing was interesting, because I was sick for about a week before my last gig started. And I'm starting a new gig next week. History repeating itself.

Monday was the big surprise morning though. I let loose with a vicious sneeze, so hard in fact that I blew a blood vessel and had a nosebleed that looked like the scene of the crime. Or a Dexter audition.

So that was fun.

In the past, I've had to have my nose cauterized for a vessel that wouldn't stop, so I thought maybe that was happening again. But I got to my Ear/Nose/Throat doctor, and he said it didn't have to be done this time.

I haven't had another one - sneeze or nosebleed - since Monday.

So for the last couple days, and for the next couple, it's me, the humidifier and catching up with whatever's on the DVR. And making a brief, exhausting appearance or two at the kids final concerts before they graduate - one to college, one to next year in high school.

I know you've become accustomed to me wrapping up these posts with a snappy little line. And while I hate to disappoint my five readers, I just don't have it in me today. Sure, I know there's a joke somewhere about "nothing to sneeze at..." but I just don't feel up to looking for it right now.

Back to bed.

Five good things about advertising. You read that right.

I don't know whether you've noticed, but every once in a great while I use this blog to rag on advertising, the monster egos, the hipster planners and the open space seating (don't get me started).

But don't get the wrong idea. Despite my occasional rants, there are great things about working in advertising you don't get in, say, the insurance industry. Or working for the DMV. For example getting to dress like a fourteen-year old every day. Free food every single place you turn. Enjoying some of the most creative people you'll ever meet in any business on a daily basis.

Plus covered parking if you get to work early enough. So I hear.

Anyway it occurred to me I've had some great things happen as a result of being in the biz, and I don't talk about them nearly enough. But all of that's about to change. Here are five good things that've happened because I'm in the business I'm in:

1. I met my wife.

Of all the things that've happened and I've experienced since I've worked in advertising, I have to say the very best has been meeting my wife.

And when I say I have to say, I mean I have to say.

She was on an agency tour her first day, and they brought her around to the creative directors' office where I happened to be. I saw her in the doorway and thought "She's kind of cute." She saw me and thought, "OK, I can work with this."

She is the wind beneath my wings, the woman behind the man. She is my editor - yes I have one - and my best friend. She has the patience of a saint, although she doesn't really need it because being married to me is a walk in the park. Central Park at midnight, but still.

She makes me, my writing and my life better than it had any chance of being without her.

Well I think I've banked enough marriage points for one night, don't you? Love you honey.

2. I saw Springsteen in Atlanta.

I've worked on Taco Bell at three different agencies in my career (pauses until giggles are over for using the word career). And all three times, I had a great relationship with the client.

The first agency I worked on the account, the client was also a Springsteen fan. So when she went on a thirteen-market store tour, one of the stops was Atlanta, and it happened to be the same night as Springsteen was playing at the Omni.

She called their local market agency, and had them get some killer seats for the concert (media people can do anything). Then she called my agency in L.A., and told them to fly me to Atlanta so I could see the show with her and a few franchisees. My creative director told her I was swamped and wouldn't be able to make the trip. She told him she wasn't asking.

Next thing I knew, I was in a Lincoln Town Car on my way to LAX for a flight to Atlanta. That was a great day in advertising. And it was a great show.

3. I talked to Lee Clow about German Shepherds.

If you're not in advertising and don't know who Lee Clow is, suffice it to say he's an advertising legend. The real deal. Google him now.

If you're in advertising and you don't know who Lee Clow is, then you're not in advertising.

I freelanced for almost a year at Chiat Day, working on the Uncle Ben's account. I sat right behind Lee's office. Since Chiat is an extremely dog friendly agency, one day I brought the world's greatest dog, my long-haired German Shepherd Max to work with me. He was two and half at the time.

I started to walk Max past Lee's office, and Lee, who was with a group of people across the agency, saw him and immediately came over to us. He got down on his knees, started petting Max and asking me about him. Then he took us in his office, where he showed me pictures of his shepherds, both past and present. One of them looked startlingly like Max.

We talked about a half hour, not just about the dogs but about advertising in general, life, family, and then the shepherds again. Then he had to get back to the meeting he'd left when he came over to us. When Max and I came out of his office, the Associate Creative Director who'd brought me in for the job saw us walking out with him. He came up to me after and said, "What was that about?" To which I replied, "Geez it gets so old. Every day, it's 'Jeff, how would you do it?'"

