Recommitting to recommitting

ROTATION AND BALANCE

                                    

                          ROUND SEVENTEEN

Every year I recommit to doing a better job with this blog. I don’t know why. It’s not like my nine readers are demanding any more from me in the way of quality. Besides, the truth is you can’t get blood from a stone. And after more than 900 posts, frankly this is as good as it gets.

I know. I’m as disappointed as you are.

Nonetheless, here we are at the start of a new year. Even though I believe most of the world only has seventeen days left as of this writing, I’m still going to recommit to recommitting. You can take that to the bank. Although don’t take it to Wells Fargo. They’ll just make you open additional accounts you don't want or need.

Anyway, I’m giving you my word every year from here on out, I’ll make a point of telling you how much better this blog will be. More consistent with postings. More topical with subjects. More entertaining because, let’s face it, when I want to I can bring the funny. I am recommitting to the idea that I will be prolific in the amount of recommitments I’ll be posting.

But let's not forget who we're dealing with. I'm not going to go crazy and be as prolific as say my pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen. Although the stats for 2015 do not lie, and show that thanks to a deliberate effort on my part, I matched his blog post for post and in fact beat his numbers by a solid eight posts for that year. Although the electoral votes still aren’t in yet.

Don't pay no never mind to the numbers for the other years. It's a painful memory.

Besides, I think if committing is good, then recommitting is better. It reminds me year in and year out of the promise I’ve made, even if I have yet to keep it.

It’s not hard for me to recommit to writing more on here.

For one reason, I’m sure you’ve already recommitted to not reading it.

Have the best 19 days ever!

Happy New Year! I think this one is going to be spectacularly great. I mean that. After all, it can't be any worse than 2016, amirite? Truth be told, I think 2017 will be the best year any of us can remember. All nineteen days of it.

I know, I can hear you saying, "But Jeff, aren't there 365 days in a year?" Well sure, in a normal year. But 2017 isn't going to be a normal year. For starters, our dipshit elect is going to be sworn in on January 20th. Which coincidentally, I believe, is the day the world as we know it will end.

We already know, and he confirms it on a daily basis, that he will be the most mentally, emotionally and morally unqualified person ever to hold the office of President of the United States. If anything good is going to happen before he gets us into a nuclear war with China, sinks the stock market, destroys the environment and makes the air unbreathable, it's going to happen in the first nineteen days of the year.

So my recommendation is live it up. Go to Vegas, fly to Paris, pour gas on the credit cards, kiss whoever's there at the moment, drive fast (I mean even faster), eat badly (I mean even worse) and get ready to go out with a big, fat, toothless, trailer-trash smile on your face.

And if for some odd, unexpected reason—a speedy impeachment (please, please, please) or an act of God (this is the prayer to answer)—he's removed from office quickly and we all manage to continue on with our lives, don't even give a second thought to the many acts of complete abandon, ribaldry and debasement you just committed.

Decency, truth or consequences for your actions won't be coming back for at least another fifty years.

'Twas the night before Christmas - 2016 Edition

This is the third year in a row I've put up this post on Christmas Eve. It's become somewhat of a holiday tradition. I say somewhat, because nobody really expects or wants it, but I keep posting it anyway. It's like Deck The Halls or Do You Hear What I Hear. The request lines aren't jammed, yet you hear it a lot. Besides, normally I'd be doing all my last minute errands like eating all the cookies the wife made for tomorrow, and dipping into the pumpkin pie early. But it is the season of giving, and damn it, if we know anything about me we know I'm a giver.

I think the best gift any of us can ask for is that 2016 ends as planned, and that we all survive the next few years. I know, Mr. Glass Half Full.

So hug those you love, make sure they know, and please to enjoy this little diddy one more time. And the very merriest Christmas to you and yours.

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of Gold Lions danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

Germ of an idea

Whenever I hear "It's the season!" I know whoever said it means the Christmas, Joy To The World, Goodwill Towards All time of year. I'm all for it (except for the Mariah Carey Christmas song Macy's has on a loop).

But the holiday season happens to coincide with another, less popular one—cold and flu season.

If you work in an office like I do—with central air-conditioning you thought was your friend—you know colds and flu shoot through the workplace like wildfire.

It's basically a game of dominoes. Once the first person falls, it's only a matter of time before everyone else does.

You can't help getting sick, but you can help other people from getting sick. It's easy, here's the trick: stay home until you're completely better.

Not a lot better.

Not better than you were.

Not almost better.

All the way better. The way you were before you had any inkling you were coming down with anything. It's only common sense and common courtesy, amiright?

But as we all know, there are people who, in spite of a phlegmy, hacking cough, juicy sneezes, noses running faster than Usain Bolt, fever so high they could fry eggs on their foreheads and fatigue so intense they're asleep standing up, for some reason insist on coming to work.

