Cruising the root canal

I went to the dentist today.

I try to keep my visits down to the twice a year cleanings, and not just because of the usual reasons. So happens my dentist is in Santa Monica, which works out to a 60-mile round trip. Yes they have dentists in Long Beach, but mine is not only the world's best dentist, the practice happens to be owned by my very good friend's uncle.

And in dentistry, like Hollywood, it's who you know.

Anyway, the reason for the visit, or so I thought, was to get a filling for a cavity. Wasn't too happy about it. I've been a member of the No Cavity Club for a long time, and as of today I had to surrender my membership.

Turns out I had more than a cavity to be unhappy about.

The cavity was fairly close to the gum line (queasy yet?), and once my dentist started drilling, he decided he better stop and take an x-ray to see how far down the decay was. It was far enough to need a root canal.

I'm not new to the root canal circuit. I've had two before, plus crowns, both in the back bottom teeth. My first thought was "Gosh, another root canal. I'm so glad we're doing this! He'll save the tooth and it'll be better than ever!"

No it wasn't. My first thought was "Crap, the last time this cost $2500 a tooth."

Until I'd had my first root canal - and you never forget your first - I was terrified of them. I imagined incredible pain, swollen chipmunk cheeks, sleepless nights and soup through a straw for days. Come to find out root canal technology has advanced along with everything else. It really was no worse than getting a filling.

The only thing that hurt afterwards was my wallet.

P.S. If I could've embedded the Bill Murray root canal clip from Little Shop Of Horrors I would've. Does that answer your question?

Smell good writer

What you're looking at to the left isn't a guarantee from a plumbing company. It's the reason people who work in advertising don't want to talk about what they do for a living.

When a plumber comes to my house, there's only one thing I care about: that they fix the job right the first time. And if for some reason my toilet is acting like Old Faithful when they get there, I don't even care what they charge as long as they just make it stop.

I can honestly say that what they smell like isn't on my list, Angie's List or Yelp's list of things to investigate before I call a plumber.

It's a scare tactic. They want you to believe that the enticing fragrance of a man who spends a lot of time with his hands elbow-deep in other peoples, um, plumbing is going to be wafting throughout your otherwise rose-pedal perfumed home.

It's a very distant cousin to the LBJ "Daisy ad. Okay, maybe not. But it's a good excuse to look at the Daisy ad. Subtle, no?

What plumbers, or any other vendor for that matter, smell like is one of those false promises concocted by:

a) the client

b) the small retail agency that "can't be bothered with award shows and promises verifiable results"

or

c) the client.

Here's the thing - if you're getting close enough to sniff the plumber, leaky pipes may not be your biggest problem.

The advertising landscape is lousy with poorly produced ads and bad radio blaring out these annoying, meaningless, false and unverifiable promises. Still, there must be a reason besides cheap airtime and non-union talent that they keep running them.

So I'm going to take a page out of their book and reposition my copywriting self. From now on, I'm going to be the Smell Good Writer. I guarantee that my copy will be done and delivered on time and it won't stink.

At least not as bad as Mike Diamond ads.

Northern exposure

I've always loved San Francisco. And a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I had one of the best gigs under the best circumstances ever there.

I like to file it under I won't be seeing a deal like that again.

Basically the head of research I worked with at Tracy Locke became the VP of Marketing for Taco Bell (if I'd known he was going to become a client I would've been a lot nicer to him). FCB San Francisco was their agency. Since I'd always wanted to work in San Francisco, I called him and asked if I could drop his name often and recklessly to get an interview.

He did me one better: he called the creative director and set up the interview for me.

Normally I'd say any way you can get in is good. But when you're a creative person coming in through the client door, you're viewed with a lot of suspicion. All you can do is give it your best and keep showing them you know who's signing your paycheck.

I lived in Santa Monica at the time, and commuted up there early Monday mornings, and back on Friday nights. Obviously this was before I had kids.

My deal was that FCB paid for my commute, all my meals, and the hotel they put me up at each week (the fabulous Tuscan Inn). Plus the cab fare to and from the airport and my house.

I freelanced on Taco Bell for three months, then FCB asked me to come on staff. On the flight back to L.A. that night, I called my wife and told her they'd made me an offer. Coincidentally my wife was interviewing at the now non-existant Stein Robaire Helm at the time, and they'd also made her an offer the very same day. We decided San Francisco was the one we were going to pursue.