4. I overcame my fear of flying.

You'd never know it now, but I used to have a horrible fear of flying. Now I just have a horrible fear of flying coach.

I'd go out of my way and do just about anything not to get on a plane. One time, I took at train to San Antonio, Texas for a client meeting. At the time, the head of the agency thought I was being creative. Today he'd just think I'm an idiot.

Anyway, years ago I wound up freelancing at Foote, Cone and Belding in San Francisco. I lived in Santa Monica. But I figured it was only an hour flight twice a week, and the odds were in my favor I'd be fine.

Turns out my first week, I flew to San Francisco, then to Dallas for focus groups, then back to San Francisco, then to Atlanta (also for focus groups), then back to San Francisco, then to L.A. for a friend's going away party, then back up to San Francisco. Seven flights the first week. There were also weeks I'd go back and forth from L.A. two or three times.

I earned a lot of United miles, got upgraded frequently and learned to love flying. A friend of mine even gave me a charm that says Flyboy. Of course statistically, flying is still the safest way to travel. And the nicest. Did I mention the upgrades?

5. The friends I keep.

Maybe the best thing about working in advertising are the people I get to work with (for the most part - you know who you are). I get to hang with exceptionally creative people I learn from, and who force me to raise my game every time. We're in the advertising foxhole together, and it makes even the worst days more bearable.

There you have it. Now you can't accuse me of not saying anything nice about advertising. And if I'm going to be truthful, there are many other good things to say about it. So much so, I was thinking maybe I should turn this into an ongoing series of posts, like my wildly successful Don't Ask, Guilty Pleasures or Things I Love About Costco series. But then, I had another thought.

Let's not get carried away.

Don't ask: Writing a letter for you

It's been awhile since I've added to my wildly popular Don't Ask series of posts. If you read this blog with any regularity - and if you do you really should try to get out to a bookstore or a library - you know I've already covered moving, picking people up at the airport, sharing my food, loaning you money and sharing my hotel room.

Sharing seems to be something I'm not very fond of. I'm an only child. Does it show?

Anyway, I get asked by a lot of friends and family to write letters for them. Letters of recommendation, letters complaining to a company about someone or some slight they think they've been on the receiving end of, resume cover letters, as well as the resume itself.

I know why they ask. I'm a writer. I do it for a living, and I'm not bad at it. But when I'm done writing all day for my job, I don't even want to write things for myself, much less you, when I get home.

I just want to binge Breaking Bad or House of Cards again.

I do appreciate the compliment of you asking. That you think my words would get better results than yours, or would communicate what you want to say more clearly. Which no doubt they would - I mentioned I was good at this, right?

Anyway, there's no secret to getting results. Address your grievance to the CEO, not to the underlings. Use spellcheck. And say what you need to say without trying to be fancy or funny. Simple advice, no?

You might want to write it down.

Just don't ask me to do it for you.

Into the fryer

I was reading an article about how minimum wage employees at McDonald's are going to go after the company because they occasionally get themselves burned on the job. Seems to me if you're working with hot grills, fryers full of hot oil and flames, getting burned just might be an occupational hazard.

Still, it's no fun. I know from experience.

The first job I ever had was at Fisher's Hamburgers at the Town and Country Shopping Center, across from Farmer's Market on 3rd and Fairfax. At the time, Fisher's was one of L.A.'s renowned hamburger places, often mentioned in the same revered breath by burger lovers as Tommy's, Cassell's, Dolores' and The Apple Pan. I'd eaten at Fisher's for years with my parents, and liked it so much I decided I wanted to work there. Displaying an unusual amount of moxie for a kid as young as I was at the time, I went in one day, walked right up to the owner - a man named Howard Shear - and asked if I could have a job. To my everlasting surprise, he gave me one.

I won't go into dates and ages, because that's on a need-to-know basis. And you don't need to know. Let's just say I could only dream of making the minimum wage McDonald's employees get today.

