Round Seventeen

Bruce Lee and how I got my start in advertising

2012-01-26T06:32:00.000-08:00

Last week the trailer for an upcoming movie called I Am Bruce Lee hit the Internet with all its fury. Seeing the trailer reminded me how Bruce Lee played an instrumental part in my career.

The year was...let's just say it was long time ago.

I was working as a short order cook at a cafe that was inside a health club on Overland Ave. As health clubs go, it was pretty swanky. It had an outdoor pool, 8 tennis courts and its very own restaurant. It also had a very affluent clientele.

During my much more social youth I would easily strike up a conversation with anybody. And so it was I got to know Michael Allin, a fellow New Yorker who had transplanted himself on the West Coast and was making a living as a screenwriter. In fact, he is the writer given sole credit on the now-iconic film, Enter the Dragon.

You can imagine how excited I, a newly-minted college graduate, was to meet a real live screenwriter.

Moreover Michael was a real nice fellow, void of any Hollywood pretension. He could see that I was underemployed and encouraged me with my writing pursuits. In fact, he said, his wife was once married to Mel Newhoff, President of Abert, Newhoff & Burr, a very successful ad agency in Century City. Michael offered to set up a meeting.

Within days -- you have to remember this was time before cell phones and emails -- I had an interview set up the Creative Director. Of course, like an idiot I showed up without a portfolio in hand. But the former Mrs. Newhoff had good taste in men, and Mel was a sweetheart. He told me how and what I'd have to do to get a job as a young copywriter.

A few years after that interview, Mel actually hired me.

My first office looked like a set from Mad Men. I literally thought the HR people had made a mistake. It had a big wooden desk. A new typewriter. A couch and a coffee table. Plus floor-to-ceiling windows that looked west from 18 stories high, giving me a five star view of the Santa Monica Bay.

Sadly, not unlike Bruce Lee's life, the era of lavish living for agency creatives ended way too soon. My next office was half the size and had a view of the parking lot.

It's been windowless interior offices and Initech-like cubicles ever since.

Who's hungry?

2012-01-25T06:46:00.000-08:00

Hunger is a serious problem in America. And the recent economic malaise has not helped. This is shameful considering we produce an astounding amount of the world's food. Did you know for instance that 60% of the rice consumed in the US is for direct food, another 20% goes for processed food; and the rest goes into the production of beer.

It's also embarrassing when you consider the US government subsidizes farms not to grow food.

When you think of our incredibly fertile land, our obscene wealth and our amazing capacity to package, market and distribute products, there isn't a reason in the world why one American child should go to bed on an empty stomach.

Someone ought to explain that to Stuffy McGutstuffer (pictured above), the man leading the charge against domestic hunger.

Maybe the next time he goes to a restaurant he could order a split plate and drop the remaining shrimp poppers, bacon and cheddar potato skins, and the last third of his corn-fed porterhouse steak at the local shelter?

Actually, if Mr. I-Broke-My-Lap-Band were to give up half of what he ate on a regular basis, it would be a small step in the right direction.

Correction, a big step.

The New Tagline is Here

2012-01-24T06:52:00.000-08:00

Traffic is up here at Roundseventeen. I just got done looking at the analytics and 2011 ended with a flourish. More hits. More readers. Even more followers who say they follow this blog with regularity, but really don't.

Apart from my occasional linkings on agencyspy.com I haven't a clue as to why more people are showing up here. I know for a fact that the writing has not improved. In fact, with my recent low carbohydrate diet, I fear the opposite is true.

It matters not to me. As I've mentioned before, I do this for the sheer enjoyment. It's also good therapy. A famed psychologist recently said "depression is just anger turned inwards." So rather than go inwards, I turn my anger into little binary bits.

Besides, in my mind, millions of people wake up every day, grab their freshly brewed coffee (made by Braun. Incinerating Jews since 1941) and settle down to 400-500 words of well-hewed wit.

We all know that is not the case. But I live in Los Angeles, where success, happiness, and true real estate value, are all illusory. Which is in essence the thinking behind the new tagline:

Roundseventeen.
Riding a wave of self importance since 2009.

Editorial note: I don't know if you can read it, but I tracked down an old poster that shows perhaps the greatest tagline ever written. It's a little small. But it reads TRW. A company called TRW. I have yet to come up with anything so brilliant, but I'm still young. Youngish.

The Dim Reaper

2012-01-23T06:06:00.000-08:00

My mom passed away seven years ago today.

The news of my mom's passing kicked off the very worst week in my life. And the memories are still quite vivid.

I remember arriving at JFK at midnight on a Sunday, with my entire family in tow. I remember how the Hertz rental car agent had already closed up shop, and we were forced to stand in a taxi line in bitter 5 degree weather. I remember flagging a limousine down and paying the guy $100 to drive us the 1/2 mile to the Hertz rental car lot.

And that was all in the first 30 minutes.

Let's not forget the raging food poisoning we all got at the Outback Steakhouse in Monroe, NY, later in the week. Not to mention our lovely non-smoking motel room that smelled like the bottom of an ash tray. And of course, there was the grizzly business of selecting a casket and making hasty burial decisions to comply with the odd Jewish law that all bodies must be returned to the Earth within 48 hours.

That's convenient. Thanks a lot Maimonides.

But one incident stands out above all others. The day before the funeral I was driving my family in northern New Jersey. The roads were slick from black ice. Suddenly I was confronted with a sea of brake lights and eased the Chevy Suburban -- carrying my wife, my two daughters, my brother, my sister and her twin daughters -- to a stop. It was a close call. But nowhere near as close as the next one.

Because I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an 18-wheel truck barreling down my backside. I had no escape route, nor did the driver of the truck. He slammed on his air brakes. I can still hear that screeching and I watched in the mirror, knowing full well the Grim Reaper was about to snatch up the entire Siegel clan.

And then he hit us. I opened my eyes and was surprised to find that heaven looked amazingly like Ramsey, NJ.

The truck driver and I convened outside and were amazed that the "collision" did not even leave a scratch on the Suburban (thankfully, because there was a $500 deductible). It truly was The Miracle on Route 17.

This incredulous story was retold over and over again over the course of the next few days. And naturally, those seeking to comfort us would say something like, "that was your mother looking out for you."

I don't buy any of that.

I may be the least spiritual man in the world. I don't believe in God. I don't believe in angels. I don't believe in the supernatural in any way, shape or form. These are things I just don't know.

But I did know my mother. And I know that if my Glasgowian mum could wield any sort of powers from the great beyond, she'd have taken a pass on the whole scare-the-family-with-the-front-end-of-a-truck business and would have instead provided me with the winning numbers to the N.J. Super Lotto.

That much I know.

She's a good listener

2012-01-19T06:55:00.000-08:00

Consider my day.

I woke up this morning and came downstairs to hear my wife cackling on the phone with her sister in Petaluma. Every Saturday morning (I know today is Thursday but I write these blog entries in advance) my wife and her sister are on the phone for a good 2-3 hours, so that's not unusual.

But today, the gabba-gabba-gabba was accompanied by the soundtrack from Wicked, which was playing on my wife's iPad.

Why? Because today my wife, my two daughters, my mother-in-law, my other sister-in-law and my other other sister-in-law's daughter were going to see the show at the Pantages theater. That's a lot of estrogen in a 7-passenger minivan.

Sadly the show was not nearly long enough.

Because they returned from the theater just in time for the kickoff of the Patriots/Broncos Divisional Playoff Game. Not because they wanted to see it, but I did. Unfettered by the endless flapping of jaws and the painful re-rendering of Broadway show tunes.

Last week, I came across the picture above and thought, surely I can write something funny about these losers with their bad fashion choices, bad haircuts and bad exercise regimens. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe these guys are onto something.

Except the guy in the green plaid shirt.
Dude, your lady has a nice rack but look at her posture, that's embarrassing.

In my day

2012-01-18T06:26:00.000-08:00

Before I start, you'll have to pardon me while I slip into my old man cranky pants, the Sansa-belts with the elastic waistline that can accommodate my expanding belly full of rage.

Because today I want to talk about today's kids. More specifically, today's kids who work in advertising. Even more specifically, today's kids who work in the creative departments of today's advertising agencies.

They have it too easy.

I'm sure they work the long hours. They sacrifice their weekends. They cancel vacations just like I did. I'm not saying they don't work hard. I'm saying they have no business being in the business. Yet.

They have it too easy because they got in too easily.

Ever since the advent of the big holding companies advertising agencies have been seeking ways to hold the bottom line. The first cost-cutting maneuvers were obvious. No one travels in business class anymore. No one stays in fancy hotels. And the Christmas bonus, which had already become a thing of the past, would now become a thing of which no one spoke of.

Then some douchenozzle in the Accounting Department decided agencies could save a bundle of money if they farmed their own talent. Not unlike farmed salmon, which looks and smells like the real thing, but doesn't taste as good as their free range brethren caught in the wild.

This gave birth to a number of "intern" or "young gun" programs where promising students were fast-tracked right out of colleges and right into agency cubicles. Again, not unlike the farmed salmon.

And while at first blush this may appear to make perfect sense, on second blush it does not.

I can only speak from personal experience but getting my foot in the door-- which took quite a few years -- was a vital part of the creative maturing process. In addition to the constant refinement and rebirthing of my book, I wrote and designed my own self promos. Through trial and error, I learned what worked and what did not. Most did not.

But like the study of Algebra, the result was not half as important as the process. It forced me (and dozens of my contemporary colleagues) to be more focused, more discerning, more in tune with what an agency was looking for in a young copywriter. In other words, it was good training in the art of persuasion. The kind of training today's kids aren't getting.

More importantly, while I was doing everything humanly possible to get a foot in the door at a legitimate ad agency I was paying my dues, cranking out thousands of help wanted ads at a recruitment ad agency. Am I being hyperbolic? No, I am not. On a typical day, I knocked out 15-20 ads, each one about 500 words long. That's a lot of shitty writing. But everyday it made me less and less shittier.

Doubt the veracity of my theory? Consider the fact that it took Lee Clow two years before he initially got the past the receptionist at Chiat/Day.

In my case it took even longer.

Am I bothered by the preponderance of all these kids wondering the halls of today's creative department?
Yes. And No.

Sure it would have made my life a whole lot easier had I been hired under the auspices of some cubbie copywriting program. That part bothers me.

But when today's kids can't crack an indecipherable brief or deliver some insight on a marketing problem because the only life experience they have is planking, clubbing and sharing twit pics, well, that's what makes my phone ring.

And that part never bothers me.

Just Fugging with you

2012-01-17T06:47:00.000-08:00

The 2011 College Football season is now in the books, culminating with last week's drubbing of the LSU Tigers by the Tide of Alabama in the Liquid Plumber with Activated MicroCrystals Bowl.

It was an exciting season though I will admit I did not follow it passionately. To be honest I don't follow college football with any regularity. Not since my team, the Syracuse Orangemen, won the Championship back in 1959.

Obviously that predates me, so it's clear that I don't follow college football at all.

But I did catch the tail end of the Liberty Bowl on the recent New Year's Eve, which tells you how exciting my life can be. And I did see Vanderbilt Defensive End Tim Fugger get walked off the field after a severe ankle sprain. And I did go reaching for my DVR so I could snatch this picture of the player in his agony (and I'm not referring to his foot).

In the past, I've documented sad athletes with unfortunate surnames like Putz or Schmuck. But those pale in comparison to this poor Fugger. I can't imagine the grief rained upon him in the locker room, "Hey who took my deodorant spray? I'll bet it was that Fugger."

Or how about the colorful comments in the stands when the Vanderbilt team is playing on the road.

"Block that Fugger."

"Would somebody hit that Fugger?"

"Don't let him in the backfield. Put a body on that mother Fugger."

I could go on all fugging day.

Editorial note: In the rereading of this fugging post it has become clear that I've now sunk to a new low. I apologize and declare an end to my experimentation with decaffeinated coffee.

Respect

2012-01-12T06:17:00.000-08:00

Headline: Steve Hayden is named AAAA Leader of the Year.

That's a rough facsimile of the invitation my partner Dennis Lim and I produced in 1994. My apologies for not finding the original piece but I'm not much of a rat packer. I throw stuff out. Even the good stuff. But this gives you a good idea how the invite looked.

It also gives you a good idea about Steve.

You see we had presented a ton of concepts, but Steve would have none of them. He wanted to take the piss out of all this false pomp and circumstance. He literally told us to make the invitation more self-deprecating. I'm sure we had something even bluer, but this was after all an honorary banquet not a Friar's Roast.

In any case, it shows Steve's humility. And his grace. None of which I deserved, because in 1994 I was by all accounts (and most account executives) a hotheaded colossal asshole.

Let me back up a little. I was hired to work at BBDO West by the new Creative Director David Lubars. It was the first and only time I was actively recruited. Weirdly however, BBDO West was also being led by Creative Director Steve Hayden. I, nor anyone else on the staff, understood why we had two Creative Directors both of whom were also the agency president. As someone who was never skilled in the art of kissing ass, you can imagine how confused this left me.

I only know that Lubars hired me. But Hayden was stuck with me.

Normally a situation like that leads to friction. But Steve was far too professional to be bothered by any of that. Instead he talked me down from a career ledge and helped me get through one of the toughest assignments I've ever faced in advertising -- a 10-page Apple insert to run in the Wall Street Journal.

