More John Moreland please

Here’s how it happened.

My son and his girlfriend thought it was time the wife and I met her parents and they met us. Nothing loaded about that invitation.

So instead of meeting anywhere near where either set of parents live—because that would've been too easy on the old folks—they decided to have us schlepp out to Gladstone’s on PCH on a hot sunny Saturday morning for brunch.

By the way, note to self: the best thing about Gladstone’s must be the view because it sure isn't the clam chowder. How does a seafood restaurant screw up clam chowder? Maybe next time try to keep it down to one brick of butter. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I spent a lot of the meal braced for some kind of big announcement to be sprung on us by the cute couple but, to my relief, they decided to save that card to play at a later date.

Prior to the meeting, my son sat me down for a son-father talk, and let me know his girlfriend’s father was on the more conservative side of the political spectrum than I am, and I was advised, as was her dad, that in order to keep this first introductory meeting civil we should probably avoid discussing politics. Hard as it is for me to bite my tongue, and resist the pure joy that is embarassing my kids, I said I'd try.

Come to find out there was no need for them to worry. Everyone was on good behavior and getting along great. In fact, come to find out her dad was a very funny, interesting guy who I hit it off with from the get go. I really enjoyed talking to him and am very much looking forward to our next meal together.

That sound you hear is the kids finally letting their breath out.

At one point during the meal, he looked over at me and said, “So, I hear there’s a particular singer you’re pretty fond of.” To which I said, “Why as a matter of fact there just might be.” He then proceeded to tell me if I liked Springsteen—which he did also, so big points for that—I had to hear John Moreland. So on the drive home I fired up Spotify, and it was love at first listen.

First, as you may know I have a thing for singers with a little grit and gravel in their voice. Moreland's voice is uncannily close to Bruce’s, with just a hint of early Tom Waits and a faint bouquet of Warren Zevon.

Then, the songs. Beautiful, heartbreaking, truth-wringing, emotion-filled poetry. Deceptively simple lyrics that are pointed like a knife, and as moving as they are poignant.

Acoustic folk is not where Moreland started. He was a well-known figure on the Oklahoma punk scene—yes there is one—for a very long time. But he’s found his true sound, and it’s wonderful.

The first video here is the happiest melody I’ve heard from him, but don’t be fooled: listen to the lyrics. It's also the only performance with a band, the rest are him and his guitar.

If you’re ready for a good cry, take a look at the other videos and be prepared for a case of the feels.

And not that I needed more to seal the deal, but watch and listen to the last video, and you'll hear why John Moreland feels like home to me.

Raised by MadMen

This one’s going to be short and sweet. And it isn’t going to be so much a blogpost as a love letter.

The best way I can describe it is this: I had a moment out of time today. After not having seen or really talked to them in too many years, I found myself sitting at lunch with two of the most influential men in my career and my life.

One of them—an advertising Hall of Fame legend—saw something in me I didn’t see in myself, and gave me an unexpected and life-changing opportunity when he made me the first junior copywriter ever at Wells Rich Greene/West.

The other—a highly accomplished and award-winning creative director, and now internationally acclaimed photographer and artist—showed me how to navigate the new responsibilities that came with the title. The essentials, like how to treat, respect and direct talent. The steps involved in producing a television spot.

Both of them lavished encouragement on me, allowed me to let my imagination and humor run wild, reigned me in when needed, made a real writer out of me and always had my back. Together, they taught me the importance of being a decent, inclusive, caring man in a business with no shortage of the opposite kind.

I was sitting at lunch today with two men who are forever a part of my fabric and I love dearly: Howie Cohen and Alan Kupchick.

My wife, who worked with Alan at the agency where we met, and later for Howie at his agency, was also there. Together the four of us filled in the memory blanks on names, events and stories, of which there were just as many we got to as we didn’t.

There are very few occasions in life where the saying "time flies when you're having fun" actually applies. But as Howie put it, it was a three-hour lunch that felt like three minutes.

Yes it was. And I can’t wait for our next three minutes.

