Survey says

Since when did companies become clingy, needy little entities clamoring for approval of every interaction you have with them?

Oh right. Since social media.

Inevitably, every restaurant I eat at is waiting with a survey for me to take to rate them. And, to entice me into doing it, I also get a chance to win a $25 gift certificate! They explain it, circle the website on my receipt, and make it sound like my customer transactional obligations don’t end at paying my bill.

They want me to engage.

At least they don’t flame my inbox the way car dealerships, online merchants and even my doctors’ office does. After every single contact with any of them, invariably the next day in my email is a survey asking me to rate the experience - no matter how miniscule or insignificant it may be.

Look, I’m happy to tell companies what I think. If the service, product, meal or whatever has been spectacular, I’m the first one to sing their praises on Yelp. Conversely, if it’s been awful, then the CEO, President and a few board members of the holding company will get what’s affectionately come to be known as a Jeff Letter, telling them what went wrong and asking them to make it right (Jeff letters have proven to be an extremely effective way to get results – and no, I’m not writing one for you).

This Sally Field-ing (“You like me! You really like me!”) of the American corporation has to stop. If I want them to know about my experience I'll tell them. But for the love of God and all things holy, stop asking me at every turn.

I used to go out with this girl who’d ask me every time there was more than a five second gap in the conversation “What’re you thinking?” What I was thinking was I wish she'd stop asking me that question every five seconds.

This is all driven by the popularity contest that is social media. A platform for instant feedback, now companies have a way of inviting you to "Like" them on Facebook ("You like me!). The more followers, the better the company. Allegedly.

I hear Kleenex and Tide are tied at 8 followers each.

Anyway, that’s it for now. If you wouldn’t mind, please take a few minutes to rate your experience reading this post. Your comments will be used to help improve the quality and subject matter of future posts.

Just messing with you. No matter what you say, this is as good as it gets.

Moving apps

This year, I jumped on the Apple train—again—and ponied up for the iPhone6s Plus. I’d had an iPhone5 for years, but after having to hold its teeny, tiny 4-inch screen near the tip of my nose to watch one too many binges of Breaking Bad and House Of Cards, I decided to trade up to the 6s Plus and its ginormous 5.5-inch screen.

I’ve had apartments smaller than this phone. The good news is all my worrying about not being able to text one-handed, fitting it in my jean pockets (thank God I don’t wear skinny jeans – no one needs to see that) and it not fitting in the cupholder in my car proved to be unfounded.

It only took one week and it was like I’d always been using it. In fact, in the same way my German Shepherd Max - the world’s greatest dog - looked huge at the beginning but doesn't anymore, the 6s Plus doesn’t look big to me unless I put an older iPhone next to it. Max also looks huge no matter what phone is next to him.

So here’s the thing: over the holiday weekend, with a little down time on my hands while I was in between slices of pumpkin pie, I decided I'd take a shot at organizing the bazillion app icons camping out wherever they damn well pleased across five big screens on my phone.

Jumping into action, and by that I mean leaning back in the big reading chair with iPhone in hand, I quickly and cagily figured out my plan of attack. I put travel apps in a folder named Travel. Health apps in a folder named Health. Money and banking apps in a folder named Finances. See where I’m going here?

At the end of it though, I still had a considerable number of orphan apps – including iSamJackson (“Get these motherf#%&ing snakes off this motherf#%&ing plane!"), Police Siren (woooooo and wahhh woooo wahhhh woooo), Basic Spanish (no bueno) and AwesomeFacts (not awesome, not all facts) – that I hardly ever use.

And by hardly I mean never.

They, along with many others, now all reside in one folder appropriately labeled Rarely Used Apps. By doing that I picked up two full screens worth of real estate. Now it’s just a matter of getting in the habit of finding apps that were on screen four on screen one. First world problems and all that.

I love the fact Apple iOS lets me create folders for my apps and clear up the screens, although I have to say I'm not entirely trusting of their motives. I mean, now that I have those two extra screens available, there's only one thing to do with them.

More apps.

Leftovers

I know what you're thinking. Here comes a post about holiday leftovers, turkey sandwiches, tryptophan naps and the best way to store pumpkin pie (kidding - there's never leftover pumpkin pie).