To this day I still get shivers thinking about all the technical gobbledygook that had to be sorted through and turned into proper English. Particularly since I was such a noob when it came to software/hardware/computer architecture, and such.

But Steve, acting as professor and Creative Director helped me plough through. And in doing so taught me an invaluable lesson about demystifying technology. And being a better writer. It's never about being fancy. Or clever. Or even funny (as this post amply demonstrates). Good writing is about being clear.

So with Steve retiring and all those he influenced coming out of the woodwork to pay him the appropriate homage, let me be perfectly clear.

Thanks Steve.

Weak Pimp Hand

2012-01-11T06:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know if there's any life form on Earth lower than a pimp. They're glorified in rap music or on HBO shows like Cathouse, but no amount of media puffery can put a shine on these manipulative turds. For the life of me I don't understand why women would sell their bodies on the street and then hand all the proceeds to men with the worst work ethics and fashion standards on the face of the planet.

Presidential candidate Ron Paul doesn't say a lot that makes sense but in keeping with his Libertarian bent he is for decriminalizing prostitution, which might put pimps out of business. And on that I'd have to agree with him.

Of course, there's another way to get pimps off the street, a surefire method that doesn't require lengthy discussions about morality or political wrangling or costly bureaucratic red tape. This method was amply demonstrated the other night while watching Spike TV.

There is so much to like about this 1-minute clip I hardly know where to begin. I know it's not popular, but I'm a big fan of righteous vigilantism. I appreciate the misguided employee loyalty of the woman who is trying to protect 'her man.' But mostly I love the deception and the delivery of the knockout blow.

Watch as the karate guy distracts Papa Dazzle Slick with his right hand. Then instantaneously delivers a forearm blow to the pimp's unprotected carotid artery sending him to the ground like a discarded peep show flyer.

It's a thing of beauty. In fact, it stands up to so many repeated viewings. The youtube counter says this video has been watched 325,402 viewings. I'm good for about 378 of those.

An Improdent Decision

2012-01-10T06:10:00.000-08:00

My children hate me.

They know every time we take a road trip there's a chance I'm going to spot something that merits a 180 degree U-turn, the grabbing of the iPhone and the mandatory blog snapshot.

This gem came to us after a recent ski outting at Mammoth Mountain over the Christmas break. I believe the Town House Motel is located in Big Pine on the Southbound side of Route 395, only the most scenic road in the Golden State.

What I find puzzling about this sign is that owners clearly did not mean they have the Best Rat in town. The FTC does not allow those type of advertising claims without any proof. I know this from my many years in advertising and my extensive knowledge of weasel words.

And who is to say that the rats across the street at the Big Pine Inn aren't any better?

Obviously they were appealing to to the bargain hunter who is looking for the Best Rate. Perhaps they ran out of E's.

Here is where a little editing might have come in handy. Given a choice between a nice motel room and clean motel room, I would opt for clean. I suspect most people would. In that case, the owners of the Town House could have easily omitted the word 'Nice' from the sign and found themselves with an extra E to change Rat to Rate.

Of course I also know from my many years in advertising that copy changes and major marketing decisions like that are never made lightly. Had that option been nixed they could have 'borrowed' an E from one of the other words. For instance:

NICE CLAN ROOMS
BEST RATE IN TOWN.

That would have been very interesting.
And to the further displeasure of my children, I definitely would have pulled the car over for a picture.

Down There

2012-01-09T06:01:00.000-08:00

According to the Washington Post, the top 1% of the nation's population account for 24% of the nation's total income and more than 40% of its wealth. I just spent the last 6 months knocking around
autotrader.com to save a couple of hundreds dollars on a used Volvo for my daughter.

Clearly, I am not in the 1%.

I'm in the upper tiers of the remaining 99%. And I understand the rage that consumes folks who have worked hard, lived by the rules and expected a fair return on their labor. There is a great wealth disparity in this country. And a small minority have benefitted from their treasonous greed. In that respect I have great empathy for the 99%. At least 99% of them.

You see the spectrum goes two ways.

On the one side you have the monumentally wealthy and their abhorrent avarice. On the other end you have the inordinately entitled and their conspicuous laziness. These are the bottom feeders of the 99%. And I would posit they have earned their lowly economic position in life.

Last week, on a rare afternoon outting away from our daughters, my wife and I found ourselves at the Fox Hills Mall in Culver City, excuse me the new Westfield Shopping Center, I forgot they gentrified the place. We had to pick up a few things including a new pair of cross training shoes for my upcoming foray into Shawn T's Insanity Fitness Program.

We sauntered into Foot Locker, which is dominated by a 100-foot deep wall display of sneakers. They have shoes for every imaginable sport, from badminton to New Rules Rugby. In an effort to hasten the shopping experience, I very politely asked a young woman sporting the Foot Locker Polo Shirt, "Can you show me where the cross trainers are?"

She raised her right arm, which in retrospect now seems above and beyond the call of duty, pointed to the further reaches of The Wall and flippantly said, "down there."

Down there, I thought, could you be more specific? Those were the words that would have come out of my mouth had I the proper time to react to her insolence, but she had vanished in the blink of an eye, no doubt to exercise her mandated 15 minute coffee/cigarette/texting break.

My wife and I walked 'down there' along the wall and then continued walking directly out of the store. I was not going to patronize a store that can't be bothered by its customers.

This was not the end of the Down There Incident.

My wife and I continued to talk about it in disbelief on the drive home. She contends it was management's fault for not giving that young lady the proper training. What training, I asked, does it take to attend to customer requests? This women, girl, let's say she was 17, is an employee. She puts on the Foot Locker Shirt. She gets a paycheck. She has a job. At the very, very least she has a responsibility to the customer. To be helpful, courteous and to be of some service. That doesn't require training, that simply requires the acknowledgment that she is employed. The truth is I could have got a more informed response from a fellow customer.

This girl didn't just suck at her job, she sucks at Capitolism. She lacks a fundamental understanding about what it takes to succeed, or even survive, in the work world.

I'll take it even further, I'll say she sucks at Life. She suffers from half-assedness. If would be as if someone stopped me on the sidewalk and asked me, "what time it was?" And I looked at my watch and replied, "Afternoon."

But Karma is a wise lady. I suspect that slapping sneakers on smelly feet will be the apex of this woman's career and she will find herself occupying a desk at the DMV and complaining in perpetuity about how life is so unfair.

Of this, I am 99% sure.

A Kodak Moment

2012-01-05T06:27:00.000-08:00

As many of you know tomorrow is the last official day of Christmas in Europe, which means there's still time for one more entry about the Caganer.

As many of you also know I'm particularly obsessed with this odd Catalonian custom. Particularly since I discovered it while working at a local ad agency. You see, it was time for another year end sales event for one of the major car brands. I'm always about doing something different so I went in search of unusual winter solstice customs thinking that would make for some cool TV spots.

Wikipedia did not disappoint.

I learned of the ancient Norwegian custom of painting a doorway with butter somehow beckoning the return of the sun. The Austrians have given birth to Krampus, the evil demon Anti-Santa. In typical Teutonic form, people don Krampus costumes, drink beer then roam the streets to beat people with a stick or a rusty bicycle chain. No doubt, their preferred victims were Jews.

But of course being scatologically and sophomorically-inclined, nothing compares with El Caganer. Made even more delightful when you consider I was being paid a King's ransom( day rate) to fully investigate this phenomena.

Recently a friend called this 19-foot high Caganer to my attention. It was spotted at a mall in Barcelona and now holds a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.

There is much to ponder about this amazing photograph. The enormous scrotal sac. The hairless butt. The perfectly-coiled, 6-foot frozen-yogurt like turd.

But look at the man on the second floor who appears to be snapping a picture of his own. What, pray tell, could be more fascinating than a two story high statue of a naked man taking a dumping in a shopping mall?

That will keep me at night.

Post P90X

2012-01-04T06:37:00.000-08:00

BEFORE

AFTER

Four days ago, on Dec. 31, 2011 I officially completed Tony Horton's P90X program. For 90 days I faithfully retreated to my garage for a grueling mixture of weight training, cardio plyometrics and Yoga. Additionally, I amended my long afternoon swims into a high intensity interval sprint swimming and virtually eliminated all processed carbohydrates from my diet.

As you can see the results were astounding. I lost a roll of fat around my belly. And my bra size is now down to a 56 GGG.

OK, those aren't the real pictures. But I'm still not exactly Speedo-ready. However, I did complete the highly-disciplined program. I didn't miss one workout. I lost 12 lbs. in three months. I feel stronger than I have in years. And now I can knock out 7 unassisted pull-ups.

It's a wonderful feeling, particularly when I look back to my personal journal entry on the first day of the experience when I asked myself, "What the hell have I got myself into? I might have bit off more than I can chew."

The truth is, I was sore at the beginning. And many of the moves were challenging and undoable. But as I tell my daughters, persistence is everything. It is more important than talent. More important skill. More important than any blessings given to you by the Flying Spaghetti Monster in the Sky.

Which brings me to the best part of P90X, the infomercials.

Now when I see the ubiquitous Tony Horton and hear his cheesy aphorisms I no longer have to wonder, "Should I pick up the phone and order the DVDs? Can I do all those difficult exercises? Will I look like all ripped and toned like Tony when I'm done?"

Because now I have all the answers.

Yes. Yes. No.

People We Need To Kill

2012-01-03T06:13:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year.

I'd like to start 2012 with something New, a new themed series -- People We Need To Kill.

If you're a regular reader of roundseventeen you know we have had recurring themed series before. There's the very popular Things Jews Don't Do. There was Famous Directors/Celebrities I Have Worked With. And there was Random Letter Week. Those were short lived themes, populated with just enough entries to merit the word 'series'.

If however you know me and my boundless indignation with the cretins who live in my immediate vicinity (Earth) and share the oxygen I breathe, you know this column will be followed with many, perhaps even more volatile, calls for bloodlust.

First up on my hit list are People Who Text and Drive.

I don't even have the words to describe the feeling I get when I pass a young mom tooling along in her
RX 350 on the Northbound 405 while pinging her yoga classmate about the latest unitard sale at Nordstroms. I only know I have to fight the urge to do a PIT Maneuver and send her and her worthless brood over the railing and into the oncoming traffic of Olympic Blvd.

Weeks ago this anger took on a physical manifestation in the form of a window sticker placed on either side of my car.

As you might expect, the sign produced many howls of laughter from fellow freeway drivers. However it did earn me the scorn of my wife and daughters who refused to ride in the car. It was an admittedly immature gesture. So today I am taking a more rational, more reasoned approach by calling for the immediate death of those who text and drive.

Keep in mind this is no Swiftian exercise in hyperbole, I am dead serious about taking this very important herd-thinning plan of action. In fact I think it should be taken up by the highest powers in the land. Obama doesn't need to swing to the left to recapture his base. He doesn't have to swing to the right to entice new voters. He needs to start swinging the axe and ridding us of these brain-deficient, over-communicators.

Think about this. People who text are anthropological regressionists. They set humankind backward. In the late 1800's, people communicated via the telegraph. They hunted and pecked out their messages and counted on the technology of the day to transfer that message to the recipient. Years later, a Scotsman (thank you very much) invented a telephone so that communication could be conducted with nothing more than a human voice. And now these Cro-Magnons are using that same telephone -- pardon me, a smartphone -- as nothing more than a glorified digital telegraph. And they're doing it while traveling
70 mph in a horseless carriage.

Now let's look at the math. After all, if you're going to be calling for the death of a population segment, your argument should be more than anecdotal.

Last year, there were 32,788 traffic fatalities in the United States. A University of North Texas study concludes that 16% of those fatalities were caused by distracted texters. That's 5246 Americans. And that's just for last year. If you were to add up the numbers for the last ten years, you'd see that people who text and drive are responsible for more American deaths than the Islamic Extremists who flew the planes into the WTC and the Pentagon plus all the soldiers who gave their lives in service to our country in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Pretty sobering isn't it?

Maybe it's too hasty to start assembling firing squads. Maybe a more-measured, more-Saudi Arabian approach is the answer. Maybe we start by lopping off the index fingers of first time offenders.

But I'm not confident forced amputation is the cure for American stupidity. Besides, now I have a teenage daughter who will be sharing the road with these traffic terrorists.

It's time for a pre-emptive strike on people who text and drive.
We need to kill them before they kill us.

I'm done

2011-12-19T06:56:00.000-08:00

It's that time of the year again. Time to put away the bourbon, rest the synapses, and rediscover the dysfunction that is my family. Maybe I'll keep the bourbon handy.

In any case, roundseventeen is going on a short hiatus and won't be back until January 2, 2012.

If for any reason, and I'm being obnoxiously presumptive here, you need a fresh hit of R17, I've taken the liberty of going through the archives and finding some of my favorite posts that might merit a re-visit. Of course in the re-reading of some of my entries I've discovered some awful and embarrassing material.

I hope these will make up for it and I promise to do better next year.

My Daughter Takes Communion.

Dropping Kids off at the Pool.

Zog 101.

Have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, a Joyful Kwanza, and a Happy New Year.

Choices

2011-12-15T06:52:00.000-08:00

Other than the fact that I am not a robot, nor were there computers, nor did I own a pink convertible Cadillac, this short film captures why I left home, family and friends to set up a new life by the PCH.

