Blame him

You want to know whose fault it is that I'm in advertising? It's his.

A long time ago, in a lifetime far, far away, I saw a job post on the UCLA job board for a position in the mailroom at an ad agency in Century City. I'd never given much thought to advertising, but I did give a little thought to paying my bills and my rent. So I interviewed for the position, turned on the charm and humor we all know and love and got the gig.

Come to find out the agency was Wells, Rich, Greene. And the creative director who arrived from New York shortly after I got there was Howie Cohen.

By the time Howie got there, I'm not sure which of my jobs I was on at the agency. I'd started in the mailroom, where I got to make my rounds, and talk with everyone every day. A social butterfly even back then.

Then I got promoted to running the stat camera (look it up) in the studio. Except it wasn't in the studio. It was in a small, badly ventilated room next to the studio. Since the camera used a lot of fragrant chemicals to develop the film, I'd have to hold my breath a lot, then run out of the room after I'd taken a shot of whatever camera ready art I was working with.

From there, I was bumped up to traffic person - excuse me, project manager. If you look in the Guiness Book of World Records, you'll see that I was the worst traffic person that's ever held the job. True fact.

Anyway, my grand plan, since I was a theater arts major, was to become an agency producer. I figured if I did that, I'd make all these contacts. I could get an agent and start my illustrious film career.

But a funny thing happened on the way to my three-picture deal.

One day, there were no creative people at the agency. A team was down in Rio on a shoot for Brittania Jeans. Another team was out sick. Yet a third team was at a client meeting. This all happened to be on a day when a Bran Chex print ad had to be written and presented. The account guy, a short man who looked like he was wearing those plastic glasses with the fake nose - except they were both his - was running around the agency trying to scrounge up someone to write the ad.

He called Howie, who wasn't in that day, and asked who he should get to write the ad. And Howie said "Give it to Jeff."

So I wrote it. While it didn't win any awards, I'm pretty sure it's still the best written ad for a high-fiber cereal Reader's Digest has ever run.

Shortly after that, Howie promoted me to junior copywriter. Honestly, it was thrilling. I was excited to be working with the team, Howie and his partner Bob Pasqualina, who had created the legendary "I can't believe I ate the whole thing" Alka-Seltzer commercial.

As you might imagine, earning his bona fides working in New York advertising during that time, Howie has many, many stories that only someone who lived it can tell. And nobody tells a better story than Howie. If you want to read some good ones, definitely have a peek at his blog MadMensch.com.

I'm happy to say Howie is still working his magic in the world of advertising. I'm still working mine as well, although so far nothing I've done has made it to the Advertising Hall Of Fame. Yes, I said so far. Keep hope alive.

Anyway, I don't know if I ever actually thanked Howie and told him how grateful I am for launching me into a career I didn't even know I wanted. But if I haven't, I'm doing it now.

And by the way, for all the creative directors I may work for in the future, if you don't like something I write, now you know who to talk to.

Driven to it

The older I get, the more I think I shouldn't start blogposts with "the older I get." It just makes me think about how old I'm getting, then I get depressed and want to move on to something else.

Instead, I'll start with the longer I do this...no, no. Wait a minute. That just makes me think how long I've been doing this. Not that writing blogposts is something I mind doing - I quite enjoy it.

There are things I enjoy more of course. I could give you a list of things I enjoy more.

Speaking of lists, I find it's always easier when I go shopping to make a list and stick to it. If I don't, then I shop with the if one is good two is better approach, and wind up coming home with bags and bags of groceries and household cleaning items I don't want or need.

And what is it with all the laws outlawing plastic bags anyway? Seriously, they were easier to carry and I recycled them much more than paper ones. Some tree-hugger sees a plastic bag blowing across the freeway and now we all have to pay ten cents a bag for the paper ones. As if the ten cents a bag the stores now charge is going anywhere except their bottom line.

While we're talking about freeways, what's the deal with all the construction? Seems like by the time the new lanes and transition roads get built, traffic will have caught up and they'll be obsolete.

Here's a thought - what happens when we the word obsolete becomes obsolete? Then what word will we use to describe it? Makes you think doesn't it.

I think it's odd avocados are really a fruit. You never really see them in a fruit-friendly environment. Guacamole? On top of BBQ chicken salads at CPK?

Funny how some restaurants just go by their initials. We don't call Five Guys FG, but sometimes we call McDonald's Mickey D's or Club Mac. Which sort of sounds like Club Med.

Whatever happened to Club Med anyway? Their commercials used to be great, and the resorts looked awesome. I never liked the all-in-one pricing, although I see the appeal of it. I remember they had lots of resorts, but if I ever went to one I'd choose one out of the United States, because I'm already here and it wouldn't feel like traveling unless I went to another country.

Here's the thing about other countries - they have a different word for everything. In London, an elevator is a lift. In the U.S. a lift is a ride, except when it's not. Lift could mean carry. But why would you carry an elevator, especially up stairs? That doesn't make sense.

