Encore post: Ass scratching' nomad

Before I tell you how "ass scratchin' nomad" became my new favorite saying, let's talk about the picture.

If you're a regular reader—and if you are you should get out more often—you know each post usually has a large, relevant photo centered at the top.

But I felt, and I believe you will too, that no one needed to see this particular picture any larger than it is.

Just so you know, the photo isn't of the person I'll be talking about. Butt the action is (see what I did there?).

Because our agency has grown so fast, there are now more people than there is space for them all (still waiting for them to ask me for recommendations about who to tie the can to-don't get me started). Anyway, an individual at my agency, who doesn't have an actual desk or workspace to call his own, wanders around from desk to desk and person to person doing whatever the fuck it is he does there.

So get this: apparently while he was discussing business with someone at the agency, he was leaning on the end of their desk, with his elbows in front of him, and his low-riding blue-jeaned derriere sticking out in the aisle between desks.

And while that may have been a comfortable position for him to discuss business, it wasn't exactly the best view for the individual sitting at the desk directly behind him.

Little did they know the view was about to get a lot worse.

Apparently Mr. No Office had an itch to scratch. So, being cultured and part of polite society, he quickly excused himself, went to find some privacy in the men's room, and discreetly attended to the need.

I'm just messin' with you. He crammed his hand down his pants, under the waistband, and scratched his sweaty, unwashed ass for longer than anyone wanted to watch.

It's the kind of slick move legends are made of. It's also the kind of story that spreads like wildfire through an agency.

I share an office just down the way from where the ass-scratching incident occurred. With me in our one-window, no-view office are three roommates. One of them happens to be an extremely funny writer. Wait, I meant another extremely funny writer.

When the story of the ass scratching eventually made its way to our office, my fellow writer was mortified. She couldn't believe someone would do that kind of thing out in the open for everyone to see. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "As if the job isn't hard enough, now I have to worry about seeing some ass-scratchin' nomad when I'm walking in the office."

BAM! My new favorite phrase was born.

If you know anything about me, you know I'll often take a phrase or joke I like, hang on to it like a rodeo rider and run it into the ground until people know I'm going to say it before I do. If you think I'm kidding, go back through my posts and see if you can count how many times you see the words "high school girlfriend."

True to form, every day since I heard it, I've been trying to work "ass scratchin' nomad" into my office conversation at least once a day.

So thank you to my writer roommate for a line I'm having immense fun with, and that cracks me up every time I think about it.

When we were discussing the event, someone said the moral of the story is if you're going to scratch an itch like that, maybe you ought to find a more discreet place to do it. But I think that's all wrong.

The moral of the story is don't shake hands with him.

The coasters

I'm a riddle. Wrapped in an enigma. Sometimes I'm difficult to please, but that's usually only in my waking hours. Other times, the simplest things bring me an unreasonable amount of pure, unadulterated joy.

Or maybe I've been locked up in my house too long.

Anyway, one thing that dials up the happiness factor to 11 for me is the perfect coaster. If you have water rings staining all your wooden tabletops, you're probably not familiar with them. That or you're single.

Coasters protect the furniture. You put them under your drink, and they prevent moisture from leaving an imprint on the wood.

Even before face masks and hand sanitizer, coasters had already become a household fashion accessory. You could get them with scenic pictures. Reproduced works of art. Rock stars. You could order them customized with logos, sayings, quotes and in any size, shape, color or material you wanted.

Over the years, and by no means intentionally, I've collected my share of coasters, mostly from people who didn't want to spend more on a real gift. I have more sets of 6 coasters than I'll ever have glasses to put on them. The funny thing is, like my children, I definitely have a favorite.

Also like my children, it probably isn't the one you expected.

As you take a gander at a sampling of my collection above, I can read your mind. It's not hard. First, you're thinking doesn't he have anything better to post about. And the answer is if I did, would you be reading this?

Second, because of who I am and what you know about me from following this blog so long—and if I haven't said thank you lately, thank you—I'm guessing you're guessing my favorite coaster would be the square-with-round-corners one with the picture of Bruce Springsteen circa the Born In The USA album.

I didn't want you to hear it this way, but you're wrong. Actually, it's this one.

This cork coaster was given to me by my friend Johnny when we worked together and shared an office at an agency in Huntington Beach. It was a creative shop—you could tell because they named the conference rooms after different beaches. I don't know how Goodby sleeps at night knowing there's that kind of creative horsepower competing against them.

I may have digressed.