My only regret is that I couldn't take what I had on the East Coast and have it all transplanted to the West Coast.

Minimum Rage

2011-12-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

Make no mistake, I'm no fan of the current crop of Republican Presidential candidates. In fact, I find it hard to believe that the party of the wealthy, the successful, and one would assume, the intelligent, have such a hard time fielding someone worthy of the office.

The least of the evils, Jon Huntsman can barely crack 1% in the polls. I suspect that number would be halved if more people were aware his inclination towards magic underwear.

Nevertheless, unlike many of my more liberal friends, I try to remain open-minded to the ideas placed on the table. Last week, Newt Gingrich put a discussion-worthy idea on that table. He brought up the topic of child labor laws and noted, quite correctly I might add, the lack of a work ethic among many of today's kids.

Oh Rich, you're not going to dip your toe in that scolding, politically-charged water are you?
No, I'm going to jump in, curled up like a 211 lbs. cannonball.

You see, I happen to believe in the power of work.

When I was 14 years old I got a paper route. When the money from one paper route couldn't support my yearning for ding dongs and ho-ho's, I went out and got a second paper route. When I was 16, I got a job working at the Spring Valley Jack in the Box. When I was 18, I went away to college, and when I wasn't attending classes (most the time) I was working, at dining halls, bars, restaurants, anyone willing to cut me a check.

It's been that way ever since. I literally can't remember a time when I wasn't working. Although some would argue that writing silly TV commercials and advertising is hardly work at all. Of course those same people have never sat in an ad agency status meeting. Or listened to a self important British Planner drone on about paradigm-changing brand core dynamics and their lasting impact on social media landscape architects.

Newt suggests we hire teens to unplug their iPods, lift up their saggy pants, and clean up our public schools. I'm not sure where the objection to this notion could possibly come from. Last year, my daughter attended Culver City High School and while there for a parent/teacher night I noticed the filthy conditions of the facility. Litter everywhere, broken lockers and a men's room that made the Port Authority in NY look like the Four Seasons.

After the schools get gussied up, there's plenty more work to be done at our parks, our beaches and our graffiti-stained highways.

Let's get these slackers into the labor pool, end the generational sense of entitlement, establish good work habits and increase the size of our tax base.

I could go on and on but I have to show my daughters how to use the hydraulic jack on my Lexus so they can get underneath the car and change the oil.

Wrecks Appeal

2011-12-13T06:13:00.000-08:00

Is there any activity more unsettling than buying a car from a dealership?

Last week I found myself at a local Volvo dealership looking at Certified Pre-Owned Volvos for my oldest daughter. The oily salesman wasted no time telling me all about the different grades of metal used in the manufacture of these Swedish wonder cars. He played right to my paternal instincts and pounded me with everything I'd ever want to know about air bag deployment, whiplash protection and even the actuarial death rates for teens driving Volvos.

He was good. I was about to pull the trigger on a 2007 S40 but then asked to see the Carfax. Turns out the previous owner of this particular cream puff was a car rental agency in Milford, NJ.

That's when I slammed on the 4-wheel anti-lock brakes.

A car rental agency? Listen Mr. Let's-step-into-my-cubicle-and-hash-out-the-numbers, I didn't just fall off the caveat emptor truck, I know all about people who dish out daily abuse onto rental cars.

Hell, I was one of those people.

Many moons ago, my sole transportation was a 1969 Honda CB 450 motorcycle. When the drive chain snapped and needed a week in the shop I found myself without wheels. With no disposable income in my pocket I decided to visit the local Rent-A-Wreck and picked up a 1972 Mercury Comet. It looked remarkably like the car pictured above, in that the rear quarter panel did not match the color of the rest of the car. I'm not even sure it was perfect match, as the seams were reinforced with duct tape.

Perhaps angered by my position in life, I took all my frustrations out on that Mercury Comet. I accelerated wildly through corners until the tires screeched. I paralleled parked by braille. And I went after speed bumps, with extreme prejudice.

One morning on my way to the office in Century City, I was tearing through the backstreets of Cheviot Hills. Coming down a steep incline, I revved the engine for maximum speed and launched the Comet off a drainage cut in the road. To this day I am positive I caught air. The Comet landed with a thud and then slowed to crawl.

I had bottomed out. I ruptured the oil pan. Corkscrewed the front wheels. Cracked the crankshaft.
I wrecked the wreck.

Many angry phone calls were exchanged over the following few days. And I received notice that the folks at Rent A Wreck were suing me in small claims court. They wanted $3000 to cover all the necessary repairs.

Well, I've never been one to shy away from a good fight, particularly one that had a built in stage for theatrical effect. I arrived at court and, acting as my own attorney, proceeded to show the judge the latest Kelly Blue Book figures. The book value of a 1972 Mercury Comet with 179,843 miles, even in mint condition, was no more $599. There weren't just looking to replace the car, they were going to buy 5 others.

The judge did not take too kindly to this blatant attempt at profiteering. I won the judgment and was refunded the cost of my rental. Of course, now in the retelling of this story I feel guilty.

Though not too guilty, because I know when I finally do buy a car for my daughter that I, like anybody else who has ever stepped foot on a dealership lot, am going to get reamed.

It all equals out.
That's the nature of Car Karma.

Step away from the banana

2011-12-12T06:27:00.000-08:00

Insane Orthodox Jews hang floor-to-ceiling curtains to separate men from the women in synagogue.

Christians have an unholy preoccupation with virginity and have violated the principles of logic with something called 'immaculate conception.'

But when it comes to sheer lunacy and Neanderthal attitudes towards the female of the species, no one can hold a locked-and-loaded RPG to the Muslims.

Last week, an unnamed cleric in Egypt issued a fatwa banning women from touching bananas and cucumbers. In fact, the ban went on to include all penis-shaped foods including carrots, zucchinis and hot dogs. Of course those would be beef hot dogs, as Muslims and Jews already ban hot dogs made from pork, probably because that would lead women to have unclean thoughts about porking.

The forward-thinking sheik also stated that if women wish to eat these tubular foods, a third party male (obviously not a homosexual male because he too would be unable to curb his cravings for cock) should cut the phallicly- shaped food into smaller, non-sexual pieces.

He further went on to explain, though not reported in the paper, that it was no coincidence that American women (sinners), in particular widows, flock to Florida a state that is clearly shaped like a turgid penis and is indeed a geographic peninsula, which in itself sounds like penis.

The fatwa caused immediate turmoil throughout the Middle East.

At the Sizzler in Medina, Saudi Arabia, 8-year old Dahab Ahlam was steered away from the XXX-rated salad bar and later told by her mother she could not have a banana split sundae for dessert. She was forced to settle for the rather flaccid rice pudding. And then defying logic, as only children and deeply religious people can, she vowed, "this is another great injustice which can only be redeemed by the massive spilling of infidel blood. Allah Akbar."

Pleased with her daughter's violent indignant reaction and her pledge to take up violent jihad, Dahab's mother topped the little girl's rice pudding with Reese's Pieces. And all was right with the world. Temporarily.

Toy Story 4

2011-12-08T06:11:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week my buddy Greg sent me a news clipping from the Newport Plain Talk, the newspaper that covers everything that goes on in Newport, Tennessee. If you knew anything about Newport you'd know you'd want to know everything about Newport.

You see Newport, like all of Tennessee, is a fascinating place.

Oh they've got their Starbucks, their Walmarts, their parking problems, their corrupt city officials, all the general malaise that affects the rest of the country. But Tennessee, and by proxy Newport, is located at that dark intersection between Appalachia and the Deep South. It isn't afraid to parade around its reptilian DNA that characterizes an America from a different time period. It's chockfull of drunkards, snaggled teeth, moonshine, first cousin sex, snake handlers and more than 93 Chick-Fil-A franchises.

In other words, it's a voyeur's paradise. Particular if that voyeur is smart-ass Jew from NY.

Tennessee is also the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan. Unfortunately remnants of that close-minded ignorance is alive and well in the Volunteer state (though hardly to the exclusion of the other 49 states, I'm looking at you Mississippi).

Which is a shame, because until we open our hearts and our minds to different ideas and cultures we can have no hope for the future and for our children. (This was an intentional schmaltzy misdirect.)

Perfect example, take the clipping that Greg sent to me.

It's the story of Deanna Holt, an 18-year old old graduate of Cocke County High School who was just named Miss December. It's a heart warmer and my congratulations go out to her, her family and her make-up artist. But further down in the story, and this is where being open minded and curious comes in, I discovered that December is officially Safe Toys and Gifts Month.

I don't know if other Tenneeseeans dug deeper, but I did. And discovered there's a whole host of toys I should scratch off my Hanukkah list. Like the You Can Shave the Baby Doll from North Korea (pictured above) with the oddly hirsute cankles. I might have purchased that for my daughters, but now I won't.

Similarly, I won't be taken in by the fancy packaging and the "style", "music" and "flash" of this innocuous looking toy...

Maybe it's best that I leave the gift purchasing to my wife.

Or resort to iTunes cards.

Of course like most internet-surfing adventures, all was not lost, I did find a must-have, conversation-starting, HR-notifying toy that will be perfect for my work desktop.

In case you're wondering, and how could you not be, the name of this robot is The Punisher.

Tienes un Caganer?

2011-12-07T06:30:00.000-08:00

As you know I am an equal opportunity offender. So today, apropos of the season, I'd like to talk about Nativity scenes. This meat concoction was found on the Facebook page of an old school friend from the old neighborhood.

I'm sure he doesn't read this blog or follow my ramblings, but I like to give credit where credit is due.

It is a wonderfully artistic use of cocktail wienies, sliced ham, sauerkraut and bacon. What I like most about it is this distinctively Jewish manger/household is constructed with very un-Kosher pig building materials. I believe the artist/architect was making a contextual statement about the intrinsic and often contradictory ties that form the fabric of our Judeo-Christian lives.

Either that or Costco was having a sale on pork products.

I can make out the Canadian Bacon-flavored prophets, the Virgin Hickory-Smoked Mary, and the baby-cocktail wiener Jesus, but I am having trouble figuring out the structure on the extreme right side of the Nativity Scene/Roaster Pan.

Any help out there from my gentile friends?

While we're on the topic of Nativity scenes, let's revisit The Caganer. I wrote about this last year, but since no one reads this blog, I'm not in any real danger of repeating myself.

The Caganer, if you didn't know, is the gnome-like man standing outside the hut. The more observant of you will notice he is literally taking a dump. Or as traditional Catalonians like to say, "offering up a pre-digested burrito."

You can read more about the Caganer on the interweb. I have and it's fascinating. So much so that while my wife was out of town last weekend, I went in search of purchasing a complete Caganer-equipped Nativity Scene. Sadly I couldn't find one. But if you know me at all, you know I would have no problem at all setting it up in my front yard.

Of course, the patrons at the Catholic High School that my daughters attend might not see the humor in it.

Maybe I'll just wait until my youngest daughter graduates. That gives me three years to shop around. And a great excuse for my wife and I to return to the Iberian Peninsula.

Porn to be wild

2011-12-06T06:38:00.000-08:00

Weeks ago I mentioned that if you live in Los Angeles, you've brushed up against the porn world. There's literally two degrees of separation, unless you make your home in Irvine, then it goes up to three.

I might have told this story before but when I was a young copywriter at Abert, Newhoff & Burr I was approached by one of the senior writers. He wanted to know if I was interested in making a little money on the side. That's when he pulled me into the stat camera room (you younger kids can go look that up) and showed me how he supplemented his meager income.

He had hooked up with some porn distributors in the Valley and started writing the copy found on the back of all the VHS tapes (you kids can look those up as well). I never knew why there was copy on the back of the video boxes, it's not like anyone ever reads that stuff anyway.

Exactly, he said, just like the legitimate copy you're writing for the bank ads.

The pay was good, $250 a box, for about 3-4 paragraphs. And the work was easy. Just raid the thesaurus and liberally sprinkle every sentence with words like throbbing, quivering and explosive. It certainly seemed titillating. But I couldn't see myself writing, in what were essence book reviews, for Blazing Zippers, Stalag 69, or Rhinestone Reverse Cowgirl. It was just not a career path I wanted to follow.

Now that I'm married with two daughters, it turns out my instincts were right.

But that never stopped me from participating in a weekly shenanigans with legendary porn star Harry Reems (pictured above with Linda Lovelace, co-star in the iconic Deep Throat). You see, Harry was regular customer at Charmer's Market in Santa Monica. This was a boutique French restaurant/ supermarket. It was very upscale. And at the time, I was employed there as a sous chef in the open-style kitchen located in the center of the store.

Mind you, this was a time when a thick mustache had a very hypnotic effect on young ladies (I can tell you that is no longer the case) and every week Harry made a habit of walking by the kitchen with a different young Wacktress (waitress/actress) on his arm.

We, that is the cooks and the chefs, also made it a habit of clearing our throats as the happy couple walked by. As if that weren't heavy-handed enough, the saucier would feign choking and exclaim, "I think I have something caught in my THROAT."

The joke never got old.
And Harry never failed to slip a $20 bill in our tip jar.
Which was always good for a few extra shrimp in his fettucine.