Time to write my post about distraction. Right after I catch up on the shows on my DVR.

Wow, look at that sunset...

After dark

This will be very deja vu-ish (funny, you don't look vu-ish) to my fellow copywriters and art directors.

You've been working for eight weeks on an important presentation to the client. The day of the big meeting finally comes. It's a Wednesday at 4pm. There's no immediate deadline, but this was the day and time everyone was available, so this is when it was scheduled for.

As the meeting goes along, the client laughs at the right places, nods their head and you're thinking how great it's going. Then just as you're all getting ready for Miller time, as you're walking out the door, the CMO asks if they can have a word with the management supe and the creative director.

When they come out of the conference room, the smiles are gone. So are any thoughts of Miller time. The clients you thought loved everything had a little problem with it. They hated everything. And they want to see new work in the morning.

The call goes out - everyone at the agency stay at the agency. Place your dinner order and cancel your plans for the night. You're there until morning, coming up with new ideas for the clients to hopefully like as much as they led you to believe they liked the first ones.

There are so many things wrong with this picture it's hard to know where to start. But I'll start here: What does it say about a client who knows you took a couple months honing to perfection the ideas you just presented, and then asks you for entirely new ones fifteen hours later?

It says they're an asshole.

Anyone who had any idea what it takes to do what you just did would realize it doesn't happen in that short amount of time. They're poking a dog with a stick. Watching you jump through the hoop. They're laughing, and not with you.

The other thing that's wrong with the picture is the agency agreed to do it. Without an ounce of self-respect, dignity or value for their own work, they cut themselves off at the knees and affirm to the asshole client the work they do really has no worth, since you spent months working on it the first time when you could've just come up with it overnight. Like the account leaders just told them you would.

There comes a point, at work, in life, where you have to - and let me quote the bumpersticker here - just say no. When you have to make clear you respect yourself even if they don't. That great thinking takes time. And the fourteen hours from 5pm to 7am is not that time.

I'm not saying you can't come up with something, you can. But at that time of night and level of burnout and exhaustion, when creatives are cracking each other up with bad Christopher Walken impressions, scrounging around for cold pizza and sleeping face down on their keyboards, it won't be anything either of you will be proud of.

Which only lowers their opinion of the agency further. It's a vicious circle.

Still, the same people that agreed to this insane request will be the ones high-fiving each other like overgrown frat boys just for the fact they managed to churn out something that, if there were any justice, would be sitting at the bottom of a birdcage. We've all been there.

I think anyone who knows me would agree that while I'm a joy to work with and for the most part a little social butterfly, I also have a short fuse and don't suffer fools lightly. Another thing they'd tell you is I don't have a problem saying no for the right reasons when everyone above me is saying yes for the wrong ones.

No matter what time of day it is.

The state of taxes

This is the second time in four years I've done a post about taxes. The last time was here.

Even though it's an annual event, and a subject everyone likes to bitch and moan about, I don't write about it every year because that way it's just a little less real.

Until April 15th. Then it's very real.

I'm fairly organized about things, which makes it easier to get ready for it. I have my friend Pam Ziegenhagen to thank for that. She probably doesn't even remember, but years ago when we worked together, she told me how she organized all her receipts in different categories in an accordion file. Then all she had to do was add up each section for tax time.

It was good advice, and I've been doing it that way my own self ever since.

But because I know I can wait until virtually the last minute and still pull it all together in about three hours if I have to, I have extra time to get my panties in a twist about getting it done. Which I always do.

I have issues. I never said I didn't.

So here's the thing - sometime in the next few days, I'll buckle down, go through my accordion file with all the past year's receipts like Pam told me, do a little addition, make a master list of totals for my accountant and be done with it.

Then, when I'm at my tax appointment with my accountant Ethan, we'll chat about all sorts of things and I'll stare at the Green Bay Packers posters he has in his office for about an hour and a half while he punches in the numbers in a way that makes everything okay.

Ethan does right by me every year, bless his little ten key.

I was going to end this post with somewhat of a reach. It was going to lead into something something Sherlock Holmes, and working purely by deduction. See what I did there?

Obviously I don't prepare nearly as well for ending my blogposts as I do for doing my taxes.

Graph paper

A few years ago, I had my day in court. Well, not technically in court, more like in my lawyer's office. But I did raise my hand and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me God.

I was deposed by opposing counsel in a legal action I was involved in. SPOILER ALERT: They settled with us for a nice chunk of change because we were right and they were wrong - we knew it, they knew it and the American people knew it.

Anyway, if you've never been deposed, I highly recommend it. Definitely an E ticket. First and foremost, it's a game of truth. But it's also a game of wits with opposing counsel. The adrenaline is flowing, and you have to be at the top of your game.

For starters, you shouldn't use the word game in each of the last three sentences.

