An agency by any other name

A few weeks ago, , an article in the online edition of Adweek called Why Today’s Ad Agencies Are Reluctant To Call Themselves ‘Ad Agencies’ attempted to explain why agencies are now opting for more relevant and contemporary descriptors.

Like new-model, multidisciplinary marketing communications firm. Strategic content innovation partners. New media integration facilitators. And the ever popular, rarely true, agents of disruption (Great band, saw them at the Roxy in '08. You're welcome Rich Siegel).

The argument is that they feel being called an ‘ad agency’ is too limiting, and connotes all that mid to late '60s, Mad Men hijinks and buzzword whammy jammy they've tried hard to separate themselves from. More than anything, they'd like current and potential clients to think of them as jacks of all trades, everything to everyone.

I of course would like people to think of me as Chris Hemsworth's body double, but that isn't happening either.

This agency identity crisis is nothing new in the ad world. There isn’t an agency new business person worth their weight in cold calls who doesn’t know how to give a hearty handshake, pick up the lunch tab and bark "yes" when the question is “Can you guys handle that?”

Digital? We’re all bits and bites baby.

Social? This rather lengthy sentence you’re reading right now is exactly 140 characters – how many “ad agencies” do you know that can pull that off? (Go ahead, I’ll wait while you fire up character count).

Traditional? We haven’t forgotten our roots, even though we’d like you to.

Experiential? It’s an experience in itself just working with us.

I understand the thinking behind offering one-stop shopping for clients: agencies don’t want pieces of the new media pie going other places that specialize, have expertise and a track record in it—especially if those places are going do a better job of it.

The other thing is when it comes to new business, pride has never been a quality that's run rampant in agencies. They'll gladly over-represent capabilities, say they can when they can't and for the most part let clients slap 'em silly and call them Sally if it means more business.

Part of the problem is consumers don't draw a distinction between the "ad agency" that created, say, the legendary Apple 1984 spot, and the one that does local ads for Empire Carpets. All they see are good ads and bad ads.

Another reason none of these companies want to be called an ad agency is that in almost every survey of least popular occupations, advertising professional comes in right behind used car dealer and prostitutes, both of whom work with considerably higher margins and know how not to leave money on the table. Or the dresser.

Maybe next time they do a survey, they can ask about a name that might command more respect, like Communication Response Alliance Partners.

Or they can just use the acronym.

Riding again with the 77th

Car thieves, kidnappers and prostitutes. No I'm not talking about ad agencies I've worked at. I'm talking about my second ride-along with the great professionals of the LAPD.

I've already written about my first ride-along experience here. But last Monday night, I had the privilege of being partnered with Sgt. Bland of the 77th Street Community Police Department. Located in the heart of South Central Los Angeles, it's a place officers gain the kind of experience in a very short time that they couldn't get at any other outpost.

I'd expected to ride with Sgt. Sandoz who I did my first ride-along with. But he was unexpectedly assigned Watch Commander for the night, and I wound up riding with the equally exceptional Sgt. Bland from 7p.m. to 4a.m.

We went to the parking lot to look for our assigned car, number 89140. Sgt. Bland handed me a spare set of keys to the car. I asked him what they were for, and he said, "In case you need them." I didn't ask anything else.

Like my previous ride-along, I fully expected the four words I'd hear most from Sgt. Bland would be, "Stay in the car." But also like before, he said I was riding as his partner and could get as close as I wanted with him to the action (with one exception).

Once the Jurassic Park-sized fortress doors from the garage of the 77th opened to let us out, the first call was a stolen van with five occupants. When we arrived, they were stopped on 76th Street, under a Harbor freeway overpass. I saw about 12 police cars with the officers out of them, standing behind their open car doors with guns drawn and aimed at the occupants coming out of the van to join the ones already on the ground, face down with arms and legs spread out as they'd been instructed.

The officers in the cars closest to the van had their shotguns drawn.