100% Imitation

2011-12-05T06:18:00.000-08:00

Nothing speaks to the insecurity of writers like the theory of 100 monkeys. The theory states that if you place 100 monkeys in a room, provide them with typewriters and bananas, within 1000 hypothetical years one of those monkeys will have successfully typed out a Shakespearean play.

That's how little we think of our craft.

As far as advertising writers go, you could probably knock that down to 38 monkeys, a few dozen Dell laptop computers, and a packet of M&M's, and by year's end you'd have a handful of spots better than or equal to the crap that on the flatscreen today.

The 100 Monkey theory also goes a long way towards explaining the statistically impossible number of similar ideas floating about the airwaves.

I'll give you a fine, and personal example. Last year at this time we had produced a number of funny spots for last year's Dealer Event. While filming those spots we also cajoled the director to shoot one extra spot -- a holiday safety message. You might even remember it:

This was not the best spot I ever wrote. Nor is it one of the worst. It has a good narrative, an interesting way to display a proprietary technology and like all good Christmas stories it was written by a Jew(me), you know, the people who are waging a war on Christmas.

Word has it, that this spot, which and I want to emphasize this, was produced last year, will be hitting the airwaves once again very soon. Because America loves an elf with a bladder control problem.

Another word has it that a very similar, did I say similar, I meant duplicate, did I say duplicate, I meant rip-off of the spot will be running on behalf of Cadillac.

This spot was produced by Fallon, an agency in Minneapolis that was once regarded as the most creative in the country. The irony is that during the late 80's and 90's I would study their cerebral style and try to 'mimic' it in my own work. A decade or so later and they're repaying me with an homage.

I guess by the Transitive Law of Creativity, my work is now good enough to finally get a job there.

I wonder what they feed their monkeys.

Happy Happy Joy Oy

2011-12-01T06:30:00.000-08:00

Good Morning.

I hope today finds you well and happy and healthy.

If you've been following the blog this week you know that this is the fourth installment in my Offend an Ethnicity Week. Having made potentially insensitive remarks about Blacks, Muslims (and women) and Jews, today I was going to turn my attention to...well if I'm being completely and brutally honest (and when am I not?) I haven't identified an ethnic group to rail against.

I could have gone with Poles, Iranians, or even North Koreans who recently threatened to obliterate South Korea in a 'Sea of Fire.' But I feel those are all easy default positions that I have covered in the past.

And a writer needs to progress, to sail in uncharted waters, to expand the horizons. So today I'd like to direct my disdain not at any ethnicity but towards the Hellishly Happy.

You know these Perpetually Peppy Pollyanna's, you probably have a few among your Facebook Friends. Here's what one of their typical status updates looks like:

Blueberry pancakes, fresh brewed Verona coffee, my favorite cashmere sweater, and Duran Duran Greatest hits playing on Pandora. Life is AWESOME!

Defriending now, that's awesome.

Where do these people come from? Do they not drive the same freeways you and I trudge over the same day? Do they not suffer the same inequities from rude, apathetic, lazy customer service reps that seem more interested in taking their breaks than making a sale? Do they possess some secret superpower that allows them to ignore the neighbor's incessantly barking dog? Do they have an internal OFF switch that makes them impervious to something like this...

By the way, just a little tangent, do we really need the reverse beep?

If you're a blind person and you make it a habit of walking behind flatbed trucks at night and you can't hear the distinctive hum of a 800 horsepower diesel engine, I don't think it's necessary for society to provide you with ear piercing warning signals. I think it's time we allow nature to take its course and thin the herd.

Maybe you're one of these chronically cheery people. Maybe for you the glass isn't half full. Or half empty. The glass is awesome. And the water in the glass is even more awesomer. Maybe your life is nothing but cupcakes and kittens.

Well real life isn't like that. And with any luck, or some divine providence, those cupcakes will make you morbidly fat and those kittens will grow up and breed like bunny rabbits, until one day you find yourself in a Forever Lazy Snuggie Bag Thing and starring in next week's episode of Hoarders: Buried Alive.

If this post has somehow dampened your exceedingly high holiday spirits, well, you're welcome.

Miracle? Feh.

2011-11-30T06:42:00.000-08:00

To continue this week's recurring theme, offensive posts about different ethnicities, today we look at what can only be termed the lamest holiday in the multitude of lame Jewish Holidays, Chanukah or Hanukkah or
Chanuka.

It's so lame we couldn't even decide on a correct spelling.

Hanukah, as you may or may not know, commemorates the Maccabees, who successfully rebelled against the armies of Antiochus. They liberated and purified the great Temple of Jerusalem (the same temple that was there about 700 years before Islam was even born) in the year 165 B.C.E. According to the story, there was only enough oil to keep the lamps lit for one day, but the Lord, in his infinite generosity, made the oil last for 8 miraculous days and nights. Holy crap, too bad someone didn't have a Sony Camcorder to get it all on tape.

What a cheap parlor trick.

Why didn't the Lord, the King of Kings, the Host of Hosts, smite the armies of Antiochus with a tower of fire or swallow them up with a raging tsunami? Something a little more majestic, for God's sake. I once saw a magician in Las Vegas pull the 7 of clubs from the ass of a cow.

We get the Bronze Age equivalent of flashlights and we're supposed to fall on bended knee?

I'm sorry rabbi, I'm just not buying it. Oh, I'll light the candles. And I'll eat the latkes. And of course I'll shower my daughters with 8 days of of increasingly more valuable gifts, but only because if I didn't I'd never hear the end of it.

But don't try to convince me this was some kind of miracle from the Lord who was looking after his Chosen People. If that were the case he would called off the Inquisition. Or cancelled the pogroms. Or even intervened in 1939 and saved the lives of million of Jews, one of whom probably would have found a cure for cancer. Or invented a toaster-oven that lasts longer than 6 months.

Now that would be a miracle.

Obedient Wives Club

2011-11-29T06:23:00.000-08:00

I have made no secret about my antipathy towards radical Islamism.
I'm not part of the "co-exist" crowd.
And suspect I never will be.
I just don't see the wisdom of being tolerant of the intolerant.

On the other hand I like to think of myself as open-minded, willing to listen to new ideas and entertain new possibilities.

Yesterday an old college friend sent me a news clipping about the Obedient Wives Club opening up a branch office in London. One does not simply ignore a moniker like that, so naturally I did a little research.
Turns out the OWC is the brainchild of Rohaya Mohammed who claims that in order to avoid marital problems women should act like a "first-class whore" in bed.

(This is where I take issue with extremists. Mr. Mohammed could have said 'prostitute' or 'hooker' or even the more discerning 'working girl' but instead he went with 'whore', which is probably why so many woman's rights group in Malaysia got upset. Muslim extremists have a lot to learn about PR.)

But let's not get sidetracked here because Rohaya makes some excellent points.

Not only does he claim women should act "dirty", he advocates unlimited simultaneous polygamy. In other words, the wife should bring her equally dirty friends to bed with her to "worship" her man. Of course this all goes hand in hand with the understanding that a wife should be obedient, submissive and above all, quiet.

Now you've perked up my infidel ears.

These people might not get far flying planes into buildings, detonating suicide vests or bludgeoning Israeli children to death with the butt of a rifle, but they might have stumbled unto something with this Obedient Wives Club. This could, in advertising parlance, go viral.

But just before I went to zappos.com to order my wife a pair of red thigh high stiletto boots and a matching leather mini-skirt, I discovered the OWC has published a manual entitled, "Islamic Sex: Fighting Jews to Return Islamic Sex to the World."

Really Rohaya?
Way to cock-block a guy.

You blame us Jews -- I'm sorry, sons of Pigs and Apes -- for every malady in the world: colonialism, capitalism, communism, famine, war, hunger, and illiteracy. Now it's our fault that your wife won't put on the blond wig and lick hot fudge off your swarthy nipples?

Like I said, Muslim extremists have a lot to learn about PR.

Ink Different

2011-11-28T06:21:00.000-08:00

I watched a lot of football over the long weekend, a lot of football.

The game has changed quite a bit since I was a kid and marveled at the athletic abilities of Mike Curtis, Johnny Unitas and John Mackey. If you can't tell I was a Baltimore Colt fan.

The play calling is a lot more elaborate.
The hits are more vicious.
And everybody on the team, with the possible exception of the head coaches, is sporting tattoos. There used to be a time when, if a guy wanted a tattoo, he'd slap one on the thick of his shoulder and be done with it. But now these hulking behemoths are covered from head to toe.

On the big cornfed offensive linemen from Nebraska, the herringbone patterns that run the length of their leg-sized arms looks kind of cool. The high contrast between their pasty white flesh and the jet black ink is startling and stunning at the same time.

The same cannot be said for some of the black players.

The dark ink on equally dark skin looks muddled. The writing is indecipherable. And patterns becomes meaningless. Let's not even get into the wisdom of tattooing one's face, but the young man in the above picture is showing off his Gucci tattoo stamped on the left side of his head. If I didn't tell you that was Gucci you might have just assumed he fell asleep on a wire box spring.

But I'm not addressing this issue without offering a solution. And a simple one at that.

It all comes down to Communications 101 and the demonstrably improved legibility of reversed out type.
This is why I'd like to see African-American football, basketball and baseball players consider the wide array of lighter shades of ink.

If not for me, do it for the one woman on Earth who has endowed you with strength, courage and heart, the woman for whom you have proclaimed your everlasting love and emblazoned across your chest in 6 inch high Times New Roman type.

Do it for Momma.

Giving Un-Thanks

2011-11-23T06:38:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

We all have the day off (except for some of my unfortunate advertising colleagues forced to write last minute Super Bowl Spots). We'll spend time with family, football and hopefully some fizzy drinks with high alcohol content. And we'll express our thanks to the Lord, to the Giant Spaghetti Monster, to the fickle finger of fate or just to damn good luck, for all the things we have.

But in this, the year of the Occupiers, the 99%-ers, the have nots, I'd like to give thanks for the many wonderful things I don't have:

* I don't have a job. Haven't had one for close to eight years. Could not be happier. I've made the same amount of money I would have as a corporate staffer (maybe even a little more) and I haven't had to sit in many meetings, or live on an airplane, or listen to any 28-year old Ad Manager/Sorority Sister tell me how my work should be done.

* I don't have any health issues. Probably because I don't a have a job and the free stress that comes with it. More importantly, no one in my family has any health issues. This year we have seen many around us stricken with cancer (all forms) and the struggles that come with it. We wish them the the very best and count our blessings not to have health problems.

* I don't have crazy, troublesome, problematic daughters. Oh don't get me wrong, these are two high-drama teenagers who know how to manipulate Daddy, but by and large they are good kids. They may not always take out the trash or do the dishes when I ask them, but they bring home good grades from school, they are respectful around other adults and they have avoided drugs and alcohol (or at least they have hidden it very well).

* I don't have a dog that barks all the time. This may seem unusual but I am very grateful that my dog does note bark or bite. The same cannot be said for some of my neighbor's dogs, who once outside will bark until they pass out from exhaustion. I don't know how some people can be so unaware of their environment. Apparently they lack what I unfortunately have: a conscience.

* And finally I don't have a wife who nags me. Oh I complain all the time about living under her thumb and answering questions about my whereabouts, but its all hyper-inflated. My wife is a saint. She knows it, I know it. Everybody in our sphere knows it. She allows me time to work, to write, to do my P90X, to drink to excess and to fall asleep on the couch (sometimes all in the same day).

She allows me to be me. And if I didn't have her in my life, I don't know that I'd be thankful about everything else in my life that I don't have.

(I hope I got that double negative thing right.)

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

WINNING

2011-11-22T06:52:00.000-08:00

It has not been a good time for college coaches recently.

Last week we had the Penn State fiasco. This week, my own beloved Syracuse University came under the spotlight with new allegations against Associate basketball coach Bernie Fine. And just a few days ago a plane crash took the lives of two Oklahoma State coaches.

One college coach fared better, Coach K from Duke. Many of you will recognize his smiling face in the picture above. Believe it or not that is his smile. This week he recorded his 903rd win, making him the winningest active coach in NCAA basketball.

I met Coach K as well as 30 other Division One basketball coaches during the summer when I went to Las Vegas to sit in on a High School tournament featuring the nation's top recruits. Not only did I meet them, I interviewed each coach on camera for a documentary about Coaches Versus Cancer.

Interviewing people on camera in not exactly my strong suit, but the ad agency was paying my day rate and putting me up at the nice Aria Hotel, so I just clipped on the microphone and winged it.

Every interview started the same way. We'd roll the coaches in, have them take a seat in front of the camera, state their name, the name of the school they coach and the proper spelling of their name. Why do we do this? Mostly for the editor's sake, who dutifully put up a graphic identifying each coach. If the coach spells their name on camera the editor doesn't have to fiddle through reams of notes looking for the right spelling.

It's all about convenience.

Coach K took exception to this. When I asked him to spell his name for the camera, he thought I was busting his balls. And maybe when I asked him to do it twice, I was. But I will always treasure his unfiltered reaction when he stood up to look at the other crew members and said, "Who's this friggin' asshole?" I, of course, being the asshole in question.

But just as I was yanking his chain, Coach K was yanking mine.

He got up from the interview with a big smile. And before returning to the court to turn some high school baller into a multi-million dollar NBA draft choice, he looked at me
and said, "K-R-Y-Z-E-W-S-K-I."

And added with a laugh, "Don't ever ask me that again."

