My head hurts

Ad agencies are overflowing with lots of things. Creative ideas. People with opinions. Knit caps. Tattoos. Bad coffee. One thing there's also no shortage of is The Overthinkers - people who overthink every little thing. Every single thing. Over. And over. And over.

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for the well thought out question. A dash of examination. A pinch of should we or shouldn't we. But I’ve often wondered what it is The Overthinkers actually bring to the table. Sure, they manage to turn every item on the brief (all fifteen pages of it) into an event in the Second Guessing Olympics, with all of them going for the gold. But beyond that, what does it all add up to?

Every time The Overthinkers reconsider a point they reconsidered a minute ago, the work has to change, because “this time they’ve got it.”

Until the next time.

It’s the reason work is constantly being revised, rewritten, revamped and regurgitated all way up to the last minute. It’s why meetings and more meetings are held to reveal the latest insight and observations.

Until the next ones.

And it’s the cause of enormous amounts of time and confusion being unnecessarily added into the process.

Planners, brand strategists, VP's of Cultural Trend Metrics - or whatever they hell they're calling themselves this week - have managed to turn what should be a single-focused insight into a Three-Card Monty game of strategy. If you can guess which card it’s under, you win the strategy to work against.

Spoiler alert: you never win.

The Overthinkers have to keep changing the rules, because if they don’t they’re out of a job. It's like the paid consultant who has to create a problem so he can solve it, and then create another one to keep the checks rolling in.

In the name of simplicity, efficiency and a better product, it might be a good thing for The Overthinkers to take one for the team and move on.

Then creatives could execute against a simple strategy, in a short, concise brief we’d only have to meet about once.

Of course, The Overthinkers might wonder why they ever left such a cush position. The good news is they’d have plenty of time to overthink about it.

Not a fan

I don't know if it's because I've watched too many horror films or I just have a vivid imagination, but I've never been a fan of ceiling fans.

Besides looking like low-speed airplane propellers hanging dangerously close to my head, they seem like an awful lot of trouble for not a lot of cooling.

For starters, there's the ceiling fan wobble they all seem to have. That's where when they're set on high speed, the entire fan - post and all - wobbles side to side violently. All you can do is wait for it to come flying off the ceiling and into whatever or whoever is waiting below.

Then there's the what-switch-does-what conundrum. There's usually a low speed, a high speed and the on/off for the light. But it seems however many times you pull the cord or flip the switch, you never quite land on the setting you're looking for.

Finally, there's the basic style of the fan. If you're going for the Kenny Rogers gambler card room look, or old west whorehouse decor, then ceiling fans might just do the trick. But for anything really contemporary, they're not going to cut it (pun intended). It doesn't matter what materials the blades are made of or what color. Ceiling fans are inherently items that all look like they came from a western saloon in the 1800's.

When it comes to cooling off the Ponderosa, I'll stick with our central air conditioning. Sure it sounds like a C-130 taking off, and definitely isn't the most energy efficient system. But damn if I don't need a sweater to stay warm when it's on to cool the house down.

Besides, I have kids. I don't want to take the chance of this happening:

Going going gone

Tonight I did something I only do once a year.

No, not write copy someone wants to read. Or eat something healthy.

I went to a fundraising auction for my kids' school. Every year, the decision is made despite the exorbitant tuition we pay for both of our well educated kids, more is needed.

It's adjacent to a theory I live and shop by: if one is good, two is better.

Anyway, what I noticed between the weekends in Mammoth, the day on the 42-ft. yacht, and the four days at the Grand Hyatt in Kauai that were all being auctioned off, was the ringmaster of the entire event.

The auctioneer. It seems to me auctioneering is right on par with fountain pen repair and diamond-cutting when it comes to lost arts.

The gentleman tonight made me realize it requires more than just fast talk. Auctioneers have to be comedians, mathematicians, athletes and salesmen all at the same time. They also have to have a radio-quality voice and know how to use it.

I didn't bid on anything tonight, although I did contribute $500 to a Fund Needed portion of the show. I hope those elementary school kids stop picking their nose long enough to email me a thank you note for the wireless antennas I bought for their classrooms.

Anyway, for me, the highlight of the evening was watching and listening to the auctioneer, practicing the art he's mastered. There's just something spellbinding about watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

In advertising we don't get nearly enough of that.

Friendscaping

A couple years ago I was talking to Jeff Nicosia, a writer friend about Facebook. I mentioned I had way too many friends on there - the majority of them weren't even in the inner circle - and I was thinking about thinning the herd. To which he replied, “Never underestimate the value of a little friendscaping.” Good advice. And not just on social media.

The longer I'm on these sites, the more I wonder why I got on them in the first place. However one benefit is I can actually control who sees what I post and who I interact with.

Naturally I want as many people as possible to see my funny, snarky remarks, and click on the links I post to this blog and get the word out. And I'll be the first to admit, even if you're not, that when I go on an obsessive/compulsive tear about the Kardashians, or live Tweet the Academy Awards, it's a funny read. You know it is.

It's the kind of quality writing that's attracted over 24 followers to this blog.

The truth is I don’t want it enough to carry the deadweight of people I haven't heard from in a year or two. Also, I've grown weary of seeing the same predictable comments and memes I disagree with get posted to my timeline or Twitter feed from people who have no other contact with me. I've put up with their posts just like they've put up with mine. But my patience for all this unearned reciprocity is thinning.

It may be the only thing about me that is.

Some friends, make that acquaintances, think social media is a big contest to get as many contacts/friends as they can. It's alright, they're entitled to think what they want. I'm not going to judge them. I won’t call them needy. And desperate for attention. I won’t do it.

