As you may or may not have heard, last week a small group of people, drunk with power, hellbent on maintaining their incestuous culture and perpetuating exclusionary policies, took to voting, made their fateful selections and in turn rocked the world economies, sending hundreds of advertising professionals to their nearest linkedin.com update profile page.
Oh wait, you thought I was talking about the Brexit.
When in fact I was referring to the Cannes Advertising Festival.
Sorry, this was your classic misdirect.
And the misdirect was completely intentional.
Because as our beloved ad industry flounders, with shrinking margins, the disappearance of AOR accounts, the fragmentation of media as well as its blatantly false metrics, the scandalous corporate leadership, institutional C-Suite racism, sexism and ageism, the tone-deaf powers that be, would rather distract us with their debauchery and have us believe there's ample cause for excessive celebration.
Sorry to be the parade rainer, but I'm simply not buying it.
Tell it to the thousands of ad veterans who Got Quit this year.
"Remember when you won a Lion for us in 2008? That was great and the agency really appreciates all you've done, but we can't afford you. Or your office anymore. Or your vision care. We hired three interns to do your job and still had enough left over for these obscenely-expensive magnums of Armand de Brignac."
You could argue that those who "left to pursue other opportunities" are the lucky ones. What about the unfortunate many who didn't make the trip? The ones still on the agency payroll.
"We'd love to give you a raise this year. And last year. And the year before, but we simply can't. The holding company says we have to tighten the belt. But look who played at our private party...Sting. We got Sting!"
Well, it's back to business as ususal this week. And by usual I mean get in to the office at 9:30 AM and don't leave until 11PM. Oh and if you don't come in on Saturday, don't bother to come in on Sunday.
You know the drill so place your nose squarely on the grindstone. Because next year, the same people pouring you a tall glass of Kool Aid have their eye on a fancy hotel upgrade.
"Check it out, I'm on the top floor of the Carlton. The room was $3000 a night. I'm looking right out onto the Gulf de le Napoule. Damn, Droga got a yacht. We gotta get a yacht."