Pull on Excalibur

2011-11-21T06:18:00.000-08:00

I'm no Farmville guy.

Somebody once invited me to play Farmville on Facebook and it held my attention for about 3 nanoseconds. I have no interest in feeding virtual pigs or tending to virtual corn when I could be spending my precious time in a more productive manner, like blogging to virtual readers.

I never dove into Mafia Wars as well. Though this appealed more to my Northern New Jersey background and the chance to unleash my inner Capo.

The thing is, I'm not all that into playing role playing games. I don't want to pretend to be other people, I have a hard enough time dealing with the roles that are already on my plate: father, husband, brother, idea comer-upper, and zealous P90X 'er.

None of that has stopped the people from Zynga -- the makers of all these silly RPG games -- from pitching their latest development, Castleville, in the banners ads on my computer. And though it goes without saying that I won't be signing up for a seat at King Arthur's virtual round table, I do have to applaud the copywriters who worked on the current campaign.

It isn't everyday you get to slip a major sexual innuendo in to your work.
Though it should be added, everyday we try.

Grand Theft Auto

2011-11-17T06:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had mentioned the Joe Paterno firing and the Penn State tragedy. This is a story that has gripped the nation. It has given this generation its own equivalent of the Kitty Genovese incident.

Of course I’m referring to Assistant Coach Mike McQueary who told authorities he witnessed Jerry Sandusky inflagrante delicto with a naked 10-year old boy in the shower room. McQueary says he immediately informed Coach Paterno.

But the questions remains why didn’t he run into the shower, and pardon the phrase, cold cock the old man and rescue the kid?

What was McQueary thinking?

Well, that may be the problem. He was thinking instead of doing. Thinking how a scandal like this could affect the university, the football program, the recruitment efforts, or even his own miserable football career.

What happened to good old righteous indignation and fly-off-the-handle street vengeance?

Years ago, I was driving down Abbot Kinney on my way to work and spotted a 13-year old boy climbing out of a shattered car window with a stereo in his hands. With no time to weigh my options or the consequences of my actions, I swerved to the curb, jumped out of the car and started chasing the bastard through Oakwood.

He was fast but I was in my triathlon days and had plenty of stamina. I’m sure that caught him off guard but I was determined to snag that $99 Pioneer and return it to its rightful owner. Panting and clearly out of breath, the kid stopped just outside a ratty duplex at the corner of Brooks and Indiana. He turned to me just before opening the heavy steel door, and scowled, “You come in here and my daddy gonna shoot yo cracker ass.”

I wish the kid had informed me about his father’s shotgun before I covered a mile and half in the back alleys of Venice.

With my visions of being a superhero dashed, I returned to the scene of the crime where I met the young woman whose car had just been violated. I told her I saw the kid who stole her radio and chased him for the last 15 minutes.

“Well let’s go to his house and get my radio back,” she said.

“That’s an excellent idea, “ I said. And then having my own McQueary moment, added “but I lost him. And don’t have any idea where he lives.”

I Got Quit.

2011-11-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

Last week, Penn State University fired Coach Joe Paterno. In a lapse of moral judgment, the firing came about a week too late. Ironically the coach was fired for the lapse in his judgment, moral or otherwise.

In any case, it set my partner and I off on an interesting discussion about getting fired. My partner, in this case, is much younger than myself and she hasn't had the opportunity to be let go. That's right I said opportunity.

With the benefit of retrospect, I now look at my firing(s) as a true blessing.

Let's look at my most recent involuntary termination. In February it will be ten years since I "got quit" at TBWA Chiat/Day. I had won all kinds of awards at Chiat/Day, helped win new business and steered younger teams to great success in their career path. So of course I felt the firing was unjust. But in hindsight it wasn't. I had grown cantankerous, bitter and frustrated. To the point where I had a poisonous effect on everything around me. Had I been the boss, I would have fired my ass too. Though I probably would have done it a year or two, earlier.

To his credit, my former writing partner, Rob Schwartz, who was in the unfortunate position of having to let me go, recognized this and said upon my departure, "look, we'd love to have you here, if in a couple of years you have a different perspective on things and you find your head in a different place, let's talk."

Where does that kind of wisdom and maturity come from?

Rob and I may have creative differences on a lot of things, but on this he was frighteningly correct. To the point of being prescient.

Had I not been shown the door, I might never have discovered my much happier life as a freelancer. In fact, over the last 8 years and to the great confusion of my brother, I have done the bulk of my freelancing days back at Chiat/Day where I was once escorted from the premises by a beefy security guard. OK, it wasn't really a muscle-bound security guard, it was sweet 26-year old woman from HR.

Nevertheless, that firing provided me with a very critical career course correction, not to mention a big fat severance check.

Many, many years before that, I was a short order cook in the restaurant industry. I had been working a miserable job at Merlin McFlys in Santa Monica, grilling up burgers and potato skins for the beautiful people who frequented the upscale boutiques along Main Street and wouldn't bat an eye paying $1000 for a David Hockney-inspired trash can. The kitchen at McFly's was filthy, the wages were low and the boss was a Grade A Assclown. This job had nothing going for it other than free food and the all-too-rare opportunity to dip my spatula in the company BBQ sauce.

So it should come as no surprise that on one particularly onerous Sunday, when the temperature soared into triple digits, I found myself in the cooler with a case of ice cold Heinekens. I quickly downed the first beer at 11 AM. And another at 11:30. Another at noon. And so on. By the time I had completed my shift, half the case was gone. I punched the clock, cleaned up and took a seat at the bar to continue the binge. Keep in mind I was in my 20's and could do my Scottish drinking heritage proud.

The boss approached me at the bar and asked if I could escort him back to the cooler for a moment. Once there, he opened the flap on the green cardboard box and pointed to 12 empty Heineken bottles still in their corrugated compartments.

"You know anything about this?" he asked, perhaps rhetorically.

"No", I said, trying hard not to grin. And then let out a booming Heineken burp that could be felt from the shores of the Pacific to the brewery back in Amsterdam.

There was no severance check or meaningful impact on the course of my life. There was only the astonished look on the boss's jowly face. And the $25 deduction from my last paycheck to cover the damage.

To this day, that could be the best $25 I ever spent.

Salad Days

2011-11-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

"I love it, but I hate it."

If any of you are members of the Tony Horton P90X cult, as I am, you'll recognize this from the intro to Ab Ripper X, the gut-wrenching abdominal workout that promises a six pack to all who faithfully perform the routine. I believe I will achieve the six pack, but it won't take 90 days. I might take 90 years.

"I love it, but I hate it" is also how I feel about Mrs. Winston's Salad Bar, arguably the greatest salad bar in all of Southern California. When I'm working at RPA in Santa Monica, I get my lunch there everyday. It allows me to load up on spinach, kidney beans, mushrooms, carrots, asparagus, just about any vegetable. And I can keep my calorie count in the 500-600 range.

That's why I love it.

Unfortunately, the line at Mrs. Winston's never looks like it does in the picture above. At one o'clock in the afternoon on a typical weekday, every media planner, every paralegal, every dental hygienist, every woman in the 90401-90409 zip code convenes at Mrs. Winston's for lunch.

That is why I hate it.

Because these women don't just bring their appetites, they bring their phones, so they can text while they are assembling their repast. They bring their friends so that in between the sprouts and the three bean salad they can chat about their latest e-harmony adventures or the low slung open toe shoes they have their eyes on. And they bring their god-awful indecision (you're really going to hold up the line to put two lentil beans on your plate), weighing each choice as if it were a Constitutional amendment that could alter the future of mankind.

Ladies, you're building a salad not the next Space Shuttle.

Before the charges of misogyny are leveled against me, it's worth noting that men at Mrs. Winston's go about their business very differently. We know what we want. We shovel it into the plastic tub and we get back to our desks with plenty of spare time to go online and surf for porn...uh, read CNN.com.

We make our salads the same way we shop for auto parts. We go in for a fan belt, we walk out with a fan belt. We don't spend time looking over the carburetors or the new brake pads.

I'm not alone in these sentiments.

Yesterday, the man standing behind me was venting even more vociferously. I suspect if the texting, the non-stop chatting and the high-maintenance salad tomfuckery doesn't end soon, it won't be long before some short-fused man--and I'm not saying who-- explodes in a full-blown case of Romaine Rage.

Onward Christian Soldiers

2011-11-14T06:29:00.000-08:00

The season is upon us.

And you can purchase a packet of these real Christmas Cards to send to your friends and family. The cards are available from God's Favorite Church, the Landover Baptist Church, "where the worthwhile worship and the unsaved are unwelcome."

Seems a little harsh doesn't it? But not half as harsh as some of the comments from some of the congregation members at Landover.

Regarding the recent tragedy at Penn State for instance, Bob4God had this to say:

"Jerry Sandusky is a manly man. We can already see how the big Jewish media would want to take this man out. And now they have. Mr. Sandusky was victimized time and again by pubescent operatives of the homosexual agenda. These young men forced Jerry Sandusky to make them take showers with him in the locker room. After compelling him to take them to football games, they lured his overbearing, adult body to wrestle their comparatively smaller adolescent bodies on the gym floor, all so they could make it look like he was sexually abusing them."

In the words of Steve Jobs, "Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow."

Just when you think you've seen it all from the religious extremists on the right this comes along. I understand the charges about the overarching Jewish Media and their hyperbolic ability to manipulate public opinion to further Jewish interests. Come on, that's very reasonable.

But to claim these 10-year old boys preyed upon this innocent old philanthrope? That seemed beyond the pale. Until I read even further in the forum, where another congregant, Proud Faroese claimed:

"This is probably part of a satanic campaign where godly American-manly football is replaced with the faggot European sport, soccer."

I am somewhat fascinated by hate and the hundreds of hate groups that populate the Internet. I can spend hours reading through the propaganda at various white supremacist or Islamo-Fascist sites. I love seeing how people can concoct wild stories with nothing more than a half truth, a little imagination, some sketchy wikipedia findings and always, but always, a healthy dose of anti-Semitism. And I thought I'd seen it all until I stumbled across the Landover Baptist Church.

But don't take my word for it. Spend some time looking over their site. The folks at Landover have amply demonstrated the need for greater separation of church and state by flaunting their own separation of church and reality.

Cranky Pants

2011-11-10T06:16:00.000-08:00

Last week, Andy Rooney the patron saint of Curmudgeons, passed away.

Andy might have been getting a little long in the tooth and it was hard to concentrate on his rants while watching his hands tremble with 92 years worth of angst, nevertheless he was amusing. If for nothing else than his ability to dig into the minutiae of life and find the funny.

While mentioning his passing the other day at dinner, my youngest daughter said, "You should replace him."

"Why's that?" I asked, knowing full well she doesn't read this blog or pay any attention to my daily venting.

"Is it because going on TV every week and spouting off my ill-informed opinions and getting paid millions of dollars would be a dream job?" I asked.

"No."

"Is it because I have some limited ability to turn a phrase or make an insightful observation?"

"No."

"Is it because I have the courage to say what so many, or at least I assume so many, want to say but don't?"

"No, Daddy" she replied, "You'd be the perfect replacement for Andy Rooney 'cause you're a cranky old man."

I have raised a brutally honest daughter.

And then she added, "...and your eyebrows are bushy."

Confessions of a 2% er

2011-11-09T06:12:00.000-08:00

Whether it's on the Daily Show or the daily pages of Facebook, the Occupy movement has provided a wealth of comedic material. This sign, taken from the streets of downtown Boston (I believe) is one of my favorites.

But the movement itself leaves me straddling an uncomfortable fence.

I certainly understand the frustration of unemployed and disenfranchised people who have seen Wall Streeters getting bailed out with US tax dollars and then spending those relief dollars on lavish parties and million dollar bonuses. Not to mention that these are the same scoundrels who pumped up the housing bubble then pin-pricked it, making billions of dollars on both sides of the equation with their crappy mortgage-based derivatives.

If they were too big to fail.
They were probably too big to succeed as well.

Why is it that laissez-faire, free-market economics only applies to people and not to corporations?
Didn't the Supreme Court declare corporations are people too?

I saw firsthand how the government turned on the faucet and issued billion dollar checks to GM, Chrysler and AIG, but dragged their feet in bureaucratic quicksand when it came to adjusting the mortgage for my sister-in-law when she found herself underwater on her house.

And let's not even talk about greedy CEO's, including those in the ad business, who take home in one paycheck what many workers won't make in two to three years of working, often til midnight, and even more often on weekends.

It's more than a little disturbing.

But so is the rhetoric coming from the urban campers. Some of whom want to blame Jews and Israel for the current economic malaise. Others are calling for the outright redistribution of wealth. While others still are content to surf their $800 iPads all day with intermittent breaks for hacky-sack.

If what they want is greater regulation to curb corporate greed, to modestly increase the tax rate for billionaires and to put the brakes on government bailouts, then I'm all for it.

But what if the mob mistakes us 2% ers (those of us who have a little, not a lot, because we worked hard and made the right choices) for the 1% ers?

What if the angry, the unruly, and the unbathed start lighting torches and come knocking at my door to snag my flatscreen TV and my George Foreman Grill, which is great for making panini sandwiches? Well that's when I unstraddle the fence, put my mixed political feelings to the side and take to my roof with a bucket full of golf balls and my oversized Callaway Big Bertha driver. That's when I start swinging away.

