Packing for the Con

Tomorrow is the day it all starts. Well, the night actually.

Even though Comic Con doesn't officially begin until Thursday, tomorrow night is Preview Night. The costumed crowds get admitted to the Convention Center in the early evening to get a jump on the weekend crowds walking the floor and picking up some merchandise.

Of course I'll be there.

So that means tonight I have to pack. It's something I've never quite learned to do right. You'd think being in advertising and with all the boondoggles...er...business trips I've taken I'd be better at it. I'm not unskilled in the sense I don't know how to organize a suitcase. It's my approach to the job.

I pack on the Just In Case theory. You know, just in case there's a hurricane or blizzard in San Diego. Just in case we're hit by a tornado. Just in case we're invaded by aliens, which at Comic Con is a definite possibility.

Here's what's happened every year I've gone: I drag my overstuffed suitcase to the hotel, and proceed to wear the same pair of shorts for four days. All I really need is four t-shirts (yes Rich, black ones), four pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Maybe a clean pair of jeans, a nice pair of shoes and a collared shirt if I want to go eat somewhere nice.

But when you're in restaurants during Comic Con, and finally seated after a two and a half hour wait, it's not unusual at all to find yourself sitting next to Spartans, Batman, those guys from Game Of Thrones and Loki. Dressing nice becomes a relative term.

So I'll give it another shot this year, with the hope I can be a little more economical in how much I take with me.

Frankly, I think the bigger challenge will be closing the suitcase with this in it.

The Con is on. Again.

Except for this past week, I don't usually repost pieces on here. And I've never reposted a repost. But it's the Comic Con time of year again, and I was going to write a post about going. Again. But then I reread this little gem and realized it said exactly what I wanted to say. Again. We don't have to re-invent the wheel each time out people. Let's just take tonight's post at face value, and enjoy the writing for what it is - an excuse not to think of something new to write. Wait? Did I say that out loud?

Don't say you haven't been warned. For four and a half days this week, my son and I will be living amongst 'em (well, actually we'll be living at the Hilton and walking amongst 'em, but no one's under oath here): the Stormtroopers, Wolverines, Lara Crofts, Jokers, Iron Men, Darth Vaders, Zombies, Batmen, Supermen and other assorted, costumed inhabitants of Comic Con.

As you can see here and here, this isn't the first time I've written about the Con. And it won't be the last.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not saying it's the only subject I'll post about for the next few days. But if you happen to notice my writing in the Wednesday through Sunday posts have a nerdist, geekesque, maybe-I-ought-to-get-a-life, gee-he-sounds-REALLY-tired quality to them, then I've done my job and you'll know we're having a fine time.

For those who've never been - and really, like the Rolling Stones or Rick Perry trying to complete a sentence, it's something you need to see at least once in your life - please to enjoy this little taste of my next few days.

Welcome to my world.

What am I getting into?

My final repost of the week, then it's back to all new articles I'm not sure you'll want to read the first time. Anyway, this classic from November 16, 2010 asks the question we should all be asking before we start anything.

Who among us hasn't asked themselves that ominous question? I for one have asked it any number of times in my life.

On my wedding day.

Signing escrow papers.

Buying a German sports car.

Buying a German Sheperd.

Having children (still asking).

I think the fact that I'm a freelancer just puts me in more situations where it becomes a reasonable question to ask.

For example, I find myself asking it right after I get the phone call or email inquiring about my availability. Again when I hear their reaction to my day rate. Yet again after I cave and let them negotiate my day rate down - usually in tandem with, "What the f&#% was I thinking?"

Regardless of the account, even if it's something I want to work on, when I hear what it is the question comes up again.

It's always top of mind when I hear who they want me to work with, whether I've worked with that person before or not.

And if the office is a hellish, brain-deadening, soul-killing commute to a foreign and frightening land, for example Orange County, I ask myself the question on the crawl in.

Then, just before I enter the brick building, designer warehouse, high-rise tower, faux-hip loft, converted fire station, hotel or craftsman house where the offices are located, I pause for a tentative moment outside, look at the doorway I'm about to go through, and ask it again.

But here's the thing: the question itself is a cruel tease. Because it can't be answered until you're actually there.

Of course by no means does that imply everyone won't try to answer it for you. But it's really one of those questions, like, "How much of this can I take?" "Is it worth the pain?" and "Is Super Shuttle hiring?", that only you can answer for yourself.

If I'm being honest with myself, and if you know anything about me you know that's something I hate doing, I have to say the answer I almost always arrive at is "something great".

I wonder if you asked yourself the question before you started reading this post.

It's okay. I don't need to know the answer.

Happy birthday America

Just about wrapped up with my week of reposting. But not before you have a chance to re-read last year's birthday card to America.

America is 238 years old today. And I didn't even get her a card.

Still, I'm happy to celebrate it by doing all the usual things you'd expect on the 4th of July: Fireworks. Block party. Barbeque. Eating myself stupid. Maybe a beer.