I learned all the details of how the restaurant worked. I made tartar sauce and thousand island dressing (not together) in vats in back that were so big we stirred them with our arms. Still not sure how the health department let that one get by. I also learned how to work all the stations at Fisher's: the register, the grill, the soda fountain, and the french fries.

The fryers were like the ones in the picture - big vats of oil heated to 400 degrees. The way you made fries was by putting raw, sliced potatoes in the basket, lowering it into the oil, and setting the timer for a couple minutes. When the fries were ready, you'd lift the basket out by the handle and shake the excess oil off the fries. In that process, lots of fries fell into the oil. Because of that, the fryers had to be cleaned many times during the course of the day.

The way you cleaned the fries out was by running a strainer over the top of the oil and scooping them up.

One day, I was cleaning the fryer and the handle on the strainer was a little greasy (Strainer? You strainer you brought her. Thanks, I'll be here all week). So I'm holding the greasy strainer handle, and it suddenly slips out of my hand and disappears down into the fryer. Without thinking, my cat-like reflexes kicked into action and I reached down into the boiling oil up to my elbow to grab it.

As we say in my country, not a smart move.

Everything went into slow motion. I looked down at my arm in the oil for what felt like hours, but in reality was only seconds. Next, I realized I could feel it burning and yanked it out (with the strainer in hand - mission accomplished). I dropped the strainer, and made a beeline to the ice machine by the soda fountain and rammed my red, right arm into the ice. To this day, I can hear the sizzling of the ice on my hot skin.

Fortunately, I'd gotten there fast enough. The ice took the burn away, and I had no scarring. Other than the emotional kind for doing something so stupid.

But the most important thing is I learned a valuable lesson I still use to this very day.

Don't go asking for jobs if you don't really need one.

Let's keep this short

Today is Super Bowl Sunday, so it probably doesn't matter what I write since no one will be reading it (I know, why is this day different from any other?)?

I've written here a couple of times, here and here, about my futile, humiliating, nothing-can-make-me-feel-more- stupid-with-the-possible-exception-of-my-children attempts to become a contestant on Jeopardy.

However, as I was watching the show the other night, it hit me like a bolt of what is lightning (see what I did there?). I've been applying for the wrong position.

Instead of contestant, I should be going for Jeopardy category writer. It's not like I don't know how to bring the funny. Depending on who you ask, I do it for a living. And those category titles and answers are short. Nothing I like better than short copy, with the possible exception of the paycheck that comes with writing it.

I always think the categories reflect the writer's personal tastes. So it'll come as a surprise to no one that my first Jeopardy categories would be Springsteen, Breaking Bad, The Godfather, Sushi Bars, German cars, Helen Mirren and Potpourri (have to keep some traditions alive).

Moving on to the double Jeopardy round, which is always harder, I'd have Movie Palaces, Star Trek, Stand-Up Comics, Seinfeld (I know he's a stand-up, but really, a category unto himself), Is This Thing On and Star Wars Geography (This planet was destroyed by the Death Star super laser in Episode IV: A New Hope...).

Unfortunately you can't go online to apply for the category writer job, so I'll have to see who I know and how to get stuff to them.

Another great job for me would be lotto winner. Working on that one as well.

By the way, it was Alderaan.

Unemployment line

A friend of mine, who's an excellent writer, and I believe from my experiences with him a decent individual, put up a post about someone he didn't know who'd tried to contact him on LinkedIn. Universal experience. Happens to all of us.

Whoever it was that hit my friend up for a connection listed his job as Independent Marketing & Advertising Professional, which, as we all know, is LinkedIn code for unemployed. My friend replied maybe the guy wasn't that good at advertising if he couldn't think of a better way to say it.

Now, I totally recognize my friend was just being funny. And don't get me wrong. I like a harsh, sharp, snarky line as much as the next guy. God knows I've written my share of them. But this time, it just struck me wrong.

Not wrong, hurtful. I felt bad for the guy.

I've said it many times before - if you're in advertising and you're unemployed, all it means is you showed up one day. Obviously the guy was unemployed. We've all been. And I was startled that my friend, who knows what it's like to be unemployed, came off as harsh as he did in his comment.

The point of LinkedIn isn't to announce you're unemployed - it's to make yourself look as good as possible to potential employers and digitally network as much as possible. Two things it seems to me this guy was trying to do. (Just to be clear, I wouldn't link with someone I don't know either - but I wouldn't blame 'em for trying).

