Spaced out

What's the difference between a giant asteroid, comet and meteor hitting the earth? The answer is you're dead.

This Monday, an asteroid, which, I don't have to tell you, consists of metals and rocky material, is going to pass by earth fairly close in astronomical terms. It'll come within 745,000 miles of us, and should be visible with clear skies and an expensive pair of binoculars.

Just like Linkin Park at Greensboro Coliseum.

This particular asteroid has the unfortunate name of 2004 BL86, which only tells me that whoever names these things really needs to hire an agency do a naming exploration, as well as commercials for the fly by.

One agency might create an animated asteroid character along the lines of Mr. Mucinex or the RAID bugs. They could call it something clever that tests well, like Mr. Asteroid.

Another might use a D-list celebrity in an asteroid costume, warning us of the close proximity. Kathy Griffin, keep your phone line open.

I'm sure there's also any number of westside shops ready with a bearded hipster, deadpan, obscure reference-filled, dripping with irony spot where the only thing the wardrobe person has to worry about is which t-shirt goes with which pair of faded jeans and knit cap.

For all our sake, let's hope that asteroid isn't as far off course as I'm off topic.

At any given time, as the chart to the left frighteningly shows, there are hundreds of asteroids with bad aim trying to reunite us with the dinosaurs. And these are just the ones we know about.

Scientists refer to a potentially catastrophic asteroid strike as an EEE: earth extinction event. It could take a couple forms. It might hit us so hard it'd kick up a dust and dirt cloud blocking out the sun for centuries, making the air unbreathable and killing all life on earth. Or it might just hit the earth so hard it knocks it out of its orbit, and on a path straight towards the sun (stock up on SPF 1,000,000 now).

Maybe there's a scenario where it doesn't hit us at all, but just flies by super close. If the timing's right, it'd be a great way to open next year's Tournament of Roses parade. Followed by the stealth bomber of course.

I'm personally of the belief that if one were on course to wipe us out, the government wouldn't tell us for fear of panic in the streets. And really, the panic would be misplaced because unless you're Richard Branson, you really don't have a way off the planet in time to avoid it. I know there are a lot of secrets the government keeps that it shouldn't, but I'd be fine not knowing. One minute I'm sitting in my living room watching my 12th binge of Breaking Bad, the next minute I'm dust. Lights out. The really sad thing is the house probably wouldn't look much worse than it does now.

Fascination with our own demise is nothing new. Hollywood's had a great time of it for years, making movies like Armageddon where Bruce Willis and crew save earth from the asteroid. I've seen the movie. I think being wiped out by the asteroid would be more entertaining.

If you're looking for how popular keeping an eye on asteroids has become, you don't need a telescope to see it. NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) whose job is to keep an eye on these things has an asteroid watch page and Twitter feed (@AsteroidWatch). There's also an Asteroid Watch app , so while you're updating your Facebook status on your smartphone you can also check how long until you take the big dirtnap.

It's like my art director partner Pete Andress used to say: we hang by a thread. None of us know when the hit is coming. So I guess the point is to stop our petty fighting, get our priorities straight, love each other, and just enjoy it all while we're here.

Right after we up the homeowner's insurance.

Under inflated balls

In the last few days we've been hearing a lot about under inflated footballs. Allegedly, the New England Patriots used them to help win their AFC Championship game against the Colts last Sunday.

Let's pause for a minute and congratulate me on the fact I actually know the names of two teams and what they were playing for. I'm as surprised as you are.

The reason under inflated balls (I'll never get tired of that phrase) make a difference is that they're easier to grip and throw.

Here's the thing: while the issue of under inflated balls is a relatively new discussion for the NFL, it's been rampant in ad agencies ever since the very first "new and improved." Many have suffered the affliction for years. Surprisingly, the condition is anatomically agnostic. It affects both men and women in the business.

The symptoms are readily apparent, although they do vary. They can run anywhere from letting the client write the copy, to telling the creative team, "I could present this but I know you can do better." Other symptoms include run-on meetings, not challenging client mandates, letting the work go down in flames without so much as a whimper, insisting the bulk of the budget be shifted to digital and reading the brief word for word.

