The lost art - Stick edition

We are gathered here today to mourn what’s become a dying skill. A cultural relic that once separated the casual driver from the true master of the open road: driving a stick shift.

Kids today look at a manual transmission the way a caveman might look at an iPhone: equal parts confusion and fear. Be that as it may, let’s have a good laugh at youngsters who will never understand the joy—and terror—of grinding gears.

Driving a manual used to be a full-body sport. Your left hand gripped the wheel while your left foot was a finely tuned machine dancing on the clutch. Your right hand held tight on the shift knob—custom leather if we were bein’ all fancy—and slid through the gears with precision timing.

As opposed to todays’ automatic transmissions, where you sit back and let the car do all the thinking.

Driving a stick came with one universal truth: You will stall the car. And because God does have a sense of humor it was usually when you were on a hill (mine was on La Cienega just before Sunset Blvd.), and the car rolled backward like a panicked toddler.

Still, there are some definite perks to knowing how to drive manual. For one, nobody will ever ask to borrow your car. Also, it’s probably the best theft deterrent on the market. No thief under 40 is touching that thing.

I can’t help feeling sad for today’s generation of drivers. While their self-driving cars will be convenient—and is it really driving if the car is driving itself? Discuss—they’ll never know the rush of nailing a perfect heel-toe downshift, or the satisfaction of cruising down the highway with your car purring in the sweet spot of fourth gear. They won’t have the connection with their vehicle that only comes from manually controlling every grunt and groan of the engine.

So, here’s to the gearheads of yesteryear—and the kids who think “clutch” is just a handbag. May we never forget the joy, frustration, and sheer chaos of driving stick.

If you’re feeling nostalgic and want to talk about it some more, come find me.

I’ll be the guy on the hill, rolling backward into traffic, trying to shift into first.

Turkey time

Thanksgiving. The day we all come together to celebrate a uniquely American tradition: carb-loading like we’re prepping for the Olympics.

Every year, we gather around the table, and swear “this time I won’t overeat.” Cut to an hour later: you're sprawled out on the couch, pants unbuttoned, clutching your stomach like you're smuggling a watermelon.

It starts innocently enough. You sip a little wine, nibble on an appetizer— maybe a rogue deviled egg. Then the turkey arrives, and it's bigger than your first apartment. Followed by the mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole and the perennial mac and cheese.

And let’s not forget those soft, buttery Kings Hawaiian Rolls that seem harmless until you’ve inhaled six of them in under sixty seconds. You tell yourself you’ll space it out, but last year you didn’t get thirds on pumpkin pie and that’s not happening again.

Then there’s the conversation, the yearly revival of the same script, performed live by your family.

First, the weather commentary. Wherever you live, someone will complain it’s too hot, cold, rainy, or windy. Next there’s the politics grenade. Someone throws it in the middle of the table like a Molotov cocktail, and everyone braces for impact.

“If I ran the country things would be different,” says an uncle who couldn’t run a lemonade stand without losing money. Five minutes later, we’re knee-deep in a debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn’t).

And yet, as the night winds down, the vibe changes. Everyone settles into quiet resignation of a food coma. Maybe it’s the tryptophan, or the second bottle of wine. But something unexpected starts welling up inside. Gratitude.

Not the hashtag kind of gratitude, where you post a filtered photo of pie with a caption about “feeling so blessed.” This is the raw, messy gratitude that sneaks up on you when you’re hit with the realization these are your people, and you wouldn’t trade them for the world.

And there it is. The point of Thanksgiving. It isn’t to be perfect. Or poised. Or even politically correct. It’s to show up. To gather. To try.

So, this Thanksgiving, embrace the chaos, the carbs, and the conversations. And when you’re lying on the couch, full to the brim with turkey and love, remember: you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if you did promise yourself you’d only eat one roll.

BMW drivers can breathe easy

BMW drivers, the time has come.

You can finally unclench your leather-gloved fists, exhale that long-held sigh of relief, and maybe, just maybe, start using your turn signals. Why? Because Tesla drivers have officially stolen your crown as the most insufferable, self-entitled assholes on the road.

Congratulations Tesla drivers on achieving the impossible: making BMW drivers look humble by comparison.

If you’ve been on the road lately, you’ve probably noticed Teslas zipping around, silently judging your gas-powered existence from inside their tech-on-wheels spaceships.

Their inner vibe screams, “I’m saving the planet!” Their outer vibe screams “Look at me, I’m an asshole!”

Apparently all the people leasing or that have shelled out money for their Tesla are blissfully ignorant about how famously unreliable they are. From Model 3s randomly deciding to burst into flames (bonus: free fireworks!) to battery replacements that cost more than the GDP of a small country, Teslas are basically expensive, rolling dice with a touch screen.