The beauty of this coaster is it's not beautiful. It's quintessentially exactly what a coaster should be. Form following function, with the lip around the edge preventing any excess moisture from spilling over. And because of the material, it doesn't slide around on a slick desktop, which means no accidental spills (unless I'm really trying).

When I, along with ten other people, were laid off from the agency at the beach with the conference room names they must've given at least thirty seconds of thought to, the first thing I packed up wasn't the ads I'd done, my laptop or my coffee mug. Literally the first thing was this coaster. Sure there was that whole form follows function thing, but I think it also reminds me of the great times I had working with Johnny as well as my other two office roommates, Nicole and my art director partner Imke.

At any rate, it's a little thing I suppose wouldn't mean much to most people. But it brings me great joy every time I use it.

I can only imagine how happy I'd be if Johnny would finally pony up for the other five.

Slumber party of one

On the list of things I love in the world, right at the top along with air conditioning, the Fastrak lane and good water pressure are naps.

If you've been following this blog for a while—and really, besides the writing is there any reason not to?—you know this isn't the first time I've written about naps. There was this post from back in 2014. But like money and love, naps are the universal language. I'm sure this won't be the last time I write about them.

As you can probably tell by now, I had a stellar nap today. I really had no say in the matter. One minute there I was sitting in the comfy of my favorite reading chair, reading the newest Stephen King book and trying to keep my eyes open (which had nothing to do with the book), and the next my head was hitting the pillow in the bedroom and I was out for two and a half hours.

Clearly, I'm not a power napper. Those little twenty minute catnaps experts keep saying are supposed to energize you? Not so much. They do nothing but make me groggy and unable to think. Which a lot of people think is my natural state.

The good news is after a long nap, I wake up refreshed and ready to tackle what the day has in store for me. Except maybe a good night's sleep. It's the cruel joke of a great nap—I pay for the daytime sleep with no nighttime sleep. I'll be up for hours because another thing my long nap does is take the edge off the sleepy.

Many times at work, I've felt myself start to nod off at my desk. And if I didn't share an office with three other people, I might just turn out the lights, close the door (yes, I have a door) and grab a shorter-than-I'd-like nap.

Right now my agency is undergoing a remodel, you know, to an open office space to make sure no one including me has doors. Don't get me started. Anyway, maybe they'll be forward thinking enough to build out a few nap rooms where people can go recharge during the day. Otherwise, I can just grab a few quick zzzz's the same place I always do.

In the status meetings.

Ass scratchin' nomad

Before I tell you how "ass scratchin' nomad" became my new favorite saying, let's talk about the picture.

If you're a regular reader—and if you are you should get out more often—you know each post usually has a large, relevant photo centered at the top.

But I felt, and I believe you will too, that no one needed to see this particular picture any larger than it is.

Just so you know, the photo isn't of the person I'll be talking about. Butt the action is (see what I did there?).

Because our agency has grown so fast, there are now more people than there is space for them all (still waiting for them to ask me for recommendations about who to tie the can to-don't get me started). Anyway, an individual at my agency, who doesn't have an actual desk or workspace to call his own, wanders around from desk to desk and person to person doing whatever the fuck it is he does there.

So get this: apparently while he was discussing business with someone at the agency, he was leaning on the end of their desk, with his elbows in front of him, and his low-riding blue-jeaned derriere sticking out in the aisle between desks.

And while that may have been a comfortable position for him to discuss business, it wasn't exactly the best view for the individual sitting at the desk directly behind him.

Little did they know the view was about to get a lot worse.

Apparently Mr. No Office had an itch to scratch. So, being cultured and part of polite society, he quickly excused himself, went to find some privacy in the men's room, and discreetly attended to the need.

I'm just messin' with you. He crammed his hand down his pants, under the waistband, and scratched his sweaty, unwashed ass for longer than anyone wanted to watch.

It's the kind of slick move legends are made of. It's also the kind of story that spreads like wildfire through an agency.

I share an office just down the way from where the ass-scratching incident occurred. With me in our one-window, no-view office are three roommates. One of them happens to be an extremely funny writer. Wait, I meant another extremely funny writer.

When the story of the ass scratching eventually made its way to our office, my fellow writer was mortified. She couldn't believe someone would do that kind of thing out in the open for everyone to see. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "As if the job isn't hard enough, now I have to worry about seeing some ass-scratchin' nomad when I'm walking in the office."

BAM! My new favorite phrase was born.

If you know anything about me, you know I'll often take a phrase or joke I like, hang on to it like a rodeo rider and run it into the ground until people know I'm going to say it before I do. If you think I'm kidding, go back through my posts and see if you can count how many times you see the words "high school girlfriend."

