Make some noise

My car is making a noise. It's a new noise, one it hasn't made since I've owned it.

It's a hard to describe noise. One of those "You'll know it when you hear it..." noises.

I, of course, hear it all the time.

I couldn't tell if the noise was doing damage or not, so I took it to my mechanic to have it checked out. Here's the funny part: he couldn't get the car to make the noise.

He kept it for two or three days, but it was no go. My car was as quiet as a church mouse and purring like a kitten when he drove it. So I went back, picked it up and drove it home. And guess what? It made the noise all the way home.

I thought to myself if my independent guy can't find it, maybe someone who has a lot of experience with my model car day in and day out would have better luck. So last Thursday, I drove my car to the dealer. I picked it up today. For those of you keeping count, that's six days they had to find the noise.

They couldn't find it.

Here's my theory. I believe, much like Stephen King's Christine, that my car is alive. Somehow it's found out I've been online looking at new cars to replace it, and now it's decided to punish me for it.

With a noise no one else but me can hear, it's made me think twice about selling it. I'm afraid when I'm least expecting it, the car will let the noise rip while every prospective buyer takes it for a test drive. I could always trade it in and take the financial hit, but I'm sure just as they were pulling it into the garage it would do it again and they'd offer me even less than they normally would.

As far as I can tell, I have two choices: run it into the ground, or wait and see if the noise disappears over time (just like my high school girlfriend).

Whichever road I decide to take, I'm sure you'll hear about it. If the car wants you to.

Quiet time

Ad agencies are inherently loud places.

Even before open space floor plans – don’t get me started- hallways would be filled with people yelling from one office to the other.

You'd hear self-congratulatory chuckles of creative teams laughing at their own ideas.

Heels tapping along polished cement floors, while people walked fast and conversed like they were on The West Wing.

And of course, the ever present click clack of computer keys, followed by the jet engine roar of the printer firing up and spitting out copies of resumes…er…creative briefs.

There’s an unmistakable rhythm, hum and drone to the daily pace of an agency. Which is why it’s so eerie when an agency goes quiet.

Sometimes it’s a convergence of several things. People have left or been let go and have yet to be replaced. Others are out on production. Art directors are out on press checks. Copywriters are working (on our lattes) at Starbucks. People are behind closed doors in meetings.

The end result is an unsettling, yet welcome quiet. You can almost hear the tumbleweeds a blowin’ down the hallway and smell the honeysuckle.

Anyway, as sure as the the ebb and flo of the tide, the noise eventually returns to quiet agencies like swallows to Capistrano.

Loud, egotistical, long-lunching, knit-cap wearing, ironic-tshirt sporting, complaining swallows.

Call it a loaner

Yesterday, my car started making what I like to call an expensive sound.

When I hit the gas – or as we say in my country, accelerator – there’s a loud clunk as the car moves forward.

At first I thought something in the trunk was being thrown back against the lid. But since the clunk was coming from the front of the car, since this isn’t 1973 and since I don’t drive a VW Super Beetle, I quickly ruled that out.

Next I did what you’d think I’d have learned by now not to do. I went on the interwebs to research the noise. If I wasn’t filled with wallet anxiety before I went on, I sure was after.

Googling (I don’t care how large that company is, it’s still a stupid looking word) the sound and my car model brought up 11,300 results - everything from transmission to power train to wheel bearings to differential to radiator cap (?) and more.

The good news is when I took my car into the dealer this morning, they gave me a loaner to drive today while they gouge, I mean, figure out what’s wrong with my car. The loaner, like the above picture, is this year’s model of my car which coincidentally I’ve been wanting to drive. And it’s a hybrid.

Now, if you know anything about me - and you should, because really, we don't have secrets between us - you know I’m not a fan of hybrid cars. But I’m just going to say it: this one is awesome. Just as much power as mine, all the new model’s gadgets and gizmos, and, most importantly, that new car smell.

I'm also in advertising and understand the meaning of upsell. I realize it's no coincidence they gave me a loaner that's a newer model of a car they already know I love, and would probably want to have the latest model of with all it's bells, whistles and new body styling.

Damn if it's not working. Ad people are the most gullible even when we know the tactics.

Anyway, while I’m hoping and praying my clunking noise turns out to be something minor and inexpensive, I’m also hoping it takes them overnight to figure it out so I can enjoy the loaner just a bit longer. Which I'm sure it will.

After all, that's how loaners turn into keepers.

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.