Anyway, the court reporter who transcribed the deposition used this handy little machine: a stenograph. She had it connected to a laptop (Sony VAIO - apparently Apple hasn't cornered the court reporter market yet) running software that translated the shorthand she typed into real English on the transcript.

That means for each one of the fifty ways the opposing counsel asked me the same question, in the hope of tricking me into changing my answer, the court reporter had to type in my answer. I'm not under oath now, but I'd swear I saw her roll her eyes around the thirty-fifth time he asked. I know I did.

A lot of my friends and colleagues have told me I'd make a good lawyer. I'd like to think it's because they think I'm smart and have a keen legal mind. But it's probably more because they know I don't shy away from confrontation, and I've always enjoyed playing a big room.

It probably won't happen though. I mean, a Jewish lawyer? Whoever heard of such a thing.

From beautiful downtown Burbank

There are a lot of reasons I like writing radio. But I think the main one is that for the most part, people leave me alone. I'm pretty free to do what I want.

There aren't agency sleepwalkers jockeying to be at casting sessions, sneaking in to watch director reels and making comments suggestions as if they were asked.

Radio also doesn't have the glamour and excitement attached to it that television does, probably because there's no where near the money being spent on production and media.

Fine by me.

In my opinion, I'd rather be sitting in a recording studio than an editing bay any day. It's infinitely more fun. And I get to work with a caliber of talent that's unparalleled. Every time out, sometimes over many, many takes, they give it their best. (Although my theory is if you can't get what you need in ten takes, you have the wrong person on one side of the glass or the other).

The very first radio spot I ever did was for Jack In The Box. We recorded it in the big room at the long gone Wally Heider Studios in Hollywood, and the incomparable Jimmy Hite was the engineer. Since it was my first radio spot, my creative director was with me at the session. And even he couldn't believe the talent we had in the room.

Either I wasn't paying much attention to the budget, or the client wasn't. My first spot was a cast of seven legendary voice over talents. Jack Angel. Joanie Gerber. Tress MacNeille. Bob Ridgely. Brian Cummings. Frank Welker. And Gary Owens.

Gary was the consummate professional. He had the quintessential announcer's baritone and also a comedian's timing and sensibility. Between takes he'd joke about Dan Rowan and Dick Martin of Laugh In, where he'd first become a household name as the show announcer. And when it was time to get back to business, he'd look at me and ask, "Is that what you were looking for?"

That was the one and only time I ever worked with him. And I'm not gonna lie to you - I was starstruck not only with Gary, but with everyone in the booth.

Gary Owens passed away yesterday at the age of 80. So I'd just like to say thanks Gary, for taking direction from a kid who really didn't know what he was doing yet, and for making me feel that I was doing it right.

Rest in peace.

Bad advice

So the wife and I are at a dog show a few years ago, looking around, deciding what breeds we might be interested in. Obviously this was before we knew how awesome German Shepherds are.

Since we're both fans of the larger breeds, we found ourselves talking to this short, extremely buff guy who bred Mastiffs. Now, large is an understatement when it comes to describing the Mastiff. They're gentle giants, and the one he happened to be holding on a thin show leash weighed 240 lbs. If the Mastiff had stood up on his rear legs, with his front paws on the guy's shoulders, the dog would've towered over him.

He asked me if I'd like to hold onto the leash and I took it. Then he started to walk away from us. At that point, the dog decided to follow his owner. I pulled back on the leash with almost all my strength, and that's when I saw the thought bubble appear over the dog's head. I believe it said, "Weak, puny man. Do you really think you can control me?"

Which if I'm not mistaken is also what my high school girlfriend told me. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, the dog didn't skip a step or break a sweat in dragging me back over to his owner.

I asked the breeder when the last time was that he locked a door at his house. He said, "Well, we have nine of the boys in the house. I don't think I've locked a door in twenty-five years. Don't even have a car alarm on the van. When the Mrs. has to go to the store, she always just takes one of the boys with her."

Then, just out of curiosity, I asked him how he'd get the dog to let go if he was biting someone. And I think it's safe to say I got an answer I never would've expected.

He pulled an unsharpened #2 Ticonderoga pencil I hadn't noticed before out of his pocket, and he said, "If he's biting someone, you just take one of these, lift up his tail and put it up his butt. That'll get his attention."

Well, yeah.

I've done a lot of things I never thought I'd do in my life. We had a cat that I had to give subcutaneous IV fluids to every day of her life for a kidney disease. Then, as she got older and more infirm, I actually had to give her daily enemas because she was constipated.

Clearly I'm not skittish about caring for my animals.

But I'm here to tell you, of all the things I never need to experience, I'm pretty sure it's being the guy sticking a pencil up the butt of a 240 lb. Mastiff who's already pissed off.

For a lot of reasons, the wife and I wound up not getting a Mastiff. I'm sure they're great, loyal, sweet dogs. But then most dogs are.

Right up until you reach for the pencil.