I asked Sgt. Bland why there was so much firepower for one stolen van. He said there were two reasons. First, while the officers could see five occupants, they didn't know if there were others hiding in the van and whether or not they were armed (or with what). Second was the message it sent. I asked what that was, and he told me, "You're not going to win."

It turned out there were five people in the van, and the only hidden occupant was a baby blue pit bull puppy.

There are a lot of pit bulls in South Central.

Next was a domestic violence call. When we arrived, the fire department was there as well. A woman had been pushed out of a truck, and was being treated at the scene and taken to the hospital. Her face had been badly banged up, her head was bandaged and she had blood all over her. It doesn't look anything like it does on television. We stayed until the paramedics took her away.

As we were driving off, we saw a gentleman stop his and car drop off a woman we believed to be a prostitute given the known prostitution activity in the area. He was driving down the street, except what he didn't know was that it was a dead end street.

Sgt. Bland had me run the plate on the patrol car's computer. What came up was all the information on the vehicle, as well as the owner, a Mr. Kang. Since the driver appeared to be a male Asian, we believed him to be the registered owner. We pulled around to the end of the street he'd have to come out of. When he did, we shone a light on him, and called out, "Mr. Kang. Go home Mr. Kang. Have a good night."

In case you didn't know, getting caught dropping off a prostitute by LAPD results in a very shocked expression. I thought I actually heard him pee his pants.

Oh Mr. Kang.

Next up was a liquor store robbery. We got there shortly after it happened. Two robbers had been able to gain access to the contents of a safe while they held the owner at gunpoint. The officers already at the scene had everything under control, so we left to continue patrolling the streets.

South Western and Figueroa are popular "tracks" for prostitutes. Every once in awhile we'd pull up to one, ask how she was doing and remind her to keep her eyes open and be safe. They'd say okay, then walk away quickly from the car. Nothing kills business more than talking to LAPD.

Back to the domestic violence call. When the officers followed up with the woman at the hospital, they learned who did it. It was a former relationship of hers. He had her in a truck, and when she asked him to stop so she could get out, he sped up then pushed her out into the alley.

Assault with a deadly weapon (ADW), kidnapping and domestic violence all in a matter of moments.

She told the officers where he lived, and that he kept a loaded shotgun at his front door.

We went back to the 77th, where Sgt. Bland and six other officers quickly planned a strategy for getting him. I could feel the atmosphere change and the tension ratchet up as they discussed where they'd be positioned around his house, and contingencies depending on how he reacted to the knock at the door.

A caravan of four police cars drove to his house. Remember earlier I said there was one call I couldn't get close to? This was it. I stayed in the car while the officers went to his door. From where I was positioned, I heard them knock on the door and tell him to come out. In that moment, for the first time all night, I was afraid because I didn't know what sound I was going to hear next.

Fortunately, the guy decided to not shoot it out, and was taken in without incident.

Turns out he was 5'8" and 140lbs. Seeing him escorted to the patrol car in front of me by two officers over 6' tall was pretty comical. One of them had the shotgun that was in his apartment, as well as another gun he kept in his bedroom.

And ladies, I understand he is single again. Just saying.

After that, we went back to the station. Sgt. Bland thanked me for keeping him safe out there (nice of him to say, but we both know it was the other way around).

Just like last time, each and every officer I met during the evening was exceptional. They have no idea what they're walking into from one call to the next. Yet they handle each one with professionalism, courtesy and a respect for the people they're dealing with regardless of their situation in life. It is inspiring to see, and reassuring to know.

The other thing that remains the same from my last ride-along is the resourcefulness of these officers given the limited resources due to budget cuts. These dedicated, overworked and underpaid officers are stretched almost to the breaking point.

But here's the secret: for them, there is no breaking point.

I said this in my last post, but I'll say it again: if you're so inclined, and you should be, sending a letter to Anthony Villaraigosa or Governor Brown asking them not to cut the budget where law enforcement is concerned can do nothing but help.

Once again, I want to give a huge thank you to Sgt. Bland and all the great people working at the 77th, not only for letting me have this incredible experience a second time, but for who they are and what they do each and every day for all of us.

Roger that.