Venting

The reason this post is called Venting is because I didn’t want there to be any confusion. I don’t know where your mind wanders to every now and again, but I wanted to make sure no one took a quick glance at this picture in passing and thought “Is Jeff posting one of his -oscopy before pictures?”

Well if there’s such a thing as a vent-oscopy™ then yes.

What you’re in fact looking at is the before picture of the vent from my dryer to the outside world.

Here’s the thing. When we did our big fancy remodel a few years ago, we got fancy new appliances because it’s just money amirite?

Anyway, there’s a sensor on the dryer control panel that lights up Christmas tree red that says "check air flow." It used to only come on once in awhile, and being the Mr. Fixit kind of guy you know me to be I attended to it the way I attend to most mechanical things that need fixin'.

I ignored it.

But then, after five years, that little red light became a regular thing. Apparently just swiping the lint filter clean every now and again—which i actually do know how to do—isn’t enough.

It just so happened we were on the schedule for our heating and air conditioning service to come out to inspect and clean the main system ducts in the attic. And of course, we uttered the three most dangerous words you can ever say to a contractor or repair service.

“While you’re here…”

They came out, cleaned all the ducts in the attic and then went to work showing off their magic roto-duster thing on the dryer vent.

As you can see from the after picture, this isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Sparkling clean, sensor light off and good to go for another year since we’re now on the annual plan.

I’m not bragging here and I’m also not posting pictures, but I think you should also know that all my personal -oscopy pictures are just as sparkling clean as this one.

You're welcome.

Sixteen pills

Full disclosure, sixteen pills wasn't my first choice for the title of this post. I was going to call it Carpé Canine. In case you’re not a fan of The Dead Poets Society, let me translate for you: sieze the dog.

Alright, penalty for reaching but this is a story about my German Shepherd Ace, who, if you follow me here or on any other social platform I ramble on, you know I post quite a bit about him be it words or pictures. But here’s something I don’t talk about very often—Ace’s sweet sixteen.

That’s not his age, although we’d be beyond happy if he makes it to sixteen. In this case, it’s the number of pills we have to give him every day.

Come to find out Ace has epilepsy. We didn’t know it when we got him from Westside German Shepherd Rescue six years ago. In fact, for the first three years he lived with us he was perfectly fine.

Then came that night.

It was about three-thirty in the morning, and the wife and I heard a loud thump in the living room, like a sack of potatoes hitting floor. We came running out of the bedroom to find Ace, where he’d fallen off the couch on to the floor, in a full grand mal seizure.

Even though I’d never seen a dog have a seizure of any kind, it was pretty clear what was happening.

He was foaming at the mouth, which was involuntarily and uncontrollably snapping open and closed. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and his body thought it was riding a bicycle, impossibly contorted with all four legs snapping in quick, jerky movements.

It felt like forever, but it ended after about three minutes. When he came out of it, he was definitely altered for about three hours after, going in and out of the house to the backyard over and over.

The wife and I didn’t know what to do. Every time he went out, he stumbled around the back of the house to the furthest point away from the back door. We thought he was looking for a place to die. Finally he came back and settled down a bit.

We took him to the vet later that morning, and he put Ace on a low dosage of phenobarbitol that would hopefully slow down his seizures.

To make a long story short—if that’s even possible at this point—he continues to have seizures to this day. After several, expensive neurological tests, various veterinary specialist visits and more seizures, he now has a sixteen-a-day pill regimen (the eight in the photo twice a day) consisting of phenobarbitol, zonisomide and keppra which keeps his siezures few and far between.

And when they do happen, they don’t last more than a couple minutes, and he comes back to himself quickly.

A few people, obviously not dog people, have suggested getting rid of him or putting him out of his misery. But he's not in any misery. When they happen, he's not aware of it and, providing it doesn't happen near something he can hurt himself on, they're not hurting him. Dogs with epilepsy can live full, normal lives with the right meds and lots of love—both of which Ace has.

Is his monthly medication expensive? Yes. Can you put a price on the unconditional love he gives and gets? No.

To those who say they couldn't do it, we offer this quote from Seabiscuit's trainer in the movie of the same name: "You know, you don't throw a whole life away just 'cause he's banged up a little."

Who's a good boy?

Heavenly Day and the New Year

Oh heavenly day
All the clouds blew away
Got no trouble today
With anyone

I've been thinking lately—I could stop that sentence right there just to see the shock on the faces of people who know me and former employers. But I'll keep going.

