Location Location Location

Once upon a time, I was enamored with the idea of going "on location" for commercial productions.

Paris? Prague? Peoria? Okay, maybe not Peoria.

The mere mention of a destination would trigger visions of glamorous hotels with impossibly fluffy pillows, fabulous shoot locations with jaw-dropping vistas, and after-hours culinary adventures in Michelin-starred restaurants. I’d pack my suitcase with outfits I’d never actually wear ,but felt I should bring, because who knows? Maybe I’d end up at a yacht party or something.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Fast forward to today. The idea of schlepping myself to some remote corner of the world to "capture the magic" now fills me with an existential dread rivaling that of sitting through a three-hour agency status meeting. Don’t get me wrong — I still love creating. I just don’t want to do it while battling jet lag and sketchy Wi-Fi.

Give me a soundstage in Los Angeles, a coffee cart within arm’s reach, and the sweet promise of going home to my couch by 7 p.m.

Let me paint you a picture of what "on location" really means. You wake up at 4:30 a.m. in a hotel room that smells faintly of carpet cleaner and crushed dreams. It’s pitch black outside, because the best light for your exterior shots happens at the ungodly hour of sunrise. The hotel "continental breakfast" consists of sad, cling-wrapped muffins and coffee brewed by someone who hates joy. You climb into a 15-passenger van with a crew of equally tired people, and off you go, bouncing down dirt roads not designed for motor vehicles.

Then there’s the weather. It’s either too hot, too cold, too windy, or raining sideways.

Contrast that with a soundstage in Los Angeles. You want golden hour lighting? Flip a switch. You want a sweeping mountain vista? Fire up the green screen and let the VFX team work their magic. Nobody’s getting rained on. Nobody’s asking if the porta-potties have been emptied. And nobody’s stuck in a van wondering if craft services will be set up by 6 a.m.

Soundstage life also means I can drive to work like a normal human, film some "magic," and be home in time to binge Breaking Bad for the eighteenth time. (Yes, eighteenth time. Don’t judge me.)

Sure, I’ll admit there are moments when I miss the thrill of going on location. That fleeting rush of stepping off a plane in an exotic city, the camaraderie of late-night shoots, the adventures of finding the world’s best taco stand at 2 a.m. But then I remember the other stuff — the lost luggage, the endless "hurry up and wait" routine — and my nostalgia dissolves faster than the line item for "unexpected expenses."

So here I am, praising the soundstage life. To my younger self, I say this: it’s not you, it’s the jet lag. And the weather. And the 4:30 a.m. call times. And everything else that turns capturing your creative vision into a monumental pain in the ass.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my couch, a bowl of popcorn, and Heisenberg’s greatest hits.

Watered down

Like the lawn in a torrential downpour, or cocktails at the craps table in Las Vegas, ideas for Super Bowl spots from advertising agencies—like the people who create them—are often not what they start out to be.

For a lot of creatives, the Super Bowl spot is the Holy Grail, the pinnacle, the showcase where you can either make your mark and launch into a career arc filled with money, location shoots, media girls (another time) and a title too long to fit on the puny business cards you'll never carry.

Or it can be a spectacular flop seen by a billion people and sink you faster than the Quizno's Spongmonkeys—which by the way I think is awesome and one of my favorite commercials ever. Call me crazy, but I admire the bravery of it all. Just try not singing the tune after you've seen it.

I know, right?

Anyway, there are a few rules about the annual Super Bowl assignment that seem fairly universal no matter what agency you're at. First is the freelancer's spot never gets chosen, even if it does. No agency hands the biggest boondoggle and budget of the year to the freelancers to produce. And if their spot is picked, it's—take your pick: refined, evolved, massaged—just enough for them not to be able to claim it as their own.

Next, you would think that since the date of the Super Bowl is known over a year in advance, agencies would give themselves enough lead time to concept, sell and produce the spot they really want to make. Not so much. Virtually every agency starts working on their Super Bowl spot late in the game. Then it's a mad rush to meet the goal, with everyone hoping they don't fumble.

Ok, I'm done now.

Finally, just to prove God does have a sense of humor, it's almost always the team who couldn't care less about sports who has the winning spot. Then they have to go through the entire ordeal, pretending they're interested in the game and that they have a favorite team.

Sometimes, even though it's a score (sorry) to get your Super Bowl spot sold, it takes almost more than you can muster to get motivated to see it through.

But to quote Don Draper, "That's what the money's for."

Travelin' man

Depending how much you enjoy packing five days worth of clothes into a carry-on, TSA pat downs, crying babies (on the plane, not at the agency), and off brand hotels your per diem more than covers (always a bad sign), travel can be one of the better perks of working at an advertising agency.

In the early stages of my career (pauses to consider fraudulent use of the word "career"), it seemed everyone was looking for a reason to walk the jetway as often as possible. It usually boiled down to one of three: an out-of-town client meeting, shooting on location (“We open on the Eiffel Tower...”) and the occasional new business pitch (“Every agency needs a casino…”).