True to form, every day since I heard it, I've been trying to work "ass scratchin' nomad" into my office conversation at least once a day.

So thank you to my writer roommate for a line I'm having immense fun with, and that cracks me up every time I think about it.

When we were discussing the event, someone said the moral of the story is if you're going to scratch an itch like that, maybe you ought to find a more discreet place to do it. But I think that's all wrong.

The moral of the story is don't shake hands with him.

Office shuffle

No matter how close you're watching, you still won't know where it winds up.

You don't have to work at an advertising agency long before you go through it. In fact, you'll probably go through it several times if you're there for more than a few months. It starts innocently enough, usually with a casual stroll through reception. Everything seems normal, but then your Spidey sense alerts you to the boxes, bins and packing tape sitting against the wall, trying desperately not to be noticed. And then the realization hits you—it can only mean one thing: you're being moved to another office in the building.

Every once in a while, someone "upstairs" gets an itch that can only be scratched by inconveniencing and relocating dozens of employees who were perfectly happy and productive right where they were. The reasons, like the creation of the universe or how a dipshit like Trump got elected, might never be fully known. But when it comes to educated guesses, there is always the list.

We're putting each group all together.

We're growing and need more room.

We're giving everyone a fresh start.

And the ever popular, we're shaking things up (or in agency speak: disrupting things).

Whatever. Before I was one person in an office of four. After the move, I still am—except the office is virtually half the size of the old one. And since the desks, monitors, chairs, ideas and my stomach haven't gotten any smaller, needless to say it's going to be a tight fit.

But damn it, I'm paid to solve problems day in and day out. So after putting a little of my pricey brainpower against this issue, here's a solution I've come up with.

For starters, maybe instead of wasting everyone's day with a move they don't want they could just leave things the fuck alone since they were working fine before. Even if it wasn't perfect, to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, "Agency life finds a way."

The other thing I'm sure isn't calculated in the bottom line is how much time is wasted while people walk around trying to find where their colleagues are sitting now.

"Oh, you're here now?" There's a seating chart, but so far no one's carrying it with them.

I'll stop my whining now (you're welcome). It's not the worst thing that's happened in my life, and I'm sure eventually I'll get used to the new world order, as I always do. Besides, it'll only be the new world order until they decide to move everyone's office again.

In a month.

Germ of an idea

Whenever I hear "It's the season!" I know whoever said it means the Christmas, Joy To The World, Goodwill Towards All time of year. I'm all for it (except for the Mariah Carey Christmas song Macy's has on a loop).

But the holiday season happens to coincide with another, less popular one—cold and flu season.

If you work in an office like I do—with central air-conditioning you thought was your friend—you know colds and flu shoot through the workplace like wildfire.

It's basically a game of dominoes. Once the first person falls, it's only a matter of time before everyone else does.

You can't help getting sick, but you can help other people from getting sick. It's easy, here's the trick: stay home until you're completely better.

Not a lot better.

Not better than you were.

Not almost better.

All the way better. The way you were before you had any inkling you were coming down with anything. It's only common sense and common courtesy, amiright?

But as we all know, there are people who, in spite of a phlegmy, hacking cough, juicy sneezes, noses running faster than Usain Bolt, fever so high they could fry eggs on their foreheads and fatigue so intense they're asleep standing up, for some reason insist on coming to work.

I suppose they might feel a certain sense of responsibility to the job. Or have an unrelenting work ethic that doesn't allow them to put themselves before the job, which they feel must get done regardless of their current state of affliction.

Both things I know nothing about. Just ask anyone I work with.

I hate it when people do that for two reasons. First, the idea of coming to work in general is one I resist with everything I've got pretty much on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I've been freelance so long, or the fact I appreciate my freedom and want to set my own schedule. Maybe it's because I'm an only child and the world revolves around me (but you already knew that). It could be that I'm just a lazy bastard who'd rather sit on the couch and binge Breaking Bad, again, than earn money to pay my bills and feed my family.

A man can dream can't he?

Anyway, the idea of coming to work when I'm sick wouldn't even occur to me. Besides, hard to imagine as it is, I'm even less productive when I'm sick. And getting back to that common courtesy thought, color me old-fashioned, but I just think it'd be better not to pass along the creeping crud I'm fighting to my fellow workers. They'll remember it come Secret Santa time, which means better re-giftable items for me.

And since no one's giving out medals or raises to people who drag their sorry asses in while they're on their death beds, there's really no percentage in it.