But the other thing I do, and not to wax patriotic here, is take more than a few moments out of the day to remember the sacrifices made by our men and women in the armed forces to get the country this far. It ain't perfect, but it ain't Baghdad or North Korea either.

I was at the Hollywood Bowl July 4th Fireworks concert last night. It was great, but perhaps the most moving part was the Air Force honor guard that marched out on stage at the beginning of the evening, and lead the sold out crowd of 17,376 people in the Star Spangled Banner. Genuinely stirring.

Just for today, I'm going to forget the discriminatory, misogynistic decisions a partisan Supreme Court makes. A Republican congress who's job isn't to serve the people, but to obstruct any form of progress. The idiotic things that Rick Perry, Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter say on an hourly basis. And all the other things that ratchet my blood pressure up thirty points on a daily basis.

Today, I'll be glad I'm in a country where we can have the debates, say what we think, write and produce what we want - even if it is another Transformers movie (how much freedom do we need?) - and appreciate the men and women who sacrifice so much to keep it that way.

Where the hell's that beer?

Keep it safe and sane. Happy 4th of July.

Well shut my mouth

Tonight's repost from April 6, 2012 is a tale that's hush-hush, on the Q.T. and very confidential.

It's not brain surgery or rocket science, but some ad agencies would have you think it is.

I recently had to sign an NDA (a Non-Disclosure Agreement, sometimes called a confidentiality agreement) before this one firm would hire me for a freelance gig. It's become common practice the last few years. But here's my question: what exactly are they protecting?

If you work on a fast food account, you get asked to work on other fast food accounts. Same for cars. Same for airlines. Same for most categories. Like any profession (stops and laughs hysterically for using the word "profession"....okay, regaining composure...), leveraging your experience is what keeps you employed.

No one goes from one job to the next yakking about everything they did, saw, wrote and learned at the last one. You just assimilate it all into your own personal database.

Just like the borg, except without all that nasty face metal.

Agencies like to flatter themselves that what they do is so proprietary, their processes so innovative, that spilling the beans will cause them "irreparable damage and financial loss and hardship."

Here's the reality check: there are no beans to spill.

Every agency has a catchy name for their process. You say tomato, I say tom-ah-to. They're all doing the same things to win, keep and grow business. And the idea that your car client doesn't know what the other guys car client is up to is a sweet notion from a bygone era.

A copywriter friend of mine was fired from an agency because he had the unmitigated gall to post an ad he'd done on his website, along with all the other ads he's done. It's a common practice. But his agency blew a fuse, saying he was not only violating his confidentiality agreement but was trying to steal the business. Neither of which was true. To my way of thinking there are felonies and misdemeanors: if they were upset he didn't ask first, they should've reminded him to next time and moved on.

Here's the thing large agencies have in common with small ones: the level of paranoia, based on nothing, is genuinely frightening.

Does an account get stolen from time to time? Of course. Do employees get poached from one agency to another? Sure. But if either were genuinely happy where they were in the first place, it would be a lot harder to do.

The other thing about these agreements is there's usually a time period attached to them. Agencies don't want you to write on an account in the same category for 1, 2 or 3 years without getting signed permission from them.

Good luck with that.

In case you don't know, this is how I make my living. I can be writing on Taco Bell one day, and Del Taco the next. Or Land Rover and Chevy Tahoe. Southwest or Jet Blue. That's the nature of freelance.

Fortunately I know how to use the strikethough option before I sign one of these contracts.

Don't misunderstand what I'm saying. I believe your word and honor are all you have, and if you sign a contract you should abide by it.

But some contracts, like the one on the back of your ticket in the parking lot, just aren't worth the paper they're printed on.

I'd tell you which ones, but I'm not at liberty to say.

You're out of order

The blog is now in session. Continuing my week of reposts, here's a courtroom classic from July 7, 2010.

Today I had my day in court. Well, actually more like my five minutes.

Without going into a lot of detail, because, my lawyer has advised me not to on here, I was sued in Small Claims court. Somebody felt I lied to them about something, then made a decision to do something that cost them money. And because they felt I lied - which I didn't - they felt I should pay for what they decided to do.

Vague enough? Then I'll continue.

If you've never seen Small Claims court in action, I'd highly recommend it. It's right up there with Disneyland and Las Vegas both in terms of people-watching and entertainment value.

First the bailiff runs down some basic rules: address all comments to the bench. No talking while court's in session. Turn off your cellphones. Don't raise your voice. Don't make a grab for my gun then go on a wild shooting rampage (alright I made that one up).

Then the court clerk, who sits in a little pen with an outdated computer right in front of the judge, has everyone in the room stand, raise their right hand and take an oath swearing to tell the truth.

Just like on Law & Order, except your hand's not on a bible.

My case wasn't being heard until 10:30a.m., but I arrived at the courtroom at 8:30. Maybe it's because I'm in advertising and have done so many presentations, I wanted to get a feel for the room I was going to be playing to. I wanted to see how it all worked. I wanted to see if I was getting a hanging judge or Judge Ito.