A fourth reason that comes up a few times a year is award shows (Cannes) and seminars (wherever Adweek’s having one this week), but those are usually reserved for agency brass. After all they're the ones who've been working on their acceptance speech for your work for a couple weeks, so they should at least get to go.

Traveling for work on someone else’s dime is an easy inconvenience to get used to. Right up until you come home and realize the baby you left a week ago grew two inches while you were away.

Or you missed the piano recital your middle-schooler has been practicing for two months.

And that thing you wanted to do around the house didn’t get done by itself.

Travel happens to be on my mind because I’m currently on an out-of-town gig in San Francisco. A city I love, working with people I enjoy a great deal. If I wasn’t being put up in a hotel that's like the Hotel Earle in Barton Fink - without the warmth - the trip would be perfect.

Since the advent of digital, email and FaceTime, the need to travel doesn’t rear its head very often. I’ve worked for agencies in cities all across the country right from the pampered poodle comfort of my own living room. And let’s just say when I did I was always dressed for the office. Mine, not theirs.

For whatever reason, this San Francisco agency, who I’ve worked with from home for a year and a half, decided for this particular project they wanted me in the office live and in person this week. Happy to oblige.

So here’s the bottom line: Yes I miss the dog (when he’s behaving). Yes I miss the family (when they're behaving). I do miss having my own car (when it's behaving), although I’m getting to be the Lyft king of San Francisco and now know more about Lyft drivers than I ever wanted to.

On the flip side, at the end of the day, I get to walk out the door, be smacked in the face by the breeze coming in off the bay, and I'm in San Francisco. I like to file this under "things could be worse."

To sum it up then, travel is good this time. Missing home is tolerable (I'll be back tonight). I'm in a great city, with lots of chowder and sourdough. And, most importantly, the checks clear.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go present a storyboard to the creative director.

In the first frame, we open on the Eiffel Tower.

Thriller

I was in Vegas this past weekend.

Usually when I'm there, I can be found in my natural habitat - the end of a crap table rolling the bones.

But this time it was a family weekend, the last one before young Mr. Spielberg heads off to one of the best film schools in the country, and the pricey tuition that implies (I was hoping to win part of his tuition playing craps, but was forced to move on to Plan B - working the rest of my life).

Anyway, to celebrate the start of his film career we decided to see a couple of shows. One of them was the Cirque du Soleil production of Michael Jackson ONE.

Now I always liked a lot of his music, but I never would've called myself a fan. But man, slap me twice and call me Sally, this show was spectacular. Music blaring, dancers gyrating, lasers flashing, it had all the flash and spectacle you'd expect from Jackson and Vegas.

It's a multi-media show, and during a lot of it you have no idea where to look because there's so much going on. Then suddenly, there's one heartbreaking clip that almost takes your breath away: young Michael, in the Jackson 5 days, singing I'll Be There. It's a lump in your throat, not a dry eye in the house moment that doesn't let go.

There was also the first time the world saw him break out his signature moonwalk move on the 25th Anniversary of Motown special. In case you'd forgotten what an electric performer he was.

For all the energy and precision the onstage dancers moved with - and it was considerable - it was an impossible job to ask them to keep up with the footage of Jackson dancing with the intensity and deliberateness he did. He simply moved in a way that can't be duplicated.

No doubt because of his personal life and predilections there are many reasons to dislike Michael Jackson. And one great production doesn't make any of them go away.

But for one incredibly entertaining night, for the first time, I was a fan.

Oooowwwwdi

Every once in a while, a commercial comes along that restores my faith in advertising. Well, faith is a strong word. Let’s just say occasionally a spot grabs hold of me and won’t let go.

The Audi Super Bowl spot called Prom is one of them.

I love this commercial. Everything about it is perfect. The casting, the writing, the performances, the cinematography, all of it.

The fact that it’s for a car I love – yes I still miss my A6 – doesn’t hurt either.

Occasionally a director is able to catch lightning in the lens. I think he/she did it here with the shot of the prom queen opening her eyes, just after the shot of him behind the wheel with his black eye. It’s a reaction shot of her, but you feel as spellbound as she does.

So many car spots make the mistake of trying to communicate what it feels like to drive their vehicle. Where this spot succeeds brilliantly – from taking the principal’s parking spot to the beeline he makes towards the prom queen – is conveying how driving the Audi makes you feel inside. Everyone knows that feeling. Everyone wants it. What's engaging about this spot is that it’s about so much more than the car.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know I don’t lavish commercials or the business with praise very often. But to me, the simplicity, the universal truth of it, the underdog winning consequences be damned, is all done so well I wanted to make sure people are aware of it.

You know, besides the billion people who saw it on the Super Bowl.