Besides, can you ever get enough daytime television? I think not.

Sorry for the rant, but occasionally you have to knock some sense into people so they do the right thing, like stay home when they're sick, get well, and not infect anyone else along the way because they have. to. get. back. to. work.

I'm not saying this post is directed at anyone in particular, but I'm not saying it isn't. With any luck, maybe they'll read it while they're having a fever delirium in their sick bed.

Or at their desk.

Office space.

It doesn’t happen often, but like the Harmonic Convergence, total eclipse of the sun, Halley’s Comet and client approval, if you wait long enough you’ll live to see it.

Dust off those childhood dreams: NASA is now accepting astronaut applications for the upcoming Mars mission.

No doubt, despite the stringent requirements, they’ll be inundated with applications from hundreds, make that thousands, of unqualified people who haven’t seen Gravity and think space travel is as easy as booking a flight on Jet Blue. It's not. For starters, the baggage fees on the Mars trip are much steeper.

I think if NASA wants to thin the herd down to uniquely qualified candidates, the one place they should definitely start recruiting from is ad agencies. Here’s why:

Creative people are used to keeping themselves amused during long assignments that seem like they’ll never end – and often times never do.

Agency people know how to subsist on to two-day old bagels, cold pizza and pumpkin muffins so hard you could slay Goliath with them. Dehydrated, freeze-dried, bite-sized foods coated with gelatin would be like dinner at Morton’s.

The part about wearing a suit they’re uncomfortable in, even for a short time, is something they’ve done before. And sadly, peeing in that suit isn’t anything new either.

Experience being trapped in a small space with three other people you have to pretend to like? Check.

Having no choice but to accept and make course corrections from nameless, faceless voices on the other end of a speaker is something creative people do all the time.

Once there, agency people have all the knuckles and know-how needed to make a great commercial to recruit future astronauts for subsequent missions. The toughest part will be going without a trendy restaurant with an outdoor patio for lunch.

Finally, agency people will give the Red Planet a short, memorable, meaningful tagline that can be used on t-shirts, mugs and banner ads no one clicks on.

No doubt with agency people steering the ship, NASA will have the right people for the job.

As long as the job doesn't start before 10 a.m.

The fine print

Today I made an investment I'd managed to put off for years. I bought a new printer for the house.

The old printer was a HP Photosmart C8180, and it served us well for a long time. But as it got older, it would occasionally freeze up under the stress of all the work it had to churn out. Something I can definitely relate to.

Then there was that obsolete thing. With the advent of Apple AirPrint, which was not one of its capabilities, it was only a matter of time before it was taking the big dirtnap.

The good news is the price of printers has continually come down, and the technology loaded into them has steadily increased. The bad news is - and this is an odd complaint - is there are too damn many to choose from. HP. Cannon. Brother. Epson. Lexmark (never a contender). Each company making at least ten to choose from, running the gamut from inexpensive to need a co-signer.

The determining factor on price is features. Paper feeder? Yes please. Automatic double side printing? Twice the fun. 12 pages per minute? If you say so. AirPrint? How did I ever live without it.

I didn't have the cash on hand for both the new MacBook Pro I need and the new iPhone being announced next week. But I did have the $99 bucks for a new HP OfficeJet 5740 (actually I just poured a little more gas on the American Express card).

So I feel like I at least got to upgrade something.

The setup however didn't go quite as smoothly as I'd hoped. It had trouble connecting to my wireless network. I thought it'd automatically say, "Oh, Jeff's network, where you been all my life?" Not so much.

Seems I was running on a 5Ghz network, and the printer is only 2.4Ghz capable. With the help of HP Tech Support I was chatting with, who at one point told me I needed to be patient (I got your patient right here...), I created a new 2.4Ghz network for the printer to hook up with. I know, right?

Now everything's working swell, and the new printer's spitting out paper like it just took a swig of Zima.

I wonder if it'll let me print out the loan documents I'll need for the ink cartridges.

Drinking it all in

I don't think I have to tell you that over five years ago, I wrote a post about the many, many branch offices I work out of.

And by branch offices I mean Starbucks.

You may be a little cynical and think I'm bringing this up because it's a Saturday night, and I'm too lazy to think of anything new to write about. Well, no. Not entirely.

The reason I bring it up is because today I found myself working on a freelance gig at the Sunset Beach Starbucks for a few hours. And I noticed the customers who came in and out were very, how you say, beachy.

I've never worked at that office before. But I decided to widen my horizons a bit. I was tired of seeing the same people at the ones I usually work at. Plus it was a hot, sunny day and being near the water sounded like a good idea.