I've been thinking lately about the last time I was genuinely happy and carefree. Now don't get me wrong, I'm a generally happy person most of the time. Cynical, but happy. But sometimes I can't stop myself from wondering exactly how long ago it was that I wasn't worried about bills, kids, dogs, money, safety for my loved ones, the car breaking down, the state of the world, the state of the union, if the alarm was turned on, if the stove was turned off, my weight, my job, my wardrobe, my health, my sleep patterns, did I mention money? And on and on.

While there may be a supply shortage of children's cold medicine, baby formula, airline pilots, Sriracha, semiconductor chips and tampons, it seems there's always a never ending glut of things to worry about, even if they're things we don't need to worry about (Full disclosure: not actually that concerned about the tampons).

So how do I find some peace with my worries running through my brain like a runaway train? One way is by listening to Patti Griffin's Heavenly Day.

It gives me, how the kids say, "all the feels."

Her beautiful voice, the gentle, unhurried arrangement and the nuanced accompanyment of Buddy Miller takes me back to a worry free time, when simple things were enough. And it gives me an unncharacteristically optimistic hope they can be again.

But maybe more importantly, it reminds me to be present in the moment, which in advertising isn't always something you want to do—especially in status meetings, creative reviews, pep talks or town halls.

The song also subtly drives home the point that although there are admittedly times when it doesn't feel like it—like during political discussions, hard joking or deciding which black shirt I should wear—the people I love and who love me are in reality all I need.

The smile on your face
I live only to see
It's enough for me baby
It's enough for me

Now before you start flaming the complaint box, I know this post isn't the well written, laugh riot, quippy, quotable read you've become accustomed to from me. But seriously, how much did you pay for it? I rest my case.

Besides if you want funny and well written, there's always Round Seventeen.

So since we're just hours away from the new year, I want to suggest you try on my new found attitude of cautious optimism things will be getting better and brighter in the next 365 days. I also recommend turning off the news, stopping the doom scrolling and reorganizing your priorities. The earth is four and a half billion years old, and we're just here for a second. Shouldn't we be taking the time to focus our attention, energy and passion on the things and people that really matter? Yes. Yes we should.

So my New Year's wish for you is that all your burdens will be lifted, and just enjoying each other will be enough.

From the sides, top and bottom of my cynical, happy heart, may your 2023 be filled with nothing but heavenly days.

No one at my shoulder bringing me fears
Got no clouds up above me bringing me tears
Got nothing to tell you, I've got nothing much to say
Only I'm glad to be here with you
On this heavenly, heavenly, heavenly, heavenly
Heavenly day

One cool cat

If you know anything about me — and if you don't, go back and read the previous twelve-hundred posts, I'll wait here — it'll be pretty clear I'm without a doubt quite the vocal dog lover. I love most dogs, especially the larger breeds. The kind that lets me send my kid to the liquor store at midnight and say "Dad needs a beer. Take the dog."

I'm particularly partial to German Shepherds. I'm currently on my second one, Ace, who was a rescue and is just the sweetest boy. And of course before him, there was the world's greatest dog, Max. You can read Max's story in the wonderful, moving, heartfelt, funny, beautiful labor-of-love book Gone Dogs, available here. Or here. And even here.

But despite being a dog person, I have a secret I don't tell many people. However given the readership numbers here I feel pretty safe in, shall we say, letting the cat out of the bag (sorry).

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I had a cat. Her name was Mr. Kitty. And I loved her.

The short story is Mr. Kitty was a stray who followed my then girlfriend now wife home and never left. So right off the bat we had something in common.

We named her Mr. Kitty because we weren't close enough to check out the equipment, so we went with that.

Mr. Kitty would show up at my girlfriend's door every night. We'd feed her, take her on walks around the block (she just followed us) and then bring her in for the night where she'd sleep on my head. We'd let her out in the morning when we were leaving for work, and she'd always be there to greet us when we got home.

When we moved into my apartment in Santa Monica, even though there were no pets allowed we brought Mr. Kitty with us. We'd hide her when the maintenance people had to come in, or when the fire alarms in the building went off and we'd have to walk down seventeen flights of stairs with her disguised under a blanket or in a box.

A close friend of ours who's a veterinarian estimated she was about four years old. She was seventeen when we had to say goodbye to her. So for thirteen years, I had a cat.

Who slept on my head.

Who I gave subcutaneous fluids to everyday for years for her kidney disease.