And I won't be yelling, "Four!"

Kiss My Half

2011-11-08T06:20:00.000-08:00

Saw this the other day while stopped at a traffic light. I don't know if you can make it out, but there's a pink sticker right above the rear windshield washer blade. It says, "13.1"

In running parlance, thats the distance for a Half-Marathon. 13.1 miles is a long way to run. I know, because I've run the Santa Monica Half-Marathon on a few occasions. It's a good 2 & 1/2 half hours of non-stop chugging, grinding and re-adjusting of sneakers so as not to incur blisters. It's a lot of pain. A little less than half the pain it would take to run a Full Marathon.

And there-in lies the rub.

It's a half accomplishment and doesn't merit a trophy, a t-shirt or even a window sticker for your car. Why would you want to tell people you did half of something? Derek Jeter doesn't hit the showers after 4 &1/2 innings. Tom Brady doesn't call the shots for 30 minutes and then take the mike at the news conference, "I feel good, I went out there and gave it 55%."

There's no pride in doing something half-assed.

A couple of weeks ago, before my wife ran the Nike Women's Marathon for Leukemia in SF, she wavered and confessed, "Maybe I'll only do the half." That's when I dragged out some old Tony Robbins Motivational Tapes and convinced her that if she were only going to do half she might as well not do any.

I don't like half.
Never have.
Never will.
It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

It would be as if I started this rant about doing something halfway and

Animal House

2011-11-07T06:20:00.000-08:00

I left off last week with the story of the office building that inspired me to move to California.

Today I thought I'd share the tale of my transcontinental move and how I ended up here at the Pi Kappa Alpha Fraternity on the campus of UCLA. Although old time Bruins might remember this was originally the home of Alpha Epsilon Pi.

Let me also state upfront that I was never a frat boy and abhorred that whole cultish Greek society thing. The only reason I visited a fraternity house while in college was to drink their free beer and feign interest in their stupid club.

I knew from my summers at Syracuse that frat houses rented out rooms to boarders. It was easy way for Chip or Wentworth or Tadpole to put a little extra money in their pocket to purchase thesis papers from students who actually did the work.

With that in mind and with my parents already getting on my "OK, now you've graduated from college what are going to do with your life"ass, I packed a duffel bag, emptied out the bank account (that was a short process) and bought a one way plane ticket to El Lay.

I had no idea why I was moving to Los Angeles, other than it wasn't as cold as Syracuse, NY and it wasn't as dismal as Suffern, NY. I didn't have any job prospects and didn't know a soul in California. But none of that seemed to matter to a gung ho 22-year old kid.

Los Angeles had writing opportunities, beautiful blond shicksas, and beaches, and I wanted to be in the same zip code as all three.

Well, as anyone who watches Survivorman will tell you, shelter is the first priority. So I made my way from LAX to UCLA, where I had hoped to secure a boarding room. The problem was, school was still in session and would be for another month. None of the frat houses, and I trudged up and down Gayley Ave. to talk with every one of them, had any vacancies at the inn.

I was within a minute of snatching up a good sturdy cardboard box and making my home on the gritty, urban streets of Westwood.

But then I ran into Joe, the 75-year old groundskeeper at the former AEPi house. He was an old Jew from the Bronx who had shown promise as a welterweight boxer. Joe said I could have a room in three weeks and that until then I could sleep on a mattress on the roof of the building. For $75 I'd have a place to sleep, shower, and shave.

Notice I didn't say shit. The toilet facilities were so repulsive, I opted for the public bathroom at Sepi's Subs just down the street.

Here's what the rooftop of my first official California home looks like.

It wasn't bad sleeping under the stars. The temperature was mild, the campus was beautiful and the stars were plentiful. Sadly, however, no one had informed me about June Gloom -- a California Coastal condition that moistens everything in its path, including my sleeping bag, my clothes and my three pair of underwear.

My roof-sleeping, wet-clothes, no-pot-to-piss-in adventures didn't seem very amusing at the time. But it did to my father. Who said, with great Springsteen-like acuity, "Someday you'll look back on this and it will all seem funny."

West Side Story

2011-11-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

The other night I was watching Louie, one of the darkest and brightest shows on TV. I saw something I recognized. Not Louie, we all recognize him. And not the attractive dark-haired woman that Louie has no chance of bedding down. I recognized a building. The all-brick edifice in the background.

I know that building because I used to work there. At least for a couple of summers when I was a kid.
My father, however put in many, many years at that hellhole.

The address is 85 10th Ave. The former home of Brownell Electro.

My dad was the Comptroller and had some sway with the owners of the company, who agreed to put me on in the Accounts Receivable Department so I could earn money for college. Notice I didn't say extra money to buy beer and dope and such. But real money to pay for tuition, books and the cheapest meal plan available at Syracuse University.

If you're familiar with NYC you know this area has been quite gentrified. There's now an elevated walking park, where this scene was filmed and the building recently housed Craft, a genuine Tom Colichio restaurant. But when I worked there with my father, there wasn't a hipster to be found within a five mile radius.

It looked like some of the grittier scenes from the French Connection or Mean Streets. It was dumpy. It was dirty. And if you weren't smelling the carcasses from the nearby Meat District there was always the default odor of urine and the Hudson River.

Apart from Peggy Fernandez, my immediate supervisor, a short Puerto Rican woman with the largest boobs on earth who felt the need to press her flesh against me to explain the intricacies of cash flow management, there was nothing remotely positive about 85 10th Ave.

In fact, the third floor corner window (my father's actual office), which looks like someone giving an inverted bird, is an apt metaphor. And yet I owe that building so much.

You see, had the experience, the sunrise bus ride commute into the city, the foul smells, the fighting for oxygen, the dark, dank offices, the mind numbing work, the soul-sucking monotony, not been so unbearably miserable I might never had high-tailed it to California with nothing more than $99 in my pocket and the desire to be as far away from Accounting and Chelsea, NY as humanly possible.

So thank you 85 10th Ave.
And thank you Brownell Electro.
You might have taken my father's life and for that I'll never forgive you.
But you gave me my life and for that I'll never forget you.

This time it's real.

2011-11-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

Earlier this year I awarded myself a Gold One Show Pencil for work we did 10 years ago but never earned official recognition. I suspect many of us have stories about work that should have won awards, but never did. And the reasons are just as plentiful: mislabeled entry forms, biased judges, stingy financial officers, etc.

Take our ABC campaign. It cleaned up at every award show in the US, but failed to merit any attention at the Cannes Lion Festival. Later, I was to discover it was never even entered in that particular show because the humor was deemed too inside. Doh!

Sometimes even winning an award isn't winning an award.

Last year I was contacted by David Lee, TBWA's Digital Executive Creative Director. He needed someone to flesh out the writing on projeqt.com. It's a very cool site that can showcase the work of photographers, poets, musicians, architects, writers, anyone in need of a mixed media venue. I spent a couple of months helping him write and organize the material. The site went on to great success and was even mentioned in several magazines.

Several months ago it won a Silver Pencil at the One Show Awards.

Naturally, I was excited. Not only to win a prestigious award like a pencil but to do it in the digital arena, where so many assume a veteran like myself is like a fish out of binary water. The truth is I've seen what passes for "digital thinking" at many agencies and find it as inspiring as Windows 95.

Projeqt.com won an award, but I didn't. My name was never entered on the entry form. It turned out to be a clerical error.

Today, I'm happy to say that what was once wrong has now been righted, as you can see on the now-amended credits.

For $200 I can buy the double-ended metallic trophy that will collect dust in a bin buried in my garage. Right next to my Telly, my Andy, and my Lulu. Or I can take that same $200 and celebrate with my wife and a nice steak dinner at Maestro with multiple refills of small batch bourbon on the rocks.

Make mine medium rare, please.

Do you have soft stools?

2011-11-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

As chronicled in many earlier posts, I am easily amused.
I'll laugh at anything.
I've even sat through the Paul Blart movie with my daughters.

Advertising is a different story however, that's when I become a Taste Nazi. Perhaps it's because I've spent considerable time in the trenches. But if I see something crappy on TV or on the web or in a newspaper, I think of the ad agency involved and say to myself, "You have this big brand and this big opportunity and you waste an at bat on something like that?"

But let's get back to stools and the inspiration for today's post.

As anyone who writes a blog knows, it's fun to mine the analytics, just to see how many people are actually reading this tripe and where the traffic is coming from. Just like any small business owner would do with a software program detailing his or her sales volume and sales sources. Only in the case of a blog it's all done without any actual money changing hands.

Last week I noticed that considerable traffic was coming from djstools.com. Naturally I was curious. Turns out it's a European distributor of electronica. Why were Italian musicians looking for the latest offerings in amplifiers being routed to round seventeen? As someone in the IT department explained to me, it has something to do with a spambot.

I have no idea what a spambot is, I thought it was a Hawaiian breakfast treat. But I do know where to find the funny in any given situation. And let's face it, stools and anything stool-related is funny.

So I did what any 12-year old boy would do and found the US based stool store. Then I called the Madison, Wisconsin establishment at 1-608-271-4088 and spoke with a sales rep.

Me: I was looking at your website.

Salesman: Excellent we have a wide range of products to meet your every need.

Me: How big are your stools?

Salesman: They come in all sizes.

Me: And they have wheels?

Salesman: Some do, yes sir.

Me: That would make it easier to move my stools?

Silence

(me fighting back laughter)

Me: Do your moving stools come in brown?

Click.

It's now P60X

2011-10-31T06:36:00.000-07:00

Obviously, this is not a picture of me. I don't have a full head of hair. But my arms, back and chest, are beginning to show a resemblance. You know, if you squint your eyes and employ a little imagination.

Yesterday I officially, and faithfully, completed Phase One of the infamous P90X program.

I know you've all seen the infomercial. I know I have for the last five years or so. And have always been tempted to pick up the phone. Then we had one of my wife's publishers over for dinner. He was a recent graduate and was clearly sold on Tony Horton. By desert, I was too. He also convinced me to buy one of those plastic microwavable pasta boats, but that's a different story.

Within a week the DVD's arrived and I started pouring through the material. If you know me at all you know I have deep commitment issues. Once I'm in, I'm in up to my eyeballs. I cleared out half my garage, padded the floor with industrial rubber tiling and made several trips to the sporting goods store for resistance bands, dumbbells and a yoga mat.

That's right, a yoga mat.

Yoga is hardly the chosen sport of barrel-chested Scotsmen like myself. We're more given to throwing logs and tossing kegs. But it turns out stretching and yoga are essential components of the P90X program. I've even found that I'm actually better at some of the balance postures than our esteemed instructor. Though I could hardly be termed graceful on the mat.

My Downward Dog looks more like a Downward Armadillo.
And thirty days into the program I'm about as close to performing the Crane as the Israelis and the Arabs are to sharing a hookah and breaking some pita bread.

My favorite workout is the Kenpo X. Not surprising since the guy who helped Tony design the workout is Wesley Idol, who also teaches karate at the dojo where I once studied. If memory serves, Wesley is a third degree black belt. I think I sparred with him during our regular Wednesday Night fight classes. The instructors loved to throw the lower ranked belts (myself included) in with the guys wearing the black gees. They were quite sadistic. Wesley once caught me with a roundhouse kick to the ribs that separated me from oxygen for a month and a half.

So where am I at, you may ask. Well, at the end of a brutal Phase One, I'm down 6 pounds, lost an inch around my waist, gained an inch around my chest (not that I needed that) and feel stronger, more flexible and more athletically fit than I ever have -- except for the late 80's when I was doing triathlons.

I just saw the long range weather forecast for Southern California and they are predicting an unusually warm winter. That works out perfectly for me. Because after I complete the P90X program, I plan to go to work everyday in nothing more than my flip flops and a Speedo.

Sala-cious

2011-10-27T06:20:00.000-07:00

Today's post is about a neighbor. Not the people who live across the street from me, or the ones that live next door to me, or even my celebrity neighbor, M. Emmet Walsh, who lives in the house directly in back of me. I don't write about those neighbors, mostly because my wife forbids me to.

I'm talking about a blogosphere neighbor.

Her name is Laurenne and she writes an incredibly funny blog, humans are funny. She's also a copywriter and a competitor so I really have no business promoting her business as it is likely to take food off my table. But Laurenne has a huge number of followers and maybe if I write about her I can ride on her coattails and pick up some readers. (My understanding is that Judd Nelson is a follower of her blog.)

There's a couple of interesting things, actually more than a couple, you need to know about Laurenne. She writes about her vagina. A lot. That alone should have you checking out her blog immediately. And of course I mention that tidbit first because in accordance with the cardinal rule of journalism, "if it bleeds, it leads."

I can hear the groaning through the little speaker on my computer.

Another interesting factoid about Laurenne is that she co-hosts a monthly show in Hollywood called Taboo Tales, where-in courageous contributors reveal their most humiliating life experiences. She has asked me to take to the stage and regale the audience with the scintillating scatological details of my college days and my run-in with a fascist boarding house landlord. But there isn't enough Patron Silver in the 213 area code that will make that happen.

What I admire most about her is her age. More precisely, her lack of age.

I know I go on and on about the millennials and their unwarranted sense of entitlement. And I can get a little crotchety about their lack of professionalism, their sloppy work habits and their god-awful pretension. Not to mention their knit caps. And for the most part, my criticism is deadly accurate.