I suppose they might feel a certain sense of responsibility to the job. Or have an unrelenting work ethic that doesn't allow them to put themselves before the job, which they feel must get done regardless of their current state of affliction.

Both things I know nothing about. Just ask anyone I work with.

I hate it when people do that for two reasons. First, the idea of coming to work in general is one I resist with everything I've got pretty much on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I've been freelance so long, or the fact I appreciate my freedom and want to set my own schedule. Maybe it's because I'm an only child and the world revolves around me (but you already knew that). It could be that I'm just a lazy bastard who'd rather sit on the couch and binge Breaking Bad, again, than earn money to pay my bills and feed my family.

A man can dream can't he?

Anyway, the idea of coming to work when I'm sick wouldn't even occur to me. Besides, hard to imagine as it is, I'm even less productive when I'm sick. And getting back to that common courtesy thought, color me old-fashioned, but I just think it'd be better not to pass along the creeping crud I'm fighting to my fellow workers. They'll remember it come Secret Santa time, which means better re-giftable items for me.

And since no one's giving out medals or raises to people who drag their sorry asses in while they're on their death beds, there's really no percentage in it.

Besides, can you ever get enough daytime television? I think not.

Sorry for the rant, but occasionally you have to knock some sense into people so they do the right thing, like stay home when they're sick, get well, and not infect anyone else along the way because they have. to. get. back. to. work.

I'm not saying this post is directed at anyone in particular, but I'm not saying it isn't. With any luck, maybe they'll read it while they're having a fever delirium in their sick bed.

Or at their desk.

Balancing act

As well as you know me, this won't come as any surprise.

There are the few rare and in between occasions where I can be what I suppose some people would call compulsive.

I prefer to think of it as laser focused.

For example, at the craps tables. Or getting Springsteen tickets to 47 shows on the tour. Say it with me: Breaking Bad.

But while those are just a few of the pleasurable pursuits I enjoy directing my compulsiveness...er...focus towards, there are other, more practical ways it expresses itself.

Laundry. I challenge you here and now to a towel, t-shirt and sock folding contest (I'm looking at you Carmen Dorr). Seriously, tread lightly and prepare for disappointment. Not only am I extremely good at it, I enjoy doing it. Which is why you don't stand a chance.

Are you the kind of person who thinks they've loaded a dishwasher to capacity, even though you still have a sink and a half full of dirty dishes? Step aside rookie. I'll reorganize your dishes in the washer, put in all the ones in the sink and still have room for that serving dish you were going to wash by hand. I'm like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind: I can see the dishes all in their proper place even before I've put the first one in.

There's one place more than all the rest where I'm relentless about making it work out exactly the way it should—balancing my checkbook.

It's an old school notion, but I still get paper bank statements. I like them. I can write the numbers on them, check off the line items as I reconcile them and easily backtrack if I need to. Almost every time, it balances to the penny, which brings me a kind of happiness few things do.

Occasionally though it's off by either a few cents, or a few hundred dollars. When that happens, I put on the green visor (figuratively-green isn't really my color) and go through my find-my-mistake ritual.

First up is checking the addition in my checkbook register. I know there are apps for that, but I like doing it. I'm Columbo on a case to find the missing pennies ("Excuse me, just one more thing..."). If that doesn't solve it, I start adding the outstanding checks and uncredited deposits. Sometimes it's a few minutes, rarely it's a few hours. But I never give up, and eventually I find the error. And I always wind up with a balanced checkbook for the month.

I know I could get online statements and do it all from my laptop. But it wouldn't give me the same feeling of accomplishment putting pen to paper and figuring it out does.

I could go on and on about the joys of checkbook balancing, but I Love Lucy will be on soon and I have to go warm up the picture tube and find my clicker.

Send fries in lieu of flowers

Michael James Delligatti deserved more.

He is after all the man who invented a uniquely American culinary icon. Made literally billions for the company he worked with and for. And his invention was a very happy meal indeed.

Delligatti should've died last week at the age of 98 (maybe Big Macs aren't so bad for you) with an estate worth billions to leave his heirs. But all he got from McDonald's for his creation that's responsible for over 25% of their profits is a plaque.

Some people might argue that's more than Moe Green got (Godfather reference, look it up). But for my McMoney, it wasn't enough.

Delligatti was a franchisee who told McDonald's they should offer a double-patty burger. McDonald's, having the foresight and keen intuition for trends that they demonstrate even to this day, told him no. So, as the NY Times said, Delligatti went rogue. He ordered a larger, sesame-seed bun from a local baker, split it in three and made his own double-patty burger.

To everyone's surprise but his, sales skyrocketed. Funny thing. Once that happened, suddenly McDonald's was interested in offering what later became the Big Mac.

There seems to be a tradition of companies who make money off of these innovative ideas by screwing the people who come up with them.