Who when she got seriously old and ill, I gave cat enemas to so she could do her business without straining or being in pain. This was something I could've gone my whole life without knowing how to do and I would've been just fine.

When my son was born, someone gave us a Moses basket as a gift. But we never used it for my son. We put it under his crib, and it became Mr. Kitty's bed when she got to be too old and weak to hop up on ours.

Not long after, the time came to say goodbye. We took her to my vet friend, and I held her on my lap as she passed. I cried every time I thought about it for weeks after. I still do.

So when people say I don't know what it's like having a cat, a small, knowing smile comes across my unfairly handsome face. I know they're wrong. I know exactly what it's like, because I had the coolest cat ever.

Which is the reason I don't want another one.

That, and the fact Ace has another name for cats. He calls them appetizers.

Encore post: Answer the call

You can’t overstate the ability of advertising people to inhale their own fumes. It may be part of the job description. I’ll have to check with HR.

Many of them have what I’d call an unrealistic sense of consumer behavior that should rightfully be filed under wishful thinking. For example, against all evidence from the beginning of advertising time, there’s a prevailing thought that just because you bark an order at the consumer and tell them to do something, they’ll actually do it.

If it were only that easy.

How else to explain the fact almost every piece of—let’s call it marketing communication—that gets produced has what’s referred to in the biz as a CTA. In civilian terms, a Call To Action.

It’s the instruction from the advertiser on what they want you to do next. And it’s not one-size-fits-all. There is no standard CTA. It can be anything from Learn More to Call Now. Sign Up to Get Started. Take the Survey to Talk To Us. Let’s Go to Join Free For A Month (that was Netflix-it was a great month).

It’s a good thing it’s there. Otherwise how would you know what to do, amiright?

Here’s the truth: agencies consider a 2% click rate on web ad CTAs a resounding success. If you were getting a 2% return on any investment in your life you’d be looking for a new place to invest. But when it’s a 2% click through on banner ads (don’t get me started), the champagne is flowing, the overgrown frat boys are high-fivin', backs are being slapped and the junior team is getting assigned the agency promo piece touting their digital prowess.

On every agency brief—the six to eight page document explaining the assignment and showing that otherwise educated people don't know what brief means—there’s a description about what the agency/client wants the consumer to do as a result of seeing the CTA. For example, “Include CTA to visit website to drive user to website.”

Hey, Captain Obvious, what color was George Washington’s white horse?

Anyway, it occurred to me how much better agency life would be if there were CTAs, like these, that you could click on when the situation called for it.

Make It Stop
Anytime anyone calls a meeting about what they discussed at the last meeting, and what they'll be discussing in the next meeting as a result of this meeting, all you do is click on this CTA and immediately all the sounds stop coming out of their mouth. Their lips are moving, but they're not saying anything. Oh wait, that's already happening.

Go Away
This one's a lifesaver. Great for personal space invaders, hallway talkers or the smug, self-righteous contrarian that lives to argue with everything you say. It's essentially the CTA that wishes them into the cornfield. I'm guessing that's going to be one crowded cornfield.

Not This Again
Remember that revision the client wanted, and you made, and then they took it out? And now they want it back in? This happens on a daily basis on every account in every agency. It just makes you shake your head and ask if they've always had this much trouble making up their mind (well, yes and no - BAM!). Hit this CTA, and it resets time back 15 minutes before the original request got re-requested. Normally only Superman can turn back time by flying counter clockwise to the earth's rotation. This will make it a lot easier on him.

Drop It
Basically a trap door for every occasion. Whatever they're doing to bother you, just hit this CTA and a trapdoor opens under them. Laugh and smile as they go plummeting down an endless tunnel that will eventually land them in the seventh circle of hell.

Or another meeting.

Encore post: Ass scratching' nomad

Before I tell you how "ass scratchin' nomad" became my new favorite saying, let's talk about the picture.

If you're a regular reader—and if you are you should get out more often—you know each post usually has a large, relevant photo centered at the top.

But I felt, and I believe you will too, that no one needed to see this particular picture any larger than it is.

Just so you know, the photo isn't of the person I'll be talking about. Butt the action is (see what I did there?).

Because our agency has grown so fast, there are now more people than there is space for them all (still waiting for them to ask me for recommendations about who to tie the can to-don't get me started). Anyway, an individual at my agency, who doesn't have an actual desk or workspace to call his own, wanders around from desk to desk and person to person doing whatever the fuck it is he does there.

So get this: apparently while he was discussing business with someone at the agency, he was leaning on the end of their desk, with his elbows in front of him, and his low-riding blue-jeaned derriere sticking out in the aisle between desks.