But Laurenne is the exception that rule. Unlike the many young posers in the ad business who think they're creative because they have a banner under their belt, Laurenne is genuinely talented. She might be half my age but has already found a distinctive writing voice that eludes many of us until we're saddled with a mortgage, a marriage and a couple of leeches...uh, kids.

I rarely write anything complimentary about anyone and I might be in danger of making Laurenne blush. But I'm willing to take that risk. She has after all told the story about a potential Italian husband who shit the bed silly.

So I'm pretty sure, that like myself, she lacks the gene for embarrassment.

Victor, you're fired

2011-10-26T06:46:00.000-07:00

If you've ever dealt with a rodent problem you are intimately familiar with this device. It was invented more than 100 years ago. And believe it or not is still the method preferred by professionals exterminators.

I know because years ago we had discovered mice in our attic.

Actually, there weren't mice, they were tree rats which raises the ick factor logarithmically. One of the screens to the crawl space had come ajar and the rats were entering, climbing up the interior pipes and nesting in the attic. Fortunately we were able to keep this news from my daughters otherwise we would have been forced to leave the house for an expensive stay at a nearby hotel.

The exterminators sealed the hole, set the traps and within a week we were rat-free. They also provided me with a half dozen of the pictured contraptions to set around the house, you know, just in case.

If you've ever tried to set one of these hair-trigger happy bastards up you know it's not that easy. And I'm sure you have the black and blue fingertips to prove it. Perhaps that is what gave birth to the aphorism: Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door.

The other day I was working on a script about the notion of better mousetraps (this is why I love what I do for a living) and came across what I believe to be, a better mousetrap. You don't have to buy it. Chances are you have the household items you need to build your very own.

Just ignore the rancid water if you can and admire the Maguyver-like construction.

The mouse, or tree rat, walks up the ramp and leans over to eat the peanut butter rubbed on the glass jar suspended by a common broom handle. The jar spins and the mouse or tree rat, unable to maintain its balance takes a swan dive into the 2 inch pool of water. Lacking the ability to swim or navigate the 90 degree slippery plastic surface, the disease-carrying rodent suffers a long and agonizing watery death.

It doesn't have the beauty of the classic spring loaded Victor.
But what it lacks in aesthetics, it more than makes up for in devilish simplicity.

Needless Hard-Ons & Tears

2011-10-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

Last week the agency I'm working at, RPA, threw a party to celebrate their 25th anniversary. It's a little ironic that I find myself working there now as this was the very first ad agency where I got my very first ad job.

At the time, they were Needham Harper & Steers. And I was hired to work in the mailroom, where we -- the over-educated/underemployed mailroom clerks -- called the agency Needless Hard-Ons & Tears.

The mailroom clerk position gets glamorized in many rags-to-riches movies, after all it's where many great captains of industry got their start. Everyone from Michael Eisner to Barry Diller to Simon Cowell. But make no mistake, it is a menial job with little pay and even less dignity. (This was a hard pill to swallow for a college graduate who thought his $30,000 sheepskin would garner more than 8 hours of moving boxes, resupplying the coffee machines and delivering mail to a bunch of overpaid "creative" types.)

But, as it turned out, the mailroom was a perfect place to learn the ad business. Particularly the part about having your dignity stripped away.

Years after pushing that damn cart around the office I had landed a real copywriter's job at the now-defunct Abert, Newhoff & Burr. And sold my first television spot for a car. And not just any car. This was a spot for the newest Japanese import, the three cylinder (that's no typo), fuel-injected Daihatsu. It wasn't so much a car as it was riding lawn mower with a glove compartment and a radio.

But that was hardly important. What was important was that my partner and I had sold a spot and our portfolios were about to grow by leaps and bounds. Or so we thought.

Having just finished my breakfast burrito and settled into video village for an exciting day of filming, I was approached by the Creative Director. He pulled me aside for what must have been a difficult chat.

C.D.: Listen, when the director starts blocking the shots and gets the camera rolling you're going to see some unfamiliar things.

Me: Unfamiliar? (this was my first real car shoot) How so?

C.D.: Well, there were some changes made to the script.

Me: Changes?

C.D.: The client requested some changes.

Me: OK, what changed?

C.D.: Everything.

Turned out the clever slice-of-life in a Daihatsu script we had written had been swapped for 27 seconds of running footage and a cheap rendition of a bad Julie Andrews song.

I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. And found myself yearning for the mailroom days when I still had a shred of dignity. Sensing my despair, the Creative Director found the only silver lining in the day.

C.D.: The craft service people are great. For lunch I hear we're having Chilean Sea Bass.

Matt Foley

2011-10-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

After I drop my girls off at St. Monica's Catholic High School -- just saying that still takes some getting used to -- I drive down 11th street towards Broadway towards RP&, where I am currently working a great long term gig. And every time I make this little jaunt through Santa Monica I spot this beat up old truck parked next to a car dealership.

Today, I decided it merited a photo.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that the Carpenter/Remodeler/Handyman who calls this his work truck also calls it his home. For one thing, the van doesn't move. And hasn't moved since my daughters started learning about the sacraments. The other reason, and this should seem self-evident, is I don't think this guy is getting a lot of work.

And I'm not saying that because the economy is bad or because out-of-control government spending in Greece has had a worldwide impact.

This is all about Marketing 101.

This guy, who lives in a van down by the ocean, could be God's gift to cabinetry. He could be a stud among 2x4 studs. He could be Bob Vila, Norm Abrams and Steve Maguyver all rolled up into one, ready to work his magic on any busted pipe, clogged up toilet or broken water heater in the 310 area code. But I doubt his phone is ringing.

And it's not because his AT&T bill is overdue.

I'm sure there are some pithy analogies to be made about myopic clients who similarly don't understand how a bad ad can be detrimental to their business and their brand. But I don't fight that fight anymore. The truth is I simply don't care. Oh I always try to do good, smart work, but if stupid clients want me to write stupid advertising to customers they assume are stupid, I'll gladly take their stupid money.

As for the apparently not-so-handy Handyman, I can only hope that he wakes up and sees the error of his ways. Until then, I've asked my daughters to say a couple of novenas on his behalf.

iLaugh

2011-10-20T06:36:00.000-07:00

I read a great story last week. Screenwriter and fellow Syracuse University alumni Aaron Sorkin remembered the time that he got a random phone call from Steve Jobs. Steve had called to commend him on the writing of The West Wing.

It made Sorkin's day and even led to highest of compliments, an invitation to write a Pixar movie.

I never wrote anything to merit a phone call from Steve Jobs, but I have it from a good source that he did enjoy one of the pieces from my portfolio.

You see Steve was good friends with my former boss Lee Clow, pictured here in front of the wall in his office with some of his favorite work. If you look right above Lee's left shoulder you can spot one of the outdoor boards I did for ABC. Here it is in a different format.

I don't know if Steve saw the reproduction on Lee's wall during a rare visit to the Playa Vista office or if he saw it San Francisco when the ABC work was in its heyday. I don't even know if Steve actually uttered the words, "that was one of the funniest lines in the campaign."

I only vaguely recall that Kristen, Lee's right hand woman, once told me something to the effect of "Steve really liked that line."

You take your flattery where you can get it.

That works for me.

I left my arch in SF

2011-10-19T06:55:00.000-07:00

Just got back from Costco where I picked up the jumbo 64 ounce container of Ben Gay.
It wasn't for me, it was for my wife.

Why?

Because this past weekend she did what she had previously thought impossible. She completed the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco. I know she thought she'd never live to see the day where she could proclaim, "I've run a marathon", because she was always in disbelief when she would see me at the finish line of the LA marathon.

"I don't know how you could do that."

Well, now she has the runner's badge of courage, a couple of lovely thick black toenails. And has gained entry into the exclusive 26.2 mile club. I couldn't be prouder of her.

But believe it or not, crossing the finish line is not the top story here. That honor belongs to a brave 11-year old boy, who fiercely battled and eventually succumbed to leukemia.

Let's turn the clock back a few years when our neighbors suggested we hire their nanny and housekeeper, Sylvia, who was looking to earn extra money. Deb and I were working and we needed the extra help around the house.

Sylvia arrived at her house with her son, David, in tow. He was a smiley young boy with a penchant for soccer and video games. From his affable demeanor you'd never know he was fighting a life-threatening disease. But he was so we did everything we could to brighten his day.

I dusted off the PlayStation 2, which never got much use in my house of Estrogen, and secured as much Sony swag (from friends at Chiat/Day) to give to David. So while his mom scoured every corner of our house, David planted himself in front of the TV and found himself in a little bit of temporary heaven.

And temporary it was.

Up and down rounds of chemo and radiation took its toll on his formerly stout body. That led to all night vigils at Children's Hospital and then a fate no parent, no less a single mother from El Salvador struggling to make ends meet, should ever face.

Fast forward a couple of years and Sylvia, a woman strengthened by the experience, found herself enrolling in the Team in Training to run a race to benefit the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Needing running mates, she enlisted my wife and our neighbor Kirsten as well.

Well, the finish line has been crossed, the epsom salts have been purchased and thousands of dollars have been raised. But, if you'll excuse the clicheed writing, the race is not over.

There are other Davids and other Sylvias out there. And their stories deserve a happier ending.

Please make a donation at http://pages.teamintraining.org/los/nikesf11/sjustinian

Play Ball

2011-10-18T06:11:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it, I'm a fair weather baseball fan.

Put a baseball game on the TV in the middle of May and I'm more likely to switch the channels to the Home Shopping Network or that odd infomercial for the Trojan Vibrator, the one that "blows your hair back."

But come October and the Division Series, the Championship Series and the World Series and I hang on every word uttered by Tim McCarver. I love the action, I love the nail biting drama and I love the convoluted strategy.

Safety squeezes, pitchouts, running on 2-0 count. I can't get enough of it. It's all so heady. It's the athletic equivalent of chess. Played by a bunch of lunkheads who chew tobacco, light each shoes on fire and wet towel snap each other in the locker room without a hint of homo-erotica.

Last week, we had an Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher named Putz.
And this week, I was happily introduced to the hard-throwing Doug Fister.

I'm going to tread lightly here because this is -- with few minor exceptions -- a G-rated blog and when discussing the practice of fisting and those who are fisters it's too easy to slip into no man's land. Let's just say that when Fister is on the mound I pay special attention and I am on Defcon 5 for any mishandled puns or slips of the tongue.

Speaking of slips of the tongue, I'm pulling for the Cardinals. I hear they're pulling up a utility 3rd baseman from the Toledo Mud Hens in the AA league. His name is Steve Felcher.

Soulless

2011-10-17T06:44:00.000-07:00

Spotted this bumper sticker the other day. It wasn't the first time I had seen it, but part of me wishes it were the last. I have been meaning to jump on these Pro-Drum activists ever since the start of the hunger crises in Darfur.

Look at this clown in the picture. Not only does he have a dozen freshly minted bumper stickers to get the pressing needs of organic drummers out there, he's got the 100% cotton T-shirt that amplifies his ardent feelings.

Now you can call me tone deaf. I don't see or hear a world of difference between a hand-made Pearl High Hat and it's electronic equivalent.

But Rich, I can hear you say, surely there must a hundred other worthwhile topics to rant about than those who despise drum machines. And that is exactly my point.

There are a hundred other rant-worthy topics and this guy, and his ilk, ought to look into some of them.

There are children starving and tribal ethnic cleansing going on in Africa, there is institutional oppression of women and Non-Muslims on the Asian Subcontinent, there is the widening gap between the obscenely wealthy and the obscenely poor, there is pollution, there is violence, there is the depletion of our natural resources, there is a host of problems all worthy of a movement.

And all of them of them are infinitely more important than the flitterings of the percussion-obsessed.

While drum machines may have no soul, neither do the people who are so fervently opposed to them.

Two Things Jews Don't Do

2011-10-13T06:03:00.000-07:00

Today we feature another installment in my long running series of Things Jews Don't Do.

Recently, I've decided to supplement my daily swimming and running routine with some weight lifting. I've been doing a lot of reading about the beneficial aspects of pull ups but had no place for a chin up bar in my garage. I went online and found a lot of suggestions for mounting a chin up on the ceiling or with a wall mount.

Unfortunately, most of those involved drilling, measuring and lag bolts. Generally, if I hear the words lag bolts, I run the other way. And I have the poorly patched drywall holes to prove it.

Then I came across this unique and deceivingly simple solution (see above) that takes advantage of the rafters that span across the garage. It is a perfect example of quintessential American ingenuity using nothing more than a little imagination and some dirt cheap steel piping.

I hopped in the car, ran to Home Depot and quickly purchased 6 3/4" elbows, 2 3" nipples (their terminology not mine), 2 10" pieces, 2 4" pieces and one 36 inch bar of 3/4" pipe. Total cost: $29.71.

Within minutes I was home and had successfully recreated the apparatus.

A testament to simplicity, this could very well be the first and only home improvement project that did not require two, and many times three, return trips to the Home Depot.

Tomorrow, the next chapter in Things Jews Don't Do:
A proper military-style chin up.

Branding 101

2011-10-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

Last week I ran into my old partner at temple. I didn't recognize him at first because I didn't know he was a member of my congregation and also because there are business colleagues I only associate with business. It's a matter of context.