Not ready for my close-up

Agencies have a lot of camera equipment laying around. And while today, that could just mean a few iPhone 5's, I'm talking about the real thing. Actual HD cameras, with mics, lights and people who know how to use them.

Many agencies even have full blown production departments they position to potential clients as responsive and money-saving, when actually what they are is a profit center for the agency.

"Sure we can produce 10 spots for a million dollars!"

What they don't mention is that the hard costs to them are only $20K a spot. What the hell, everyone's entitled to make money. And if that money goes into the freelance budget, even better.

Perhaps I've said too much already.

Anyway, sometimes that equipment is drafted into service for a new business pitch, a party video or a clip about the agency for their site.

I've always tried to avoid appearing in these videos. They never seem to be as funny or clever as they are on paper (Yes, just like my copy - so predictable). And while everyone is yelling at you to look happy while it's being shot, I've noticed the overwhelming feeling after participating is regret for having done it.

Still, there never seems to be a shortage of volunteers. I call it the Kardashian effect: the 15 minutes of fame theory reduced to 2 minutes while it gets shown in a staff meeting.

The powers that be where I'm working right now asked me to appear in a New Hire video today (I'm using "asked" as a euphemism). The idea was a group of people - a representative from every department - around a conference room table having a fake brainstorming session. I guess it was going to be shown in the HR waiting room. I made them swear a blood-oath and put in writing that it would never make its way to YouTube, social media or the company website.

They assured me it wouldn't.

The upshot of it all was that shortly before they were to begin shooting, they said I couldn't do it because I was only a temp employee. They were going to use a staffer instead. Personally, I think I was being such a pain in the ass they just uninvited me to the dance. It wouldn't be the first time.

Fine with me.

Besides, until they invent a camera that subtracts ten pounds, I don't think I'll be appearing in agency videos any time soon.

Unmistakably extortion

I'm going to tell you the truth: it's not cheap being me. One of the reasons is that being a theater arts major (Really? Which restaurant?), and a lover of the thee-a-tah, I like going to plays. Not that I don't get enough drama in my real life. I work in advertising. I'm used to farce on a grand scale.

For me the stage holds a particular magic not found anywhere else.

Here's the other thing: I'm at a point in my life where, not only am I not willing to sit in the fourth balcony, I also won't beg, borrow, steal, wait, connive, cajole, call in favors and con people to get good seats.

I save that for Springsteen concerts.

Instead, I pony up the bucks and subscribe.

Now the alleged benefit of subscribing is you get better seats than the general public, and enjoy the same ones for each production. The most positive experience I've ever had with a subscription was the Shubert Theater in Century City. It's long gone, and in its place sits the Death Star (CAA). What the Shubert subscription gave me was killer seats - fourth row, dead center. Every season, every production.

When the Shubert went away, I became a subscriber to the Ahmanson Theater. I've been a subscriber over 10 years, and that entire time these have been my seats.

Fortunately the Ahmanson isn't a ginormous theater, so these are reasonably good.

However, each and every time we see a production there, I can't help noticing there are 17 rows in front of us, each one closer to the stage than we are.

But the Ahmanson wants to keep their subscribers happy.

So they enclose this form with the season subscription renewal that lets you check a box if you want to improve your seats by moving them closer to the front and center.

We've checked these boxes every year for ten years.

Guess where our seats are?

Really, who do you have to upstage around here to get better seats at this place?

I decided to read through the renewal package a bit more thoroughly. I thought somewhere inside there it might tell me how, after subscribing for 10 years (did I mention that?), I could guarantee myself better seats.

Well, of course it did. I just hadn't seen it before. Switch on the light bulb and cue the choir. Suddenly, it was all so very clear to me when I came upon this cheerily written yet profoundly disheartening little paragraph:

See the problem?

I thought by being a loyal subscriber for over a decade, at some point that loyalty would be rewarded with better seats. Come to find out that's not the way it works. Says right there in black and white you have to become a "donor" to get put on the "fast track" for better seats. It kind of begs the question: how much do you have to donate?

One year, we decided to test the waters and donated a tax-deductible $600 to see what that did for us.

Guess where our seats are?

Luckily, the Ahmanson provides a valuable service for its current and future subscribers. Instead of taking up valuable time making up your mind whether you want to donate and how much, they conveniently suggest a donation when you renew your subscription.

They even have a little box you check to show your desire to "support the theatre I love."

Funny, I thought that's what I've been doing for the last decade by subscribing.

And since I know $600 doesn't buy better seats, what exactly does their suggestion of $265 do besides prime the pump to get you in the habit of handing them money season after season.

Actually, if I'm going to be honest, the $600 we donated did buy us one thing: unrelenting calls for months on end at dinner time and weekends, sometimes three and four a week, asking us to donate more.

Thank God for caller I.D.

If the Ahmanson ever has a production where an actor has to portray a character who'd just as soon rob you than look at you, I know a great place they can research the part.

The subscription office.