It made me realize even when I'm doing the same thing, there's a way to change it up. It's a lesson I could probably apply to a few other areas of my life.

I know, I should write fortune cookies or Hallmark cards - what can I say, that's what I thought.

I think I'm going to institute a new policy: every time I go work at a Starbucks, it's going to be a different one. God knows there isn't a shortage of them. I think seeing different kinds of people - how you say, clientele - helps the creative process along. That alone is reason enough to work there.

Well, that and a half-caf venti Carmel Macchiato.

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.

Taking the temperature

I happen to like colder temperatures. Not just at home, but at the office as well.

As long as I remember, people in offices have tried to break into that locked plastic, wall-mounted thermostat to control the temperature. And if you’ve ever tried to do it – not that I ever have because that would be wrong – it’s never been an easy thing to do. So I hear.

Occasionally, some maintenance guy will leave the cover unlocked, and you’ll have access to it for awhile. But despite the painstaking effort to put the cover back in a position that makes it look like it’s locked, eventually some thin-skinned whiner who wears a mohair sweater and scarf when it’s 90 degrees will rat you out because “it’s just soooo cold in here!” Then they lock it up again.

These thermostats don’t just control where you’re sitting. They control different zones in the office. The problem is it’s the same kind of common-sense zoning you find on Bourbon Street, or the Vegas strip. Maybe it controls the temperature where you’re sitting, as well as a corner on the complete other side of the office.

Fortunately, technology has made changing the temperature and messing with people much easier. Sort of.

Everything’s digital now, so you can set the temperature much more accurately. Instead of turning a dial, and waiting for that “pfsssst” sound, now you just hit an up or down arrow.

The problem is the locking system has also gotten better. Screens and their housings can be locked so only a designated person can change the temperature.

But the good news is, since so many agencies have drunk the Kool-Aid on the value of open office plans, which either limits the “zones” or makes them much larger depending on how you look at it, the opportunity to irritate a greater number of people in a shorter amount of time is very real.

Carpé freeze ‘em.

Hello dummy

I know I was going to be writing Comic Con posts this week, but then I remembered this.

I had to take my daughter to Sports Authority, or Sports Chalet, or Sports Concierge or wherever the hell it was to buy yet another pair of volleyball shoes and shorts. On the way to whatever department that stuff was in, I passed this.

The sparring dummy. I think every creative department in every agency should have one of these.

I mean one that doesn't scream like a little girl when you hit it.

Beyond the exercise benefits, it's an excellent way to alleviate frustration with account people. Just dress him up in that light blue, button-collar shirt with the yellow power tie and have at it. I don't know how much he costs, but I'm sure it's cheaper than all the wall repairs and replacing all those dented trash cans.

Now to be fair, I appreciate every once in a great while account people get frustrated with creatives. So to help them relax, and really, who doesn't want a less uptight account person, they should also have one of these on their side of the office. They could put a knit cap on him, a t-shirt with something ironic yet retro on it and have at it.

Of course, nothing unites people like a common enemy. In which case you can dress him up in one of the clients' company uniforms - if you have a fast food client you're already ahead of the game - and have at him your way (see what I did there?).

No matter how long you pummel him, he still won't go as many rounds as the work.

But it'll be much more satisfying.

Going bananas

I never should've looked.

As you may know, I often use Starbucks as my branch office when I'm working on an assignment. And, being a creature of habit, I always have a grande decaf and a slice of Banana Walnut Bread while I'm working.

Now, I've never been under the impression that it's a diet snack. But I always thought, you know - bananas? walnuts? - how bad can it be.

Well, today I found out.

A law went into effect the first of the year saying restaurants/coffee shops now have to post the calorie content of their food where the customer can see it before ordering. Which, as you can see, Starbucks has done.

Not that I ever gave any thought to it at all, but if I had I would've figured maybe 200, 250 calories. Come to find out I would've been off. By half.

It's just not fair. Where I once was just wistful and carefree ordering my faux healthy banana bread, I now find myself sweating like Mel Gibson at Passover dinner deciding whether I can justify that many calories for a snack.

Being beautiful isn't easy. I don't have to tell you.

Maybe next time I'll try to find someone else at the "office" who wants to split a slice with me. Maybe I'll just do without.

I did notice that my Starbucks sells real bananas at the register. I don't see a lot of fat chimps running around. Wonder how many calories in those?

I have more offices than you do

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


And it's not just me.

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

The parking is usually easier too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would just make me feel better.