Unchained Melody

This may come as a surprise to you—I know it did to me—but some of the people who come to this blog actually come here to learn something. Mostly what they learn is there are better things to do with their time.

Today however, I’m putting out a few facts you may not have known about one of my favorite songs: Unchained Melody. So there.

Most people are familiar with Unchained Melody either by way of the Righteous Brothers hit in 1965, or the infamous Demi Moore / Patrick Swayze penis pottery scene in the 1990 film Ghost. But, and here comes the learning part, Unchained Melody had already been a hit a decade before the Righteous Brothers sang it.

Originally written by composer Alex North and lyricist Hy Zaret for the 1955 movie Unchained (hence the name), it was sung in the film by Todd Duncan, playing a prisoner longing for his wife.

Two different versions, an instrumental and one with lyrics, were released with the film and recorded by various people including Harry Belafonte. Unchained Melody was on the Billboard charts four times that year.

It would be impossible to show all the versions of the song that’ve been done in the last 65 years, but hell you’ve obviously got too much time on your hands or you wouldn’t be here.

I kid because I love.

Anyway, I’ve curated a few versions—including the Righteous Brothers—for your listening and viewing pleasure.

My personal favorites of this bunch are Rodric King, who started his musical career doing karaoke in bars and Mike Yung, a subway busker for the last 37 years performing on America’s Got Talent. They’re both genuinely amazing.

See if you don’t agree.

Unwinding

A few weeks ago, my showbiz son who has a high-salaried, high-powered creative position working for one of the major studios—not saying which one, but I do love their TVs and videocams—moved out to be closer to his place of employment. He was going to make the jump a year ago, but you know, covid. So he worked from here, stashed his money, and now that it looks like the lot will be opening up soon he’s shortened his commute time considerably.

That’s not what this post is about. Stick with me.

In the wake of his relocation, I was finally able to access one of the closets in his bedroom without stepping on any land mines of Star Wars toys, keyboards, books, scripts, musical instruments, clothes and an assortment of other items placed there with the sole purpose of making me go ass over teakettle in the space of ten feet.

Rummaging through the closet, in a box buried and forgotten about 20 years ago, were a bunch of reel-to-reel and cassette tapes of radio spots I’d done very early on in my career (pausing to laugh hysterically for using the word “career”).

I vaguely remembered a few of the titles, but because I don’t own a reel-to-reel or a cassette player I had no way to listen to the solid gold copywriting craftsmanship that was no doubt waiting on them.

Leave it to the interwebs. I went to the Google and found a company called King Tet Productions just slightly south of me in the lovely seaside town of San Diego. I shipped the box down to him, and three days later got back a CD with all the spots restored for my crystal clear, quality listening pleasure.

I raced out to my car, put it in the CD player and listened to them all.

And you know what? They were garbage.

Time is a cruel tease, because in my mind, at the time I wrote them, I thought they were great. After hearing them, I remembered a few of the recording sessions with some of my favorite voice talent. The sessions were great. The writing was awful.

Bad puns, hokey ideas, crummy needledrop music and cliched lines. I have no excuses other than I was just starting out (actually the other excuse I have is "The dog ate my homework" but I didn't think it would apply here). But here’s the thing. They all got sold, produced and aired. Insert something here about clients getting the advertising they deserve. Or maybe it’s just that in the last 20 years my taste has improved, I’ve honed my skills as a writer and marketer, worked on perfecting my craft and have just become better over time.

Nah, I’m just funnin’ ya. That’s not it.

I remember one of them was the first radio spot I ever did. It was for Frings at Jack In The Box, a new product that was a combination of french fries and onion rings in the same bag. The same bag!

Anyway, I recorded it at Wally Heider Studios (bet at least two of my readers haven't heard that name in awhile), in the big room. Jack Angel was doing a Bogart impression, and I had an end line about how the Frings taste better and better "...as time goes by."

I know. It hurts just to read it.