One of the more famous instances was Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster who created a little character with a red cape you might've heard of - Superman. There were a slew of lawsuits, settlements and more lawsuits with the two families about ownership, and they still continue to this day (too much to go into here, but if you want to read more about it you'll find it here).

Ronald Wayne, the third founder of Apple along with Jobs and Wozniak. Wayne quit a few days into the partnership, scared the boys didn't know what they were doing and he'd be on the hook financially. If he'd held onto his stock, which he sold for $800, it would've been worth over $32 billion today. He took himself out of the equation, but still it would've been good karma for Jobs to reward him with a stipend for getting the company on its feet.

Philo T. Farnsworth, the farm boy who actually invented television at fourteen-years old and got screwed out of the patent by RCA.

John Walker, inventor of the self-igniting friction sticks, or as we call them in my country, matches.

How about Gary Kildall, inventor of the operating system you're probably using a version of right now. He got royally hosed by a nerdy billionaire from Seattle who usually gets the credit.

Of course, there's a saying my therapist taught me. I know what you're saying to yourself "But Jeff, you seem so well-adjusted, why would you have a therapist?" You have no idea.

Anyway, what she always says is there are no victims, only volunteers.

Many of these people didn't patent their ideas in spite of being urged to. Or some signed a contract without reading it. However they lost hold of their brain work, it seems ashame they weren't able to benefit from the rewards of it.

Even if a company owned their ideas fair and square, there's more than enough money to go around. Giving the creators some of it just seems like the right thing to do. Although I realize we're living in a post right-thing-to-do era.

Anyway, rest in peace Mr. Delligatti. I've enjoyed your creation many times over the years, and still indulge the occasional craving for it. Only now I take out the middle slice of bread.

It's a lot healthier that way.

Round here

You may have noticed I haven't written a new post in a while (undisciplined).

And frankly, there have been a lot of reasons for that (laziness).

I've been unbelievably busy with work (couch potato). I've had family obligations (binge watching). I've been concentrating on other projects (lotto tickets).

But I did want to take a few minutes out of my busy schedule (napping) to do something I have never done before—offer a bit of advice to my fellow blogger and swing dance instructor Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen.

Now, normally I don't make it my business to tell anyone else how to do theirs. I don't give other parents advice on how to raise their kids, although God knows with the devil spawn some of them have unleashed on the planet they could use it. I don't offer relationship advice, even though I know the secret to a long and trouble-free relationship most married men find out soon enough involves two words: Yes dear.

But since Rich is a friend of mine, I want the best for him and his blog because, and I think if you're followed me for any length of time and gotten past the crippling disappointment, you know I'm a giver.

So here's the advice: It's time to change the name of your blog. Not that Round Seventeen isn't a fine name, but based on my personal experience as of late, I don't think it's an accurate one anymore.

I can't remember the last time copy got routed less than seventeen times. For starters, once I've used up the entire three to four hours I get to craft a compelling brand story people will relate to, find humor in and want to know more about, it first has to get routed through several of what I like to euphemistically call layers.

The account team.

Strategy.

Account planner.

Product specialist.

Legal.

Associate creative director.

Group creative director.

Proofreading.

Executive creative director.

The cleaning lady on three.

And, if I'm lucky, then it finally makes its way to the client.

That's ten stops it has to make before it gets out the door. And if any of those people have a change, suggestion, idea, whim, opinion, thinks something's missing, thinks something else should be included, forwards a suggestion (mandatory) from the client or just. doesn't. get. it., then, as if I'd written it on a boomerang, it comes back to me for revisions.

After they're made, some well-meaning, highly intelligent, over-worked, underpaid and incredibly organized project manager gets to route it through all those people again. And again. And again.

Every time an "and" gets added. A "the" needs to be included. Disclaimers have to be changed (as if anyone reads them-thanks legal). Something gets underlined. A word gets bolded. An accolade gets deleted. Whatever the change, the copy suits up and does another lap.

By the time it gets back to me to sign off on, we're on round twenty eight. At least. Of course, as any writer in an agency will tell you, it'd be great if it stopped at twenty-eight. But sadly, predictably, it doesn't.

What people don't know about advertising is it's a lot like Groundhog's Day—the same assignments keep coming back over and over until the powers that be decide it's been watered down, legalesed and tamed enough to make it out the door to the client for their changes. I mean approval.

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. And as I read this over, I see that would be easy to do. Great work, classic advertising, the kind you remember and talk about for years—I'm looking at you Apple 1984 spot—doesn't happen the first time out. I'm fairly certain anything good I've done and I'm proud of took plenty of victory laps around the agency before it saw the light of day. So I do realize in some cases, this painstaking and often frustrating process has its upside.

Anyway Rich, you don't have to do it today, but you probably want to think about a more realistic number for the old blog title. Of course I suppose it's possible a writer of your caliber may not have to go more than seventeen rounds.

And if that's the case, just forget I said anything.