If you find yourself in a completely ridiculous argument lasting four hours or more with someone who has never created a thing in their life, yet continues to criticize your work, they most likely have an untreated case of under inflated balls.

Try to be understanding and not judgmental. Give them the same reassuring, constructive advice their doctor would.

Grow a pair.

Born to be mild

Usually when you see a member of a biker gang the reaction is to give them a wide berth, accelerate quickly past them and hope they're not going to rev their engines to deafening levels next to you at the red light.

My reaction to this guy, who was in front of me today, was gratitude. I was grateful he cleaned and sobered up. Grateful he was telling the world about it. Grateful for the can't-judge-a-book-by-its-cover lesson that I continue to learn over and over, seemingly right when I need to.

It's like when the Hell's Angels descend on Daly City every year for the annual blood drive. Hundreds of bikers take over the main drag on their Harleys, roaring into town ready to do nothing but good (something I'm aware not all Hells Angels chapters do).

Anyway, to the guy on the bike in front of me, thanks for the reminder.

That what makes you badass isn't where you start. It's where you finish.

Call time

I guess I haven't been paying attention, which will come as absolutely no shock to anyone who's ever been in a status meeting with me. But as I was barreling up the carpool lane of the 110, alone, thanks to my FasTrak transponder that charges me to use a lane my taxes have already paid for, I was genuinely surprised to see there are still freeway call boxes lining the four-lane.

These intermittently spaced call boxes, with their reassuring blue signs, are a throw back to my childhood. Which, if you ask anyone who knows me, I'm still in.

When I was a kid, my parents would take us to Gilman Hot Springs. Or Murrieta Hot Springs. Or Desert Hot Springs. Apparently Jews are attracted to hot springs like moths to canasta. I remember the drive always seemed like it took hours to get there. It was just in Riverside county, but it may as well have been another world.

I mean, have you been to Riverside county?

It didn't help that I was a worried little kid and always thought our dark blue Dodge Coronet would breakdown on the way. Actually, the only time I remember it breaking down was when I stole it one day to take it for a drive to the valley to see some girl before I had my license. I wound up at a Union Oil station on Van Nuys and Riverside, and called my parents to come pick me up. They said they'd be happy to drive out and get me, to which I said, "Yeah, about the driving out part..." They had to call friends of the family to drive them out.

It was a very long, quiet ride home. But I digress.

Anyway, my parents would always tell me we were fine, and that even if the car did break down, we'd just use the call box and, like magic, help would be on the way. It was very comforting. A lot more comforting than being the only person under 75 at whichever hot springs we were going to.

It's easy to think of call boxes as old technology. The truth is they're now equipped with the latest digital whammy-jammies, and probably have fewer dropped calls than AT&T. I always thought they were a little Jetson-y because they were the first things I remember that used solar panels to power the lights that made them visible at night.

You don't see very many people using them, because standing on the side of the freeway isn't the brightest idea, and almost everyone has a cell phone now.

But I still find knowing they're there very comforting.

It may be the only thing on the 110 that is.

A great Dame

Years ago, there was a Shubert Theater in Century City where the CAA mothership is now. The wife and I had been early season subscribers, and as a result for years enjoyed two fourth-row center seats to every production and concert that appeared there. And because we had such great seats, that we were never going to let go, we saw them all.

During the 2001 Shubert season, which included Mama Mia!, we also had tickets to another show: Dame Edna, the Royal Tour. At the time I had no idea who she was, but our seats were great and we were going.

Here are the things I remember. She brought two people out of the audience who hadn't had dinner, and had them sit at a table onstage. Then she brought out a phone and called Harry's Bar, which was downstairs from the theater, and ordered them dinner. When the dinner arrived, she served it to them, and they watched the rest of the show while eating dinner at their table on the side of the stage. Every once in awhile, she would ask them questions or talk to them.