As good as that sounds, no. I'm talking about a different kind of leftovers. The creative kind.

Every person who works in the creative department of an ad agency - copywriter, art director, creative director, producer - has ideas, campaigns, starting thoughts, visuals, jokes, taglines, directors and media placement suggestions for work that never was. Work they loved that, for reasons ranging from "I don't get it" to "It'll scare them," in other words the ridiculous absurd, never saw the light of day. Never made it out the door.

Of course, like holiday leftovers, if stored and handled properly you can always heat them up and serve them at a later time. The word for this, in agency parlance, is "repurposing."

I'm a big fan of repurposing, especially in an era of parody products with extremely little to differentiate them except the advertising. Repurposing works especially well if you're lucky enough to draw a good hand and get a creative director that can't remember what they had for breakfast, much less what you showed them two days ago. The campaign they killed on Monday is the same one they love on Wednesday. Second time's a charm.

A lot of people tsk tsk the idea of leftovers, but it's the word that throws them. Just because an idea's a leftover doesn't mean it's not original. Or entertaining. Or attention getting. Or right for the brand. It just means it was killed the first time, and deserves a second chance - which can come in the form of a new client, new creative director or new agency.

And who among us couldn't use a second chance.

Case in point: I just re-read this post and I'd love a second chance at writing it. And if you've read this far, I'm betting you're willing to give it to me.

Time after time

Every ad agency has their own way of recording hours employees put toward each job. And you couldn't blame anyone for thinking that, being the creative places they are, they might have a more inspiring way of going about it.

But sadly, like insurance offices, mortgage companies, law firms and other traditional businesses, agencies use timesheets to track hours, and reconcile them against the budget and scope of the assignments.

It's the only way they can find out if they’re allocating their resources properly (laughs hysterically – they never allocate properly), and if not, fine tune them to at the very least break even.

In days of old, back around 2003, agencies still required paper timesheets. Creatives would guestimate the number of hours they put against each job (why do you think they call it creative?), and then hand them in to a smiling, welcoming HR person waiting to make sure every thing goes perfectly with regards to you getting paid for your efforts (Cough, cough, couldntcareless, cough, cough).

Digital time sheets soon followed, but even so most agencies today still require you to print a hard copy then hand it in. Which begs the question why bother with an online version at all.

Of course, agencies beg the question "Why?" all the time.

Why pitch an account they’re completely unqualified to service.

Why embarrass themselves fighting to keep an account that’s been out the door since it arrived, and is making a beeline for it no matter what they do.

Why keep hiring alcoholic posers in leadership positions who've been “quitted” from their last five jobs (perhaps I've said too much).

Online timesheets also require you to account for every minute of every day. And if you don't happen to be slammed wall to wall every day, there's always a job number for a category called "General Overhead." It's the column where you list time spent for things like Facebook, Words With Friends, watching Apple movie trailers, (ahem) writing blog posts, going to lunch and reading What Would Tyler Durden Do.

On the spreadsheet the client sees it's called Research.

The point is - and yes I have one - that it doesn't matter how well agencies manage to finesse their digital timesheet algorithms. It seems that, for the foreseeable future, even though they're going to tout the convenience and efficiency of filling out timesheets online, they're still going to want you to print out a hard copy for accounting to hang on to.

You know, for the lawsuit.

This way out

I hope you appreciate how long it took me to find a Thanksgiving post picture that not only was relevant, but also looked, if you squint, like a pumpkin. You're welcome. Let's get started.

Today, like many Thanksgivings over the years, I'll be heading down to one of the relatives' homes in Orange County to polish off my quota of turkey (cooked to perfection), stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls and butter, pumpkin pie and whipped cream plus whatever other holiday fare finds its way to the perfectly set table.

I do this every year with the family, which is why Thanksgiving always feels a bit like Groundhog's Day. Not the one with the buck-toothed rodent. The one with Bill Murray.

Year in, year out, it's the same people. The same family stories. The same gossip. The same arguments. The same observations. The same questions. After the meal, we all retire to the same living room, sit on the same flattened couch cushions and watch the same TV shows while we all try to recover at the same time from overstuffing ourselves.

There's a certain familiarity to it all, and for the most part, it's fairly enjoyable. Especially the part with the pie.