But it was the first radio spot I'd written, and I remember being so excited when I was shopping in a retail store and heard it come on over the speaker. I wanted to tell everyone I'd written it. Not so much anymore.

I guess the lesson here is we all have to start somewhere, and not to worry too much. Because the more you write the better you get, you know....

Nope. Not gonna make the same mistake twice.

Degrees of normal

The breathtaking hustle and bustle in the picture you're looking at is the main drag/business district in the very Dutch town of Orange City, Iowa. The wife and I spent this past weekend and then some visiting there. That’s incidental to the main point, but stick with me. It’ll come around eventually.

We went for my beautiful, intelligent, talented, strong, caring daughter’s college graduation. And I’m not too proud to say I was crying like Elliott watching E.T. take off for home. I was caught up in the moment either because of my daughter’s tremendous accomplishment of earning two degrees because she’s just that smart, or the fact that as of last Saturday I’m tuition free for the rest of my life.

Sometimes it's hard to tell which.

Anyway, like I said, this post isn’t about that. What it’s about is how I got there, where I stayed and what I did when I was there. Let’s take it in order.

To get to the very tulip-loving town of Orange City, Iowa, we had to fly from here to Phoenix, then from Phoenix to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Then drive another hour and a half to Orange City. Which if you’re keeping count is three airports, two airplanes and one rental car.

In the before times, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But like many people coming out of their Covid cocoon, this was the first time in over a year this flyboy had been up in the air.

I ain’t gonna lie—dipping my sanitized hands back into the real world was extremely anxiety inducing. My imagination was running rampant with visions of spiked Corona virus suckers floating invisibly around me everywhere I looked and touched. It didn't help that our 5am Uber to the airport cancelled on us at 4:55am, and the cab we wound up taking had a driver who trained on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Once we arrived at the airport, I kept reminding myself how prepared I was for my flights. I’m fully vaxxed. I had the requisite mask, but also donned a clear, non-fogging plastic face shield for that extra layer of protection. And pandemic fashion.

Despite the fact I looked like a 10-year old trying to be a spaceman, it made me comfortable and since it's all about me (only child much?) that’s all that mattered.

Having read all the airplane horror stories about angry MAGA asshats (is there any other kind?) refusing to wear a mask, I was fully prepared to join my fellow future airheros in tackling some Trump-supporting, conspiracy spewing, 2nd-grade level reading dipshit insurrectionist refusing to wear his. I even bought wi-fi on the plane so I'd be ready to record and post my heroics in almost real time.

Suffice to say it didn’t happen. Which was a good thing. Probably would’ve knocked off my face shield.

Not sure what I was expecting, but both planes were packed full—so much for the empty middle seat theory. But the flights were uneventful and everyone was mask positive so that was good.

Once we were in Iowa, we had an Airbnb but wound up at the Orange City Hampton Inn for four nights (that’s a whole other story coming up in a whole other post). However, like flying, staying at a hotel was also something I hadn’t done in over a year. Come to find out it was fine. Plastic shields at reception, hand sanitizer at every turn and stickers sealing the room doors shut, letting us know they'd been cleaned and disinfected and no one had been in there for over 48 hours.

The hotel wasn’t as strict on mask enforcement, but for the most part people wore them and it was easy to steer clear of the ones who didn’t.

Now the number of infections in this particular part of Iowa is almost as low as the number of Jewish democrats. So when we were there, we wound up going out to eat, indoors, with other people. You don't know what you got til it's gone and I knew I missed it, I just didn't realize how much. It was heaven.

Even though I was constantly looking around at the maskless crowd, the tables were distanced and we weren’t sitting near anyone we didn't know. In fact CRAVE, the sushi restaurant we ate at in Sioux City (spoiler alert: Iowa sushi was great) had a reassuring message right up front in their menu about how they've invested in an ionization HVAC system in all their restaurants that reduces airborne pathogens by up to 99%, although Covid by only 90%. Clean, safe and healthy air for my worry-free dining pleasure.