And while that may have been a comfortable position for him to discuss business, it wasn't exactly the best view for the individual sitting at the desk directly behind him.

Little did they know the view was about to get a lot worse.

Apparently Mr. No Office had an itch to scratch. So, being cultured and part of polite society, he quickly excused himself, went to find some privacy in the men's room, and discreetly attended to the need.

I'm just messin' with you. He crammed his hand down his pants, under the waistband, and scratched his sweaty, unwashed ass for longer than anyone wanted to watch.

It's the kind of slick move legends are made of. It's also the kind of story that spreads like wildfire through an agency.

I share an office just down the way from where the ass-scratching incident occurred. With me in our one-window, no-view office are three roommates. One of them happens to be an extremely funny writer. Wait, I meant another extremely funny writer.

When the story of the ass scratching eventually made its way to our office, my fellow writer was mortified. She couldn't believe someone would do that kind of thing out in the open for everyone to see. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "As if the job isn't hard enough, now I have to worry about seeing some ass-scratchin' nomad when I'm walking in the office."

BAM! My new favorite phrase was born.

If you know anything about me, you know I'll often take a phrase or joke I like, hang on to it like a rodeo rider and run it into the ground until people know I'm going to say it before I do. If you think I'm kidding, go back through my posts and see if you can count how many times you see the words "high school girlfriend."

True to form, every day since I heard it, I've been trying to work "ass scratchin' nomad" into my office conversation at least once a day.

So thank you to my writer roommate for a line I'm having immense fun with, and that cracks me up every time I think about it.

When we were discussing the event, someone said the moral of the story is if you're going to scratch an itch like that, maybe you ought to find a more discreet place to do it. But I think that's all wrong.

The moral of the story is don't shake hands with him.

Encore post: The new apathy

Is it possible to care too much about your work? How would I know. That's never been my problem.

Sure, I'm paid and paid well to care enough to do the best possible job I can for my clients. And I do, because I'm just that professional.

So maybe the right word isn't care. Maybe it's "serious."

Here's the thing: on the big, long list of things in the world worth taking seriously, advertising just isn't one of them. In fact, advertising is on that other list - the one that includes hybrid cars, Justin Bieber and guys who wear their pants below their ass.

Everyday I work with people who could sell ice to eskimos. But the one thing they can't sell me on is taking the business I'm in too seriously.

Don't get me wrong: I'm a firm believer that there's a reason, purpose and tangible benefit to marketing communication. The impact it can have on defining a brand, engaging the consumer and shaping a business when it's done right - I'm looking at you Apple - is nothing less than remarkable.

The part I don't take seriously are the people who take themselves so seriously.

It's always amusing to go into a meeting and see how serious everyone is. They're straightening their notepads, setting their iPhones within arms reach (you know, for that very important call that could come. At. Any. Minute.), and sitting up attentively in the chairs they've adjusted to just the proper height. Wait a minute, is that image on the screen coming wirelessly from that iPad? Is that a Powerpoint presentation? Man this is getting serious.

The other thing I've found is that the main contribution from people who are too serious is riding the brakes and slowing the process. They bring up issues and detours that aren't salient to either that process or the outcome.

And I believe all that seriousness belies a lack of trust, often in themselves.

For all the efforts they make to stay steeped in pop culture and the trends of the moment, apparently one thing they don't do is read the papers (alright, some of them read the paper on their iPad during those meetings, but still...).

There are bigger things happening in the real world that actually matter and impact lives. It's true all those ads that butt their big, fat noses into your tv watching, radio listening, online surfing, magazine reading and automobile driving also impact lives. But it's also true most of them don't do it the way those very serious faces in the conference room want them to.

Some of the funniest, most brilliant, most creative people I've ever met work in advertising. So do some of the tightest butt-clenchers and people with sticks where they shouldn't be. Maybe they could lose the sticks if they didn't clench so hard. Just a thought.

I understand everyone's doing their job the best way they know how. I just think they could do it a lot better if they didn't take themselves so seriously.

Besides, just because you take yourself seriously doesn't mean anyone else does.

It also doesn't mean you're good at your job.

In what I thought had to be a joke but wasn't, a colleague of mine actually had a Facebook post saying he loved advertising so much it made him cry. Well, it makes me cry too. Just not for the same reason.

Anyway, I hope you can forgive my little rant here. I just had to get it off my chest. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't care.

I know I don't.