It was a very interactive show, with Dame Edna talking to several people, including us, who were sitting up front. She asked one couple about their children, who weren't there, and who was taking care of them. Then she called their babysitter, and started quizzing her on how she was handling the children.

I realize I'm not even close to doing her justice describing what her show is like, but it's difficult to explain exactly what she does. Part satire, part improv, part slapstick, part social commentary, the only way to experience Dame Edna is to be one of her "possums," her affectionate name for her audience. This clip will give you a better idea than I can:

The character of Dame Edna is the creation of the brilliant Australian comedian Barry Humphries. He's almost 81 years old now, so this Farewell Tour may actually be just that. All the more reason if you can get a ticket, do it.

The other thing I distinctly remember is I have never laughed so hard in my life. I was crying, and my sides were literally aching. I instantly became a Dame Edna fan, and promised myself I'd see her every time she came to L.A. It's a promise I've made good on.

So a week from Friday, the wife and I are taking the kids to the Ahmanson, and we're going to see her Farewell Tour. I can't wait. I know it'll be a great evening start to finish, when she tosses her beloved gladiolas out to her possums.

And of course, I'm hoping the "farewell" part is the biggest joke of the evening.

The lost art

So much advertising is like an American trying to talk to someone who speaks a different language. They figure if they just keep talking louder and louder, eventually you'll understand what they're saying.

What with the marketplace more competitive than ever, and advertising budgets more frugal than ever, with their "mention the product name three times in the first five seconds" and "Make that print ad logo bigger, I can hardly see it from across the street" mandates, clients are all turning into those people adrift at sea, screaming and waving as loudly as they can so the plane will see them.

It's safe - yet another thing clients like - to say that in a business that never had much subtlety to start with, what little is left is rapidly disappearing.

This isn't news to anyone in the creative department. It isn't even really news to the clients that demand the screaming ads. They're just in denial. They'll ask you where their names a subtle, funny, intelligent commercial everyone likes spot is. And when you bring it to them, they'll tell you it takes too long to get to the product. Or that they don't get it. Or that it won't test well.

Anyway, as much of a bitch session this post seems to be (is), it's also a thank you note. To creatives and clients alike who fight the good fight, and get their humor filled, intelligent, unexpected, message subtly embedded ads out the door.

They're an ongoing inspiration it can still be done. It's quality work we'd remember on its own merits. Even if the rest of the landscape wasn't so easy to forget.

Open for business

As I was just saying the other day to my good friend Rich Siegel, creator, curator and pledge drive MC for his Round Seventeen blog, Rich I said, you can never have enough posts slamming open space office seating.

I've written many times about the particular challenges to getting anything productive done in that environment, including here. Rich has also displayed a few well-written tirades about it, like this one for example. But it's not just a couple of malcontent, disgruntled and yet extremely talented and worth every penny and more of their day rate copywriters doing the complaining.

The monumental failure of open space floor plans has also been well-covered in many publications I'm proud to say I've stolen from some of the finer agency mailrooms around town. Fortune to Fast Company, the Washington Post to New York Magazine, and everything in between.

Now, it's one thing to bitch and moan when you're one of the cogs in a giant holding company wheel who's forced to work at the picnic table. It's quite another when the company who set it up that way realizes the insanity of it and warns you about it.

I noticed a help wanted ad, a section of which is shown above, that lets you know just what you're getting into should you decide to work with them. In case it's not legible on that Kaypro II screen (employee offices aren't the only place they're saving money), here's what it says:

Ability to work and write in an open office environment with a considerable amount of distractions and interruptions.

I don't know the exact definition of the phrase "mixed message", but I have an idea this is pretty damn close.

What they're saying is, "Hey, we know it's virtually impossible to get anything done in this office setup, but we don't care. Deal with it." Fair enough. I suppose we all have our own choice to make.

But if a company tells me, brags to me, they had a bad idea that's making them less productive, my job more difficult and they're sticking with it because it's cheaper to have me overcome their stupid obstacles than it is for them to change it, my choice would be a resounding, unequivocal no thank you.

Right after I hear what day rate they're offering.