I have to say, after being that wiping-the-mail, bleaching-the-produce, Lysol spraying every touch surface in the house and mask policing the family for over a year guy, it was really good to do things that felt normal adjacent (not saying “new normal” – you can’t make me).

I’ll always remember the corn state for how nice the people were, the four years my daughter enjoyed there and the fact it made me forget the pandemic for a little while.

Truthfully, I don't think I'll be returning to Iowa. But I’m greatful to Iowa for returning me to normal.

Playing chicken

I’ll admit I was a little late to the party on the whole spicy chicken sandwich thang. Oh sure, thanks to my son who’s been willing to make runs to downtown L.A. during the pandemic, I’ve been introduced to the overheated pleasure of Howlin’ Ray’s Nashville Hot Chicken, which, for those of you keeping score really brought the craze home.

Now I like spicy food, always have always will. But like anything in life, it's a matter of degrees. And there's only so much spicy my sensitive yet larger stomach will tolerate. Before you go ahead and make the fat jokes, let me just remind you that like my Lexus, I’m built for comfort, not speed.

Anyway as you can see from the chart on the left, at Howlin’ Ray’s sandwich heat runs the gamut from none to can’t touch this.

So I decided to try the mild, which is the starter sandwich. And I loved it. The problem is my kid couldn’t be running to DTLA nearly as often as I wanted to have a spicy chicken sandwich.

Enter Avid, my friend and 2004 runner up for the bronze in curling. On his Instagram feed, in a rare break from the dog pictures, he posted the sandwich you see above, which happens to look startingly similar to Howlin’ Ray’s. So I asked him where it was and he told me about the Cluck Kitchen in Irvine.

Now Irvine is a much easier drive than DTLA. And if you know anything about me, you know I’m all about easy.

While there ain’t nothing like the real thing, come to find out Cluck Chicken is pretty close. They have the same spice range as HR, and their sandwiches taste uncannily similar.

But if oversized, dragon-breath hot sandwiches aren't enought to fill you up, Cluck Kitchen also has some mighty tasty sides to go along with it. Things like fried pickles, vinegar slaw and, my personal favorite, bacon potato salad.

Yet one more dish proving my timeless theory that bacon makes everything better.

The other thing Cluck Kitchen has is a snappy little hashtag. It's what we in the ad biz like to call "on brand."

Hitting the target

You're probably already familiar with targeted marketing. You might have also heard it referred to by that other name the monumental douchewhistles running Facebook and Instagram give it: relevant ads. You know, ads you'll appreciate interrupting your otherwise perfectly good scroll.

These are those creepy ads that appear within five minutes of you talking about something that interests you while you're in earshot of your iPhone, Alexa, Google Home, Apple Homepod or other digital assistant. Devices that listen in on your conversations even though at the same time the companies that make them are paying for ads and running interviews everywhere telling you about their committment to privacy.

I hate 'em as much as the next guy. But I have to admit, I'm at a meth-laced crossroads when it comes to this little number that popped up in my inbox.

If you've followed this blog at all, and with all that pandemic time on your hands you have no excuse if you haven't, you know I'm a fairly hardcore Breaking Bad fan. The fact I've binged it fourteen times was probably your first clue.

So a few months ago when Omaze was runnng a contest to have Bryan Cranston and Aaron Paul cook breakfast for me and a friend in the RV they cooked meth in on the show, it's safe to assume I entered. Several times. And then a few more for good measure.

But did I win? No I did not. Apparently Elissa and Heidi got to enjoy the breakfast that was meant for me. Apparently they forgot I am the one who knocks!

I may have gotten off track here. Anyway those nice folks (algorithims) at Omaze remembered and sent me the personalized invite to their latest contest to spend a little time with Walt and Jesse.

Now I'm not naive enough to think I'm the only one who got the invite. I'm sure everyone who entered the breakfast contest (and lost to Elissa and Heidi) received one as well. But it does make me reconsider my take on targeted marketing.

I guess the bottom line is I'm good with it as long as the ads are Breaking Bad, Springsteen or sushi related.