But every few years, the old adage about how you can choose your friends but not your family roars to life in a loud, opinionated, foul-mouthed, conversation-dominating, high-as-a-kite, thick-headed way.

Not naming names, but there's a relative who in the past has occasionally, whether by accident or intentionally, managed to find the unlocked portal that goes from the deepest pit of hell to the natural world and made their way up to my Thanksgiving dinner table.

And of course, brought their own special brand of misery and "Do I kill myself or them?" to the proceedings.

Anyway, at one point there was some mention this person might be joining us this year. And, as anyone who knows me would expect, I reacted in the most mature, polite, measured, holiday-spirited fashion I know how.

I said if they show up, we're going home.

Then I proceeded to worry about it almost every minute of every day. Figuring how I'd make my stand, recruit my family to join me in storming out (God bless 'em they were all in), and most important, if it happened before we ate, planning where we'd have our Thanksgiving meal. Philippe's was a contender. So was The Venetian. But The Venetian is always a contender no matter what the question is.

In the end, come to find out all my worry was for nothing. This year, the particular individual I speak of has decided to brandish their special recipe for holiday gloom somewhere else.

So now, not only do I get to enjoy the holiday with the people I truly love, I also have one more thing to be thankful for.

The Prius phase

It seems there are phases both genders - and I'm going to limit it to two for the purpose of this post - go through.

For boys, it's usually firetrucks, dinosaurs and baseball. For girls, it's often horses, dolls and photography.

But eventually time catches up with us all, and the childhood phases slowly recede as we discover more expensive, adult phases to pass through. However, there's a new phase adults of both sexes seem to be grudgingly surrendering to.

The Prius phase.

As phases go, I suppose it's an admirable one, as opposed to, say, shoplifting or cutting yourself. But if you appreciate a finely tuned, high-performance, road-eatin' ride, the fact is it can be just as damaging.

What happens is one day a person is overcome with the uneasy feeling perhaps they need to be more socially conscious. Or that the coming derision is more tolerable than the $500 a month tab for gas. Perhaps they feel compelled to make a statement. Statements range anywhere from "I'm environmentally forward thinking" to "Yes I'm a better person than you" to "Is this thing on?" to "Did I tell you I get 55 MPG?"

Many times, especially when they try to show off their smaller carbon footprint by speeding and cutting you off on the freeway, the statement becomes "Look at me, I'm a douche in a Prius." I'm pretty sure this last one is unintended. But it doesn't make it any less true.

Inevitably after a while living with the car, the Prius phase begins to run its course. Drivers begin to miss the sound of an engine when they press the accelerator (in the Prius, it's called the "pedal on the right"). They long for a less tinny sound when they close the car door. The idea of a car - like the one they traded in for the Prius - that can run a curve and stick like glue becomes a yearning. It's all they can think about.

Next thing you know, the same guy that drives the service department shuttle is taking your Prius around back while they're writing up the paperwork on your new A6, 530i or AMG C63. The siren call finally gets answered.

And the good news is once it's over, you can finally stop wearing that t-shirt. You know, the one that says "Prius. Because a gas-guzzlin’, ass-kickin’, fast-movin’, sweet-soundin’, head-turnin’, envy-causin’, great-feelin’ car just isn’t me."

Tell me something I don't know

If you've ever been in the creative department of an ad agency, you already know they're hotbeds of bold ideas, original thinking, sexually transmitted diseases and ironic t-shirts.

There's also one other thing you'll find plenty of: Sarcasm.

Come to find out that's a good thing. Scientific American reports that in a study of sarcasm, looking at the sarcaser and the sarcasee, it turns out sarcasm triggers creative sparks for those dishing it out as well as those on the receiving end.

That explains everything. Like when the planner wearing the knit cap, skinny jeans and no socks calls a meeting to give their latest and greatest insight (The consumer wants to be engaged with the brand!), they're not inviting ridicule. Far from it.

They're inviting sarcasm so the creatives in the room will be more creative. The planners are doing us a favor. Now it all makes sense.

The study goes on to say that sarcasm between people who trust each other can have these beneficial effects without creating conflict.

Which explains why conflict is something you never see in agencies.