So today, I’m taking Nicosia's advice and doing some long overdue friendscaping. Which means tomorrow, I’ll have a fewer number of friends online.

But the ones that're left will know they mean more to me than just a larger tally.

Mourning the commute

For many years, I had a strange coincidence regarding my morning commute. It seemed no matter what agency I worked at, whether it was in Brea, Irvine or Playa Del Rey, my commute was exactly 26 miles each way.

But they were morning rush hour freeway miles, which as anyone who's done it knows are like dog years except the conversion rate is much higher.

All this to say I'm extremely grateful for the commute I have these days to the agency I'm working at in Huntington Beach. The gig won't last forever, but I'm nothing if not blessed with the route I take. For starters, I don't have to get near a freeway to get there. I just cruise down PCH from my house to work, a breezy 25 minute ride if there's traffic.

The picture above is essentially the view I have to endure on my drive home.

Living in Long Beach, and working in either L.A. or Orange County, I was pretty much held hostage to the 405. The best I could ever hope for is that there'd be a few stretches along the way where I could get up to 35mph for a few miles.

I don't miss it at all. But I also feel like I'm standing on the tracks, and the train's coming. At some point, hopefully not anytime soon, it's inevitable I'll be one of the cars stuck in this picture of the 405 commute.

I'll also say this - it's nice to come into work relaxed and clear-headed, without excessive amounts of adrenaline running through my body from screaming at other drivers and letting them know I think they're number 1 (if you get my continental drift).

Well, that's not entirely true. I never screamed.

Don't ask: Writing a letter for you

It's been awhile since I've added to my wildly popular Don't Ask series of posts. If you read this blog with any regularity - and if you do you really should try to get out to a bookstore or a library - you know I've already covered moving, picking people up at the airport, sharing my food, loaning you money and sharing my hotel room.

Sharing seems to be something I'm not very fond of. I'm an only child. Does it show?

Anyway, I get asked by a lot of friends and family to write letters for them. Letters of recommendation, letters complaining to a company about someone or some slight they think they've been on the receiving end of, resume cover letters, as well as the resume itself.

I know why they ask. I'm a writer. I do it for a living, and I'm not bad at it. But when I'm done writing all day for my job, I don't even want to write things for myself, much less you, when I get home.

I just want to binge Breaking Bad or House of Cards again.

I do appreciate the compliment of you asking. That you think my words would get better results than yours, or would communicate what you want to say more clearly. Which no doubt they would - I mentioned I was good at this, right?

Anyway, there's no secret to getting results. Address your grievance to the CEO, not to the underlings. Use spellcheck. And say what you need to say without trying to be fancy or funny. Simple advice, no?

You might want to write it down.

Just don't ask me to do it for you.

Into the fryer

I was reading an article about how minimum wage employees at McDonald's are going to go after the company because they occasionally get themselves burned on the job. Seems to me if you're working with hot grills, fryers full of hot oil and flames, getting burned just might be an occupational hazard.

Still, it's no fun. I know from experience.

The first job I ever had was at Fisher's Hamburgers at the Town and Country Shopping Center, across from Farmer's Market on 3rd and Fairfax. At the time, Fisher's was one of L.A.'s renowned hamburger places, often mentioned in the same revered breath by burger lovers as Tommy's, Cassell's, Dolores' and The Apple Pan. I'd eaten at Fisher's for years with my parents, and liked it so much I decided I wanted to work there. Displaying an unusual amount of moxie for a kid as young as I was at the time, I went in one day, walked right up to the owner - a man named Howard Shear - and asked if I could have a job. To my everlasting surprise, he gave me one.

I won't go into dates and ages, because that's on a need-to-know basis. And you don't need to know. Let's just say I could only dream of making the minimum wage McDonald's employees get today.

I learned all the details of how the restaurant worked. I made tartar sauce and thousand island dressing (not together) in vats in back that were so big we stirred them with our arms. Still not sure how the health department let that one get by. I also learned how to work all the stations at Fisher's: the register, the grill, the soda fountain, and the french fries.

The fryers were like the ones in the picture - big vats of oil heated to 400 degrees. The way you made fries was by putting raw, sliced potatoes in the basket, lowering it into the oil, and setting the timer for a couple minutes. When the fries were ready, you'd lift the basket out by the handle and shake the excess oil off the fries. In that process, lots of fries fell into the oil. Because of that, the fryers had to be cleaned many times during the course of the day.

The way you cleaned the fries out was by running a strainer over the top of the oil and scooping them up.

One day, I was cleaning the fryer and the handle on the strainer was a little greasy (Strainer? You strainer you brought her. Thanks, I'll be here all week). So I'm holding the greasy strainer handle, and it suddenly slips out of my hand and disappears down into the fryer. Without thinking, my cat-like reflexes kicked into action and I reached down into the boiling oil up to my elbow to grab it.

As we say in my country, not a smart move.

Everything went into slow motion. I looked down at my arm in the oil for what felt like hours, but in reality was only seconds. Next, I realized I could feel it burning and yanked it out (with the strainer in hand - mission accomplished). I dropped the strainer, and made a beeline to the ice machine by the soda fountain and rammed my red, right arm into the ice. To this day, I can hear the sizzling of the ice on my hot skin.

Fortunately, I'd gotten there fast enough. The ice took the burn away, and I had no scarring. Other than the emotional kind for doing something so stupid.

But the most important thing is I learned a valuable lesson I still use to this very day.

Don't go asking for jobs if you don't really need one.