It would be a dereliction of duty to write about Tesla and not talk about the Cybertruck. How ugly is it? It’s so ugly, the Plymouth Aztec sent Tesla a thank-you note for taking the heat off.

Apparently Musk took one look at every basic principle of car design and said, “Nah.”.

And yet, people are actually buying this thing. Why? Because it’s the automotive equivalent of wearing a t-shirt that says, “Ask me about my bad decisions.” Nothing screams “I have too much disposable income and zero taste” quite like rolling up to a coffee shop in a truck that could be outmaneuvered by a shopping cart.

Of course let’s not forget the man behind the curtain (WICKED reference-see yesterday’s post).

When you buy a Tesla, you’re not just getting a car that might glitch and send you hurtling into a guardrail, you’re also funding Elon Musk’s endless parade of bad takes and worse ideas. Want to support someone who uses Twitter as a platform for dabbling in casual racism, misogyny, and vague threats against democracy? Then Tesla is the brand for you.

So, BMW drivers, take that deep breath. Sure, people might still assume you’re a jerk when they see you coming, but at least now you can point and say, “Hey, I cut you off, but at least I’m not driving that.”

Tesla drivers, welcome to the top of the jerk food chain.

Your cars may be quiet, but your egos? Deafening.

Wicked fun

Ladies and gentlemen, start your brooms.

WICKED is the kind of movie musical that sweeps you off your feet—or rather plants them right on the Yellow Brick Road—and leads you straight into the heart of the magical Land of Oz. And it does it with a generous helping of sass, style, and heart.

Buckle up. I’m going to use some reviewer adjectives here: WICKED is dazzling, emotional, funny, and unforgettable.

Let me start with Ariana Grande. I honestly don’t know much of her music, but when I have heard her sing I’m in awe. The girl has pipes. She also has, going by her talk show and Saturday Night live appearances, quite the gift for impressions and comedy.

Her impeccable timing and effortless charm legitimately light up the screen, and her high notes could shatter a few chandeliers in the Emerald City.

And then there’s Cynthia Erivo, who simply owns every second of her screen time as Elphaba. Whether she’s belting out a heart-wrenching tune, or quietly delivering a look that breaks your heart, she reminds us once again she’s more than a triple threat—she’s an every threat. Erivo’s raw emotion and powerhouse vocals make her portrayal of the misunderstood green girl an absolute triumph. And her chemistry with Grande is pure magic.

Now, let’s talk about one of my favorite actors, Jeff Goldblum as the Wizard. The casting is perfect. I mean, was there ever a doubt? His quirky charisma and sly humor bring an edge to the character, and he somehow manages to make a singing, spell-slinging con artist one of the most memorable parts of the movie.

The production itself is jaw-dropping. The visuals are vibrant and imaginative. The costume design, set pieces and sweeping shots of Oz are a treat.

Then of course, there’s the music. I’m the kind of sap that cries at Hallmark card commercials (Note to self: Christmas is coming, stock up on the Kleenex), so by the time the signature song Defying Gravity soars into its breathtaking finale, I was a sniffling, teary-eyed puddle. Easily one of the best movie musical numbers ever put to film.

Speaking of tears, this movie has all the feels. While hilarious and whimsical, it also digs deep into themes of acceptance, friendship and the courage to be yourself. It's also a little bit terrifying. The origin story of the flying monkeys—yes, they have one—is scary and not for the squeamish. These are definitely not your father's flying monkeys

I wasn’t expecting WICKED to be so emotional, but there I was sobbing into my artificially butter-flavored popcorn.

WICKED is a film that’s as enchanting as it is heartfelt. An absolute must-see for anyone with a soul. Grab your friends, your family and your broom and head for the theater.

And be ready to laugh, cry, gasp and cheer while this thoroughly entertaining film casts its spell on you.

I can't wait for the movie

So it’s a book review. I don’t do them often, but sometimes—like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction—a book comes along that simply will not be ignored.

Like most ads, this book review comes with a disclaimer. I’ve been friends with the author for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty years, and I may have had a hand in editing this book.

And by the way, it’s a finely edited book.

The book I’m talking about is Stones & Sticks by Cameron Day. It’s the thrilling conclusion to the advertising trilogy, along with Chew With Your Mind Open and Spittin' Chiclets, that we didn’t know we needed but now can’t live without.

In Stones & Sticks, Cameron, who has clearly earned every gray hair on his LinkedIn profile, delivers a masterclass on what it’s like to sit atop the creative food chain.

Spoiler alert: it’s not all cappuccinos and Cannes Lions.

This isn’t just a book—it’s a survival guide for anyone who’s made it to the big chair with “Creative” in the title, and discovered that it comes with less creating and more fending off crises.

From managing tantrum-prone copywriters and art directors to explaining why your budget really needs those extra drone shots, Cameron walks us through his journey in the high-stakes chaos of wielding ultimate responsibility with wit, wisdom, and just the right amount of jaded sarcasm.

