When I started this blog my daughters were still pre-teenagers.
I was a strapping 35 year old man.
And we had a President who could identify Frederick Douglass, operate a computer and knew that Plessy v. Ferguson was not the undercard fight before Leonard v. Haggler.
Today, as I turn 44, Round Seventeen is about to enter its 9th year.
Those are the facts.
It's hard to believe this is the 1620th entry. Actually, when you consider all the entries I deleted -- posts about my white trash neighbors, my white trash neighbor dogs, planners who I have offended, religious people I have offended or just shit my wife said I had to take down immediately -- the number is considerably higher.
You'd have thought I would have run out of things to say, or mock, or complain about. And indeed when it comes to advertising, I've pretty much exhausted the field of topics: open seating plans, C suite corruption, work/life balance, flaming incompetency, rampant jargonese, and the endless horizon-stretching bullshit that frankly could fuel 100 blogs just like this one.
Morevover, I've resigned myself to the fact that none of it is gonna change. And to think that my small voice could alter advertising one way or another is both narcissistic and delusional.
Truth is, as long as I can keep doing this, and I can -- last week my partner and I knocked out 35 TV scripts in an embarrassing short time period and astounded the ECD -- I'm happy to sit on the sidelines, take hired gun projects and collect the checks.
Besides, I've been invigorated. Mostly, by the new beslubbering, milk-livered Basket-Cockle who calls himself our precedent.
It has all but filled me with a burning desire to click and clack until I can click and clack no more.
That means Round Seventeen could be around for another 8 years or until someone uncovers a video of Klavdiya and Fedosia emptying their bladders on our esteemed, unchin-snouted puttock.
Whichever comes first.