Besides FCB covering all my expenses, I also managed to negotiate a six month severance contract (okay, sometimes the client door is a good thing). Today you have as much chance of negotiating a severance contract as you do finding the Holy Grail.

The day my wife and I were going to fly up and look for apartments, my creative director got taken off the business. Never a good sign. We decided to wait and see which way the account was going to go.

The way it went was into review. For the next five months, until we lost it, I worked on both the business and the pitch out of the FCB offices in San Francisco and Chicago to save it.

After freelancing three months, then working on staff for five, I sat out two more months (paid) in Santa Monica while FCB decided what they wanted to do with the Taco Bell group. Although the group knew way before they did exactly what they were going to do.

When they let us all go, I walked away with a check for six months salary. I also left with a lot of new friends I made there. Every time I see or talk to any of them - I'm looking at you Savoy and Martin - I'm grateful for the experience all over again.

Ironically the day I got my severance check I also got my FCB business cards and letterhead.

Guess which one I still have?

First class warfare

Yesterday I flew home from San Francisco on Jet Blue. Unfortunately it wasn't the Jet Blue flight where they played tackle the captain, but even without that it was an interesting flight.

Looking around at my fellow flyers, it got me to thinking about how much flying has changed. There are the necessary inconveniences that have been instituted since 9/11 (by the way, all for them - scan, frisk, question away - no problem with it). But there have been other changes that haven't been as sudden or as obvious. Ones that've crept up on the flying public slowly over many years, so subtly that we've gotten used to them in a way we would never have stood for had they been imposed in one fell swoop (by the way, one fell swoop is a manuever pilots try to avoid).

Most airlines only have two or three cabin classes: First Class, Business Class and Coach Class. But if you've been on a plane even once since airlines were deregulated 35 years ago, you know they should rename those sections Low Class and No Class.

The currency of air travel has been cheapened by catering to the lowest common denominator. I'm just going to say it: there really are some people who shouldn't be flying.

Mr. Hefty Garbage Bag for Luggage, Greyhound has a seat waiting for you where I'm sure you'd feel much more at home. Mr. Wifebeater Shirt & Shorts Guy (Flip Flops optional), you're already living in a trailer - why not just take it off the blocks, put the wheels back on it and let your absence be felt. And, let me put this delicately, I think the words wide body should apply to the planes, not the passengers. Especially the passengers spilling over next to me.

With all the absurd fees the airlines are charging for everything from extra legroom to bathroom privileges, you'd think they could put some rules in place that would insure a more pleasant flight for everyone.

There was after all a time when flying was glamorous. It was an adventure. People dressed for the occasion (people used to dress for a lot of occasions but don't anymore. Been to a play lately?). I'm not saying there should be a dress code, but even some restaurants ban shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. They do it for health reasons. Airlines could too. For starters it would lower the blood pressure of the rest of us who have to fly with the sartorially and hygienically challenged.

It's great that almost everyone can afford to get where they're going by plane. But people, good Lord, check the mirror before you leave for the airport.

Just because self-respect has made an early departure doesn't mean it's a one-way trip.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 4

Two of the officers who’d first responded to the call had escorted Dean Montaine’s secretary to the Cressman/Krate coffee room. They'd sealed it off so they could have a little privacy while they questioned her. Which was unfortunate, because once word of Dean’s death had gotten around the agency, the only thing everyone wanted was a cup of coffee. Ad people.

Jack Sheridan came in the coffee room, and walked past the mason jars of Starbucks blend over to one of the officers, who handed him a small notepad and said a few words to him in quiet tones.

Then Sheridan walked over to the woman.

“Miss Beckwith, I’m Detective Jack Sheridan, L.A.P.D. I’m very sorry about what happened here today. If it’s alright, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’ll try to keep it brief.”

“O.K.” She started to sob again.

Sheridan placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and gestured to one of the other officers who brought him a glass of water.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”, she said, downing the water.

“Miss Beckwith,”

“Call me Barbara.”

“Sure. Barbara, is there anyone you can think of who would’ve wanted to see Mr. Montaine dead?”

At that, Barbara started laughing hysterically, spilling water out of both her mouth and nose.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t.”

Now how much would you pay?

Once in awhile I get an email from the Writer's Store. This one came today. My first thought was "What're they trying to say?"