Added bonus—if you’re looking for a fun drinking game, take a shot every time he drops an f-bomb.

The writing is sharp, as if every sentence were honed during a midnight brainstorm fueled by stale donuts and cold pizza, two items that are somehow always available at agencies. Yet beneath the humor lies a treasure trove of practical advice only someone who’s been through the advertising wars with a view from the top could offer. The anecdotes about managing clients who think “just make it pop” is a strategy will leave you laughing and crying—sometimes simultaneously.

What makes Stones & Sticks truly stand out is its brutal honesty. Cameron doesn’t shy away from the burnout, the compromises, or the sheer number of acronyms you’ll pretend to understand during boardroom presentations.

But it also reminds us why we fell in love with advertising in the first place: the thrill of turning a half-baked idea into something iconic.

By the time you close the book, which if you’re like me you’ll wind up doing in one reading, you’ll feel both inspired and slightly terrified—a perfect encapsulation of what it means to be a Creative Director or Executive CD.

Whether you’re an intern dreaming of greatness, or a grizzled vet wondering if it’s too late to start a llama farm, this is the book you need.

If it were a campaign, it’d win gold at the One Show. And the client might even approve the first draft.

Leaving Las Vegas

You can’t go back.

Last week I found myself at a Global Marketing Summit for the cybersecurity company I work for. It was four glorious days and three nights of seminars, eating, lectures, eating, planning, eating, socializing with colleagues, and, say it with me, eating.

There also happened to be craps and blackjack involved, because the summit was held in this little desert rat-trap town that Bugsy Siegel started, Meyer Lansky financed, the Rat Pack sang in and Moe Green—who doesn’t have so much as a plaque—died in: Las Vegas.

As some of my loyal readers will recall (trying to stop laughing at the thought I have “loyal readers”), I’ve written here in the past about how much I used to love Vegas. “Used to” being the operative phrase.

For a lot of years, I’d go four and five times a year to visit the money I’d left behind and see how the Jeff wing of the Venetian was coming along. There was nothing like the adrenaline rush and excitement I used to feel once I landed and was on the way to my hotel. This time, my first Vegas trip in about eight years, that rush was replaced by sadness.

The Vegas strip still photographs well, but if you look closer you see the town, with its out of control development, sad faux showgirls hawking pictures of themselves with you, the mix of well-to-do visitors sidestepping the homeless, and the general low-rent traveling carnival vibe have made it all a lot less glamourous than the brochure.

It was a far cry from the town where I played $5 and $10 minimums at the tables, saw Tony Bennett at the Flamingo, Sigfried & Roy (before) at the Mirage, Danny Gans (RIP) at Caesar’s, Penn & Teller at the Rio, Jerry Seinfeld at the Thomas & Mack Center, Bruce Springsteen (I know, I’m as surprised as you are) at the MGM Grand Garden, and Cirque du Soleil everywhere.

This trip, with the exception of one outing, I was pretty much sequestered at my summit in the dark, unwelcoming, chemical fragrance infused Cosmopolitan Hotel & Casino. My room was on the 49th floor, which made me a little jittery. But then I realized there were still twelve floors above me, so in my head I was on a lower floor.

Having said all that, Vegas is still a town you should see once if you’ve never been.

But I think I’m good for another eight years. Unless they lower the table minimums.

Hey sport

In case you didn’t know, I’m not a sports guy. Never have been. I know what you’re thinking: “But Jeff, you have such a ripped, awesome physique I would’ve thought you’d been playing sports all your life.”

First of all, thank you for noticing. And second, no.

But for some reason, once a year, during the World Series, I become an armchair fan. Especially when it’s the Dodgers v. Yankees.

Suddenly, I’m an expert on when and when not to take a swing. Miraculously I can call the pitches better than the umpires. I’m even starting to be fluent in the players’ names.

Then again, “Mookie” is kind of hard to forget.

I don’t go as far as wearing the team jersey, but I do yell at the tv from the comfort of my reading chair.

The cruel tease of my career (laughing for using the word “career”) is that at every agency I ever worked at without exception, I was always the copywriter who got assigned the sports tie-ins for clients. It's safe to say the most research I ever did for anything was going to the glossary for whatever sport I was writing about so I could speak in the language of the realm.

I do however love movies about baseball. Major League, A League of Their Own, The Natural, Moneyball, Bull Durham, The Rookie and, of course, Field Of Dreams.

For seven games a year, if the series goes that long, I’m all in.

When it comes to this post, it's the bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. So instead of some snappy line or bad joke about covering the bases, I’ll leave you with my favorite speech ever about the sport, courtesy of the late, great James Earl Jones.

Now if I could just get the wife to bring me a Dodger dog.