Encore post: Client rewrites

I'm doing something right now I'd advise anyone writing a blog not to do. I'm writing this post while I'm extremely pissed off. I know what you're thinking, "But Jeff, you're usually so funny and easygoing and levelheaded, what could possibly put you in such a foul mood?"

Well, I'll tell you. Clients who want to be copywriters.

There's a story I may have told before here, but it bears repeating. Paul Keye, who owned Keye Donna Perlstein, one of the great Los Angeles creative shops that isn't around anymore, wasn't just the creative director. He was also a copywriter, and a great one at that. He was presenting his work at a client meeting, and the client was being particularly dickish about it. Finally the client made some bullshit, insignificant, arbitrary change, like "the" to "a". He looked up at Paul and said, "What can I say Paul, I'm a frustrated copywriter."

To which Paul took a beat, then replied, "No, I'm the frustrated copywriter. You're an asshole."

Any copywriter who's been in the ad biz more than ten minutes has had the joyless experience of the client reworking their copy, with total disregard for what goes into creating it. Even when they like the copy, clients rarely get the nuance, cadence, subtlety, humor and rhythm of words well written. One of the most common places they take refuge is "I don't get it, how will any of our customers?"

Respect from clients for consumers intelligence is harder to find than a Christmas bonus.

Don't get me wrong: I'm sure occasionally a client will contribute something positive and helpful that doesn't make the copy sound like a strategy statement. Just like occasionally I believe I'll win the lottery, or Scarlett Johansson will return my calls.

If you think I'm painting clients in broad strokes and generalizations, take a look and listen to TV and radio commercials tonight. They were all client approved before they got there. We'll talk about the ratio of good to bad when you're done.

Originally this post was going to be about the subject of overthinking, but then I realized it's essentially the same thing. Clients examine copy with a magnifying glass the consumer will never use—assuming they even read the copy in the first place (you know the old saying).

It is endlessly frustrating with one client. The good news however is I have several who've been chiming in on how they think it should read. Copy by committee. Mmmm mmmm good.

Here's what I try to think about to keep it all in perspective. When Goodby had the notoriously bad Carl's Jr. account, they insisted on rewriting virtually everything that was presented to them. When asked about it, Jeff Goodby allegedly said, "It's a great deal. They write the copy and pay me." After it left, Goodby apologized to the staff for taking the business in the first place.

Whenever a creative chimes in with anything unflattering about the client, they're usually met with the fact that the client pays the bill and can have it the way they want. Thanks, but we already know this. I pay my doctor bills, but I don't get to tell him how to do the surgery. But then medicine isn't a collaborative sport like advertising. Which leads me to another thing: we're not curing cancer here. Don't get me started.

Here's the thing: this isn't my first rodeo. I know clients are always going to be changing copy, sometimes with the genuine intention of thinking they're making it better. And sometimes just because they're frustrated copywriters.

So I'll try to keep Jeff Goodby's comment in mind, along with my own personal motto.

The checks clear.

You may already be a wiener

Seems you can’t go a day without reading or hearing about a labor shortage hitting one industry or another. Well, here’s the good news. Opportunity is knocking where you’d least expect it.

Oscar Meyer is looking for Wienermobile drivers.

You’re probably asking yourself the same question I did: Where do I sign? Before you make the jump and become an official “Hotdogger,” you should know there are some other responsibilities that go along with the position besides just riding around all day with a giant wiener.

Which, trust me, isn’t as easy as it sounds.

Anyway, here’s part of the job description on their recruitment site:

To represent Oscar Mayer as a brand ambassador through radio and television appearances, newspaper interviews, grocery retail and charity functions. To “meat” and greet people from coast to coast.

So far, so good. But if you take a closer look, there’s a little line they managed to slip in there that would have me clenching my buns:"To maintain company car". Apparently you’re expected to keep that giant wiener up and running.

Don’t quote me on this, but I’m guessing it's not covered by AAA. So let’s say your giant wiener keeps going down. Now what do you do? You're gonna have search for a tow truck to rent, and the last thing you want is to be seen pulling your big wiener across state lines. AmIrite?

It seems to me wiener maintenance like oiling and polishing it should be provided by the Oscar Meyer company. I mean really, is it that hard?

Anyway, if you’re up for the challenge, or as the site says, ”Do you cut the mustard?” , you can always send in an application and see what happens.

I don’t relish the idea of waiting for an answer, but you might handle it better.

Streaming service

Trust me, this isn’t one you’ll want to watch.

If you take a quick cruise through any tech store or online site, there are a plethora of consumer-ready technologies designed to make life more convenient and productive. And all of it is produced with the best intentions. But like me trying to do home repairs, some things are best left to the professionals.

Case in point is this little device that would never have been invented had there not been an anxious world and grateful nation clamoring for it. The U-Scan. It's a miniaturized health lab that attaches to your toilet bowl and collects urine for home urine screening.

So how do you know if urine need of it?

Well if you’d prefer to be spared the indignity of peeing in a cup at your doctor’s office—something I personally always enjoy for both target practice and hand-eye coordination—you’ll probably be one of the first in line for this smart device. Of course as I write this I have to ask myself how smart it can really be sitting in a toilet all day.

But then I freelanced at Jordan McGrath so who am I to judge.

The U-Scan can run a variety of different test results and analysis for things like specific gravity (as opposed to unspecified gravity), PH, vitamin C and keytone levels. It also provides ideal hydration levels and protein-vegetable balance.

Although I imagine if you’ve had asparagus lately the results are going to be wildly skewed.

The point is I like showing off things I can do remotely with my smartphone like turning on the lights, setting my alarm system, starting my car, switching on the DVR remotely. But do I really need it to show me how my pee is doing on any given day? No. No I do not.

Anyway if you have an inkling, or in this case a tinkling, that this is going to be something you just have to have, urine luck. The U-Scan will be on sale in the US soon pending FDA approval.

And don't worry if some people feel they have to judge and shame you for it.

You can always just tell them to piss off.

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.