Here's what they're trying to say: apparently there's a whole copywriting industry waiting to be broken into. And the best news is you don't even need experience or talent. If you're "even just an avid reader, you can turn your love for words into a lucrative career as a freelance copywriter."

I wish to hell someone had told me that sooner.

I wouldn't have wasted my time crawling out of the mail room at two different agencies. I never would've inhaled all those toxic chemical fumes I did as a stat camera operator. I would've passed on the chance to be the world's worst traffic person (excuse me, project manager). I wouldn't have bothered being the agency producer's assistant.

I now know how overrated all that getting to know how an agency works was. Of course, that first time I had a chance to write an ad for Bran Chex, when the account guy came running to me in a panic because all the creative teams were out of the agency, I do think it helped that I was actually in the agency.

But again, according to The Writer's Store, experience isn't a necessary tool in the copywriter's box.

I did find it amusing this ad asks me to "Find out how you can become part of this rising industry..." For the last three years, the only thing that's been rising is the rate of unemployed copywriters. No matter how avid a reader you are, the economy wins every time.

I'm old school about this, but I think you should have to pay more than $99 to become a copywriter. You should also have to pay your dues.

Unless of course you want to write ads like this for copywriting classes.

Wrongful Termination: Chapter 3

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

As he walked the hall towards Dean’s office, he passed framed copies of ads Cressman/Krate had produced. Sheridan was amazed that this brain clutter could be displayed with such misplaced pride.

There was an ad for a gas station convenience store showing two just regular blue-collar guys enjoying a beer. “I love it when they make it easier for people to drink behind the wheel,” Sheridan thought. There was an ad for a tennis shoe manufacturer he’d never heard of, a Nike wannabe, showing an extremely buxom girl spilling out of her ridiculously short tennis outfit. The headline read “Love All.” The last one before he turned the corner was a public service ad for a needle exchange program. It showed a drugged out heroin user balancing awkwardly on his knees in front of what looked like a Greyhound station men’s room toilet, throwing his guts up. Even Sheridan had to admit it was a powerful visual. The headline read “Without clean needles, you never know what position you’ll find yourself in.” It was a good message. Didn’t change his opinion about ad people, but still, a good message.

Sheridan walked into the corner office that had belonged to Dean Montaine. The first thing he noticed was the spectacular view overlooking the Santa Monica mountains to the north, and a glimpse of the Pacific ocean to the west. For the last thing Montaine ever saw, he could’ve done worse.

He stooped down next to the body that the coroner had cut down from the light fixture, and was now lying on the industrial carpeted floor covered with a sheet from the knees up.

Montaine’s boots were sticking out the bottom.

Sheridan pulled back the sheet. What he saw was pretty routine as far as hangings went. The head was sitting on the neck at a fifty degree angle, as if he’d been straining to get a better look at a girl in a short skirt walking away from him, or on the phone too long with the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Clearly some additional force besides gravity had been used. If, and it was a preliminary if, it had been murder, then judging by the ransacked looks of the office it appeared as though Montaine had fought the good fight against being placed in a noose and hung from the light. Putting up that kind of resistance, the murderer would have had to use force, yanking him down and snapping his neck. On the other hand, if it did turn out to be suicide, it meant Montaine literally would have to have taken a flying leap off his oak-grain desk with considerable force to do damage like this. His eyes, bloodshot and blank, had popped out of his head far enough for the corneas to touch the lenses of his Coke bottle, tri-focal glasses. His swollen purple, black tongue was sticking out and down to the left side of his mouth, with a thin thread of spittle running down it. Hanging was never a very dignified way to go.

Sheridan also made some personal observations. Montaine was in his late fifties, about six feet tall, hundred seventy pounds. He had a beer gut, and broken blood vessels all along his nose and cheeks. Hard drinker. His hair was straight, long and greasy. His glasses were Jean Paul Gaultier, very expensive, very fashionable. Round in a way that reminded Sheridan of John Lennon. Montaine was wearing stonewashed blue jeans, which had a large wet spot on the front where he’d pissed himself, though it was hard to say if he’d done it before or after. His fingers were stained yellow. His teeth were yellow, brown and decayed from years of alcohol and cigarettes. And probably other things as well. All in all, Sheridan thought, not an attractive man.

Looking at the desk, he noticed Montaine had a small plaque framed in shellacked driftwood branches. It read “Old hippies never die.”

“Guess he was wrong about that.” Sheridan said.