The funny thing is I didn't get a judge at all.

In Small Claims, you get a judge pro tem, not a regular judge but a lawyer volunteering to act as judge since there are so many cases the real judges can't hear them all. If you're okay with that, which I was, you sign a document giving your consent. If you insist on a real judge, they'll insist on rescheduling you for another day. Then there you are - all dressed up and no place to plead.

Since Small Claims is for complaints $5,000 and under ($7,500 if it's not a business), many of them were landlords/property management companies suing for back rent. And winning.

In Small Claims, like so much of life, you're on your own. You're not allowed to have a lawyer represent you (although you can have one if you lose and appeal the decision). However you can do what I did which is have your lawyer prepare a trial brief arguing the case and citing legal cases and precedent on why the judge should rule in your favor. For the amount I was being sued for, $775, having my lawyer write a trial brief seemed a little like rabbit hunting with an elephant gun. But my feeling was I'd rather be over prepared than under.

I mentioned all dressed up before because that's what my lawyer told me to do: dress slacks, nice shirt (tie optional). It shows respect to the court, and while it shouldn't affect the judges decision, how I look could definitely affect his attitude towards me. He also said I'd be shocked at what people wore to court, and he wasn't kidding.

I can't tell who I enjoyed more - the greasy, strung out forty-five year old with the Led Zepplin t-shirt, torn jean shorts and flip-flops, or his crack-friendly wife who was literally, having minor grand mal seizures (or withdrawal) about every fifteen minutes.

Then there was Mr. Ralph Lauren: deck shoes, khaki cargo shorts, polo shirt and windbreaker. Every two minutes he kept looking at his TAGHeuer watch. Apparently the yacht was double parked.

I should mention prior to today's court date, the party suing me and I worked out a fragile peace. In fact I was told the case would be dropped and not to even bother showing up. My reply was that I'd need something a little more concrete than that - say a document from the court showing the case was withdrawn. I never got it. So I showed.

The person suing me did not. I guess that was his way of dropping the case because since he didn't show it was dismissed.

After the ruling, the judge made a point of complimenting me on the trial brief, saying he didn't know many lawyers who could prepare one as thorough and well written as mine.

I think he thought I was the one who did it, and I let him think that. It's not like anyone was under oath.

Oh, wait a minute.

Ready? Set? Wait.

Here are two things you need to know about Rich Siegel, proprietor and managing editor of Round Seventeen: First, he'll be very happy I started this post with a link to his blog. Second, he's away camping - as Jews do - and reposting pieces he's written while he's away. So yesterday, I took a page from his blog and did the same thing. It went pretty well. So even though I'm not away camping (my idea of camping is a hotel without cable), or out of town, in solidarity with my vacationing friend and colleague I'm going to take the week and revisit the classics. And by classics, I mean posts you may have missed, forgotten or wish you'd forgotten. The more cynical of you might think it's an easy way out of having to come up with a bunch of new posts this week. Shhhhhh! Have a gander at this one, originally posted April 4, 2011.

My friend Janice, a swell writer with a blog of her own, used to have this sign in her office. I think she hoped it would work as a deterrent.

But she knew better. After all, she worked in an advertising agency.

Hurry up and wait is standard operating procedure at virtually every agency I’ve ever worked at. It usually falls somewhere between their mantra and their mission statement.

The philosophy manifests itself in several forms, and when it strikes it can happen quicker than Charlie Sheen going from $2 mil a week to zero.

The way it usually begins is they - you know, “they” - hastily assemble a team of whoever happens to be unlucky enough to be in the building.

Everyone is quickly gathered in a conference room that hasn’t been cleaned since the Eisenhower administration, and wreaks with the sweet perfume of cold cuts and bagels.

Serious as a heart attack, they brief everyone with the few threadbare morsels of information they got from a casual conversation with the client. Then they send everyone scrambling to do work that has to be presented in two days.

Two days! 48 hours!

“We’re pulling out all the stops on this one people!”

"This is our chance to make a real impact!"

"We won't have this chance again so it has to count!"

So, everyone puts on their thinking caps and scrambles.

And even though we cry like babies and complain like Rosie O'Donnell when the buffet is closed, we’re all professionals. After a round-the-clock coffee, pizza and cynicism fueled night, we deliver everything that’s been asked for: tv spots, web site, emails, print, radio scripts. The whole shootin’ match.

We present our work to extremely non-committal reactions, then wait to hear.

And wait.

And wait.

Oh, the meeting got pushed back? So you didn’t need it in two days? Uh huh.

Ah, and the client’s not sure he really has the budget to do the program? Huh. Might’ve been a good question to ask up front.

So you want us to wait, and you’ll get back to us on next steps.

Okay. We'll wait here.

What’s that you say? Maybe we can think about it some more until you decide what comes next.

Yeah. We'll get right on it.