We're all in the advertising foxhole together, and anyone in the business will tell you things ain't what they used to be. And they're not going to be again. Me, my friend and the guy on LinkedIn are all just trying to do our best.

Every once in awhile, contrary to how it may appear, I believe a little slack-cutting is in order.

Paper trail

My pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen put up a post today that got me thinking, nostalgically, about the non-advertising jobs I’ve had.

It’s a long list.

I won't take you through them all, although delivery boy for Leo's Flowers and driver for Bob Hope's best friend did have their post-worthy moments. Another time.

For today, under the heading of “What were you thinking?!” jobs, one of my first was a paperboy for the Los Angeles Herald Examiner. If that name isn't familiar, it's because the Herald doesn't exist anymore and hasn't for a long time. It was a great newspaper, from a bygone time when L.A. was a two paper town.

I’d get the papers tossed off the truck in bundles in front of my house. Then I'd have to fold and rubber band them, put them in the giant canvas bags that hung and swung from the towering handlebars of my Schwinn Stingray, and try not to lose my balance as I went wobbling on wheels down the street delivering them.

The only thing worse than the daily paper was the Sunday Herald. Thick, filled with crappy ads someone wrote (who would want that job?), hard to fold and heavy to throw, I figured out early on why Sunday mornings were a time for prayer.

In all modesty, I have to say I did develop into a pretty good pitcher, chucking those papers dead center on to the Welcome mats of subscribers homes I rode past. If major league baseball had been scouting paperboys, things might've been different.

Back then, the way I got paid was to go and get it. There were no credit payments, PayPal or online payments. At the end of each month, I’d go door-to-door, my receipt book in hand, and try to collect payment for the month of papers my subscribers had already received.

See if you can figure out how many ways this was a bad idea.

Child knocking on doors at dinnertime? Child carrying money on him? Child arguing with adults about getting paid? Adults swearing at child about paying for the paper? Suffice it to say that even though I was making some change, the end of the month was not something I looked forward to.

Like the papers, the job eventually folded (see what I did there?). But I learned a lot about myself, a great lesson on how I felt about starting the day early, working hard and getting the job done.

It's a lesson I remember each and every day. When I get in at 10.

Don't ask: Loaning you money

From the series of posts that brought you Don't ask: Sharing a hotel room, Don't ask: Picking up at the airport and the wildly popular Don't ask: Moving, now comes the one you've all been waiting for.

Money's a touchy issue with most people. In my experience, friends don't like to talk about it when they have too much, and they don't like to talk about it when they have too little.

You know when I don't like to talk about it? When you're asking me for some.

I don't mean to sound like I've never loaned friends money, I have. But the whole, "You remember you owe me some money?" "Oh yeah, yeah, I have some cash coming in soon and I'll get it to you..." dynamic is never a comfortable exchange. And in my experience, that cash coming in usually arrives around the 12th of never.

I remember one time, out of the goodness of my heart, I loaned a friend $250 to pay his rent. A few months went by - months I should mention where I never said a word about the money - and he finally sold something, got a job or whatever. He told me how happy he was, because he was able to pay back all the people who'd loaned him money. Then he started listing names and, I know this will come as a shock, he didn't mention mine.

Whether it's professionally or especially personally, I don't like chasing my money down.

There's also something that rubs me the wrong way about the assumption I have money just lying around to loan to friends in need. I wish that were the case. But the fact is I have a wife, two kids and a German Shepherd. I'm not naming names, but two of them have college coming up, one of them needs his shots and I have an anniversary with one of them in the near future.

Any money I had, have or will have is already spoken for well into the foreseeable future.

Again, don't mean to sound unsympathetic. I understand the price of everything is sky high. Jobs are shaky and in short supply. Bank accounts are red-lining.

All I can say is if you need a little cash to hold you over, you should check between the couch cushions. Or the car seats. Raid the kids piggy bank. Dip into the penny jar.

And if all that fails, remember, there's no shame in calling for help.

Just as long as you're not calling me.

Greetings

Here's a trend I could do without. Greeters.

It's not that I'm an unfriendly person. I think if you asked anyone who knows me, right after they stopped laughing they'd tell you I'm actually pretty much of a social butterfly.

But really, this trend of having greeters at every business has to stop.

Of course Walmart is where it all started. It was originally hailed as a great idea, letting retirees earn some money and interact with the public by giving them smiles, handshakes and fist-bumps.

Plus, what with the blue vest, it gave eighty-year olds yet another fashion option.

But like weeds, now greeters are popping up all over. The place that it irritates me the most is at my bank, Wells Fargo.

Already known as a bastion of friendliness and personal attention (cough, cough), now I can't even run into the bank without being stopped in my tracks with "Welcome to Wells Fargo" and "How's your day going?" and other assorted small talk.

Here's the thing: when I run into the bank, I want to run into the bank and run back out again. What I don't want is to be intercepted by a teller walking the floor, who should be behind the counter making that winding line move faster.

As if that isn't annoying enough, now the tellers are suddenly all chatty and small talk. "Is it nice outside today?" Really? Here's an idea: look out the fuckin' window while you're taking my deposit. "Busy day for ya?" If it is, standing here talking to you isn't going to help is it.

I appreciate that they're trying to humanize the experience and promote a friendly image. But the needs of the customer have to come first, and no one's in there to make friends.

So stop talking to me, do your job, and get me out of there as fast as you can.

And have a nice day.

A tip for restaurants

I enjoy going out to eat. Whether it's alone or with friends and family, it’s one of life’s little luxuries and I’m grateful I’m in a position to do it almost as often as I like.

I also happen to enjoy good service. It’s like great art: you know it when you see it. And when I’ve been on the receiving end of an attentive, prompt, knowledgeable, intelligent, humorous, caring, alert food server, I have no problem showing my appreciation by saying it with cash in the form of a generous tip.

What can I say. I’m a giver.

What I don’t need is a Gratuity Guideline on my check. Especially one that starts at 18%. If the service has been lousy, 18% is going to be an impossible dream for the server.

For me, this has exactly the opposite of the intended effect. Instead of being grateful for them doing the math for me, I resent the fact they want me to consider the tip at a certain starting amount, regardless of the quality of the service.

From what I can tell, most of the time the wait-staff is a little embarrassed by it as well.

If they’re going to give me guidelines on how much I should leave for a tip, I’d like to offer restaurants the following guidelines on how to run their business.

First, hire people who want to be there. Really nothing worse than a waiter or waitress who makes you feel like they’re doing you a favor by taking your order. Don't make me wait until the mood strikes you before you come over.

Make sure your staff knows the menu. Enough with “I’ll check with the kitchen.” They should know the menu as well as they know their next audition time. They should also know the ingredients in every item, if substitutions are allowed, and what the specials are.

Remember the reason we’re there is because we’re hungry. The fact their job description has the word “wait” in it shouldn’t be taken literally. Whether they’re bringing the food or an expediter is, it should arrive promptly and hot if it’s a cooked item.

Clear my table as you go. I hate trying to navigate the battlefield of used plates, glasses, soiled napkins and silverware. No I don't want to "hang on to my fork." When you bring some, take some away.

Find a balance. Don’t come by every two minutes asking if everything’s alright, but don’t disappear entirely either. Strike a balance between being a good server and annoying the crap out of me by asking me questions every few minutes while I’m trying to enjoy my meal. And when you ask, it'd be better to do it when I don't have a mouthful of food.

Do laundry. Whether you wear your own clothes on the job or the restaurant provides a uniform, make sure it looks clean and crisp. It not only reflects on you but, in the same way a clean car runs better, it makes the food taste better.

Don't bring the check in the middle of the meal. And don't say, "I'm just going to leave it here. Take your time." When you bring the check before I'm anywhere near done, what you're really saying is, "Here's your hat. What's your hurry?" The other thing the check says is you're done with me. And I don't want you to be done with me until I'm done with my meal.

Stop upselling me dessert. I know this comes right out of the manual and you're required to do it. But be the William Wallace (look it up) of the dessert tray and strike a blow for independent thinking. If we've had enough food to feed an army, and look like we're going to explode, don't ask about dessert. Just bring the check.

There's definitely more advice I could dish out, but that seems like a good start. Don't worry about tipping me for it.

It's on me.