In any case, he's now some bigwig with one of the holding companies. No need for names because, well, I don't need to give anyone a reason to blacklist my name for any future assignments. I'm sure I'm persona non-grata in plenty of places, thank you very much.

Years ago I was working on a freelance assignment at this unnamed agency. The art director and I presented a bunch of concepts to the previous Creative Director. He liked many of them but selected three for further development. Then he told us that the agency had been very successful beta-testing a new software program called Alpha One which tested creative ideas for efficiency and message resonance.

"Really?" I said.

"Really." He replied.

So, he added, can you go back and rewrite these ideas and mention the client's name within the first 7 seconds of the commercial?

"You're shitting me, right? I said.

"Not shitting you." He replied.

Adding, it would be better if you could mention the client name in the first 5 seconds.

It's funny how little we have learned from Steve Jobs, the greatest marketing visionary to ever wear a client hat. Imagine if the "1984" spot had been put to the Alpha One test. We wouldn't be talking about it. Same thing for the Apple's 1998 "Think Different" campaign. In fact, the same applies to every commercial that has ever made its way into your memory vault.

Had I a set of balls and not a looming mortgage/car/tuition/insurance payment due I would have simply followed the Creative Director's logic to its logical conclusion and brought him back an
Alpha One-friendly script like:

Open on art card of (Client's name).

Cut to a man and woman talking at a restaurant.

MAN: Client's name client's name client's name?

WOMAN: Client's name!

MAN: Client's name client's name client's name Client's name client's name client's name Client's name client's name client's name.

WOMAN: Client's name.

SUPER: Client's name.

Cut to plane dragging a banner across the sky.

BANNER: Client's name.

WOMAN: Oh client's name.

TAG: We're not just (insert industry type), we're Client's name.

WTF

2011-10-11T06:14:00.000-07:00

Read enough business books and you'll stumble across this golden nugget of wisdom, "aspire to be the dumbest person in the room." That is hardly a difficult task when planners/strategists/Chief Experiential Innovation Officers put up slides like the one pictured above.

Can somebody please explain this to me?

There are six arrows, four ovals and a gay three-dimensional, five-layered pyramid that defies all logic and reason. And I haven't even mentioned the two acronyms, the multicolored type and the ridiculous redundancies.

Isn't Assessment the same as Findings of fact and opinion?
Isn't Analysis the same as Experimental Observations?

Surely there must have been a simpler way of saying what this chart (?) intends to say. Something with one simple circle or a triangle or even a nice parallelogram. I would suggest an alternative, but frankly I don't know what the hell chart intends to say.

I do know that the person who prepared this had something very important in mind. Seriously, look at the carefully drawn light streaks on the left side of the pyramid. That's some impressive shading. Same goes for the strategically-placed ovals that seem to pop off the page. I had no idea that art was part of the current MBA curriculum.

And yet still after laborious assessment and analysis the only insight I have gained is that I am an incurable Luddite.

Perhaps the pundits are correct. The problem with the American economy is that we have become a nation of marketers and information shufflers. We have stopped making things. We don't manufacture anything of any value to anyone, anymore.

Of course, if you needed to document that monumental decline with a snappy pie chart or a trapezoid, well, we could have that to you before noon.

He's such a Putz

2011-10-10T06:46:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned before, you can count me among the easily amused.

The other night, for instance, I had to fiddle with the DVR to get just the right shot of this young man, a relief pitcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks with the sad surname of Putz.

I can count on one hand the number of Yiddish words that have successfully slipped into our vernacular. Putz, schmeckel and schmuck come to mind. I'm sure there are a dozen more, but I'm writing this on the morning of Yom Kippur, I have no food in my belly (and won't until sundown) and in a couple of hours I will have to slap on the monkey suit and sit in shul goose-stepping to a God I don't believe in.

If you're that interested get off your tuchas and look up your own Yiddish words.

I can't imagine the grief J.J. Putz took growing up with such a last name. Particularly since he pursued a career in the testosterone-fueled world of athletics. Maybe it wasn't so bad in Michigan, where Putz grew up. After all he was named Mr. Baseball. And Midwesterners, like my Minnesota-born wife, are so notoriously nice.

But in 2009, Putz was traded to the NY Mets. Meaning he played in Flushing, my old neighborhood. Which also means he came under the careful scrutiny of the NY Post reporters, who can mercilessly spin a good headline.

That must have been tough. But I'm sure J.J. handled it all with aplomb. After all, by this time in his career I'm sure Putz has developed a thick skin.

You know you want it.

2011-10-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

Last week I shared the story of Sandee Westgate and one of the last Taco Bell commercials we filmed at Chiat/Day. And to lure you in I baited the hook with an almost-NSFW shot of her from Google images. Well, the traffic numbers have been analyzed and let's just say you people are driven by base instincts.

In that light here's another story about my brush up with the porn world. And by the way, if you live in Los Angeles, even if you're a Southern Baptist, home-schooling, tomato-canning survivalist, you're within 6 degrees of fornication of the porn world.

In March of 2009 I was hired to be the Interim Creative Director at DIRECTV, in charge of their Tier 3 and Tier 4 communications. It was FSI's, local dealer inserts, newspaper ads, the kind of stuff that is frankly more useful as kitty litter lining than meaningful persuasion. But it was a good day rate, a long term gig and we, the country, were in the middle of a financial crisis.

I was happy to take their money and churn out the kind of punny work that so easily passes for clever.

It wasn't very challenging but it was interesting to immerse myself into the client environment. I think all ad agency creatives should do this so they get a proper perspective on what it means to actually work.

Everyday I would show up at the corporate headquarters in El Segundo with hundreds of DIRECTV staffers. They were always dressed up. They didn't show up with their dogs. They didn't ride Razors down the hallways. And when you'd walk by their cubicle, they weren't shopping on Zappos or Facebooking or playing Snood, they were nose-deep in spreadsheets, analysis reports and sales charts.

I never knew what any of it meant but the results speak for themselves. DIRECTV is the number one provider of satellite TV service. They are the market driven kingpins. They are meticulous and leave no trend or percentage point or customer comment card unturned. It's all about the details.

Which is all the more fascinating when you consider that they have an entire team committed to bringing you the finest in adult entertainment. As my buddy Jeff pointed out, a significant portion of DIRECTV's revenue stream comes from channels 593-599, the pay per view porn.

"Ever push the button for the 7th floor? You can't go there unless you have a certain key card. That's where the porn people work", Jeff added.

That's when it struck me that everything I was seeing on the fourth floor was being duplicated on the seventh. Dedicated professionals striving, fighting, aching to do their best and make a career for themselves in the efficient delivery and distribution of smut.

I hate status meetings, but oh what I would have given anything to sit in on one of theirs.

"Where are we with the new MILF movies?"

"I just got off the phone with Vivid. Next month they're releasing Housewives Gone Wild 14 and Cougars and Corndogs."

"Good. Dennis, I'm seeing a 2.3% revenue drop in Legal and Latino. What's going on?

"My team is digging into the ASI reports as we speak and we have some focus groups scheduled in Houston, Detroit and Des Moines."

"Alright let's get to bottom of that. Liz, I understand you've got a new poster for the new Sappho series?"

"We have it as a pdf. I'll put it up on the powerpoint so everyone can see it."

"That's nice. Good work. One thing though. That dildo looks a little small. Anybody else think that?"

Murmur, murmur, murmur.

"Can we make that cock 10% bigger? Can we do that?"

Risky Business

2011-10-05T06:26:00.000-07:00

Spotted at the Waterpark Office Complex in Santa Monica.

I almost didn't see the abysmal rating until I overheard two women who had made a beeline for the exit when they saw the "C" rating. You have to be awfully hungry and lacking for choice before you sit your ass down for a Cobb Salad at a place that has barely earned the right to keep their doors open.

Getting a "C" is not like getting a "C" in Geometry because you momentarily forgot the Pythagorean Theorem or a "C" in English because you dangled a participle. The restaurant grading system is far more lenient. In the name of commerce it has to be. In reality an "A" is "B", a "B" is a "C" and a "C" is "let's go eat somewhere else, somewhere free from vermin infestation."

I know this because I paid my way through college, and a few misguided years after college, as a short order cook/saucier/line cook/ and chef apprentice. I've seen the inside of restaurant kitchens and if you've seen what I've seen, you'd opt for a Swanson's HungryMan Meal 7 days a week.

Before I entered advertising, I was the Head Cook and Kitchen Manager at a steakhouse in West. LA.

In addition to the great ribs and steaks, we catered wrap parties for movies including PolterGeist and the original Twilight Zone. On one particular weekend, the delivery guys had just dropped off a month's worth of dry goods: linens, condiments, and non-refrigerated produce. That afternoon I ripped open a 50 lbs. box of extra-large Idaho baking potatoes. As I tore the cardboard flap open, a potato-sized rat darted across my hand and scurried out into the restaurant. I didn't know what the hell had just happened. It was like a potato had sprouted legs and sprinted from the box like Carl Lewis.

I almost had a heart attack. At the ripe age of 23.

For the next hour, Valentino, Abel, Fernando, Paco and I, with broomsticks in hand, chased that wily rat to no avail. In the following weeks we were to find out the rat was not only wily, but pregnant. In two months time we had more rats than we had customers. They were behind the drywall. On the ceiling. One even bolted across the dining room floor, in the middle of Happy Hour.

Which didn't make anyone happy.

The restaurant, like most restaurants, didn't last much longer.
But through it all, we never had a Health Inspection rating lower than a "B".

Press lightly on the gas pedal

2011-10-04T06:20:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning my oldest daughter will be taking a test to get her driving learner's permit. And though I've invested a few hundred dollars for her to take a course to prepare for the test, I am secretly hoping she fails.

I'm just not ready to hand her the keys to a car. Ok, today's cars don't actually use keys, but I think you get my drift.

I'm still not comfortable with the fact that she wears a bra. With two teenage daughters and a wife, there's enough bras in my house to outfit a nunnery. I can't pull a pair of socks out of the dryer without getting my hand snagged in a Maidenform. What has my life become?

If by some circumstance she does manage to pass the test my next task will be to hire a surrogate father. You see, I know myself. I know my short temper. I know that at the very first incident that requires hard braking, my right foot will go through the floorboards on the passenger side of my precious Lexus.

My father had the same self-awareness.

He relinquished that responsibility to Coach Brentnall, who supplemented his high school teacher's salary moonlighting as a Driver's Ed teacher during the summer. Of all the coaches, Coach Brentnall was perhaps the best natured. He never had much use for me on the football, soccer or baseball fields -- the only sport I excelled in was water polo -- but he liked having me in the back seat of the 72 Chevy Impala, if only to add some levity to what was always a dangerous adventure.

My memory may be a little off, but I'm pretty sure one of the girls in the class hit a deer while we learning how to execute a proper three point K-turn. It was either a deer or a freestanding mailbox that looked like a deer. In either case it brought great laughter from those of us seated in the back.

In retrospect, the '72 Chevy Impala might be the perfect driver ed vehicle.

It didn't have airbags or energy absorbing crumple zones. It didn't have a collapsible steering column or a Blind Spot Detection System. It had seatbelts for 6 passengers, but in those days we couldn't be bothered by seatbelts. But what it lacked in today's modern safety measures it more than made up for in Bethlehem's finest. Because the '72 Chevy Impala was 4,342 pounds of rolling Grade A galvanized steel, impervious to anything but a direct hit by a Mack Truck.

I know my daughter has something sportier in mind for her first car, but I think I'll start scouring the pages of autotrader.com for an old road-hogging Impala.

I'll let her pick the color.

We don't do raises anymore

2011-10-03T06:35:00.000-07:00

Here's a universal truth about labor: if you're not in management the economy is always bad.

I've been around the working world long enough to see several economic cycles. The recession of the early 90's was followed by the boon of the dot.com era. President Clinton even managed to erase the deficit and, in addition to a Smithsonian-worthy blue dress, he produced a budget surplus.

The early 2000's saw the economy go in the shitter again. And again, it rose from the ashes. With unemployment levels hovering around 5%.

The current recession, which started in 2008 shows no sign of relenting. And management hopes it never does. Because with unemployment high and headlines of fiscal doom choking our newspapers, they have everything they need to cart out the old, "we're in belt-tightening mode."

But can anybody remember or tell me when their employer wasn't in "belt-tightening mode"?
Like god-awful rap music it seems like it's here to stay.

Years ago during one of the boon times, I held a pretty senior position with one of the big holding companies, I'll leave them unnamed because occasionally I still feed at their trough. I was Senior VP of whoseywhatsits. It was impressive for about half a second. I remember telling my mother about my new title. She yawned over the phone. And pressed on with her more riveting story about winning $600 at Bingo that week.

Having served faithfully for more than 20 months under this burdensome title and won two National Effies for my efforts, I approached my boss with the notion of a bonus and a pay raise. The idea was floated back to the NY mothership and summarily rejected within 48 hours.

"We don't have the money," I was told with a straight face.

One week later, Adweek spelled out the details of a proposed bonus package under consideration for the CEO of that same unnamed holding company. For holding the line on costs and eliminating redundant employees, he was handed a check for $120 million.

Now $120 million is just a pittance compared to the bonuses brought home by the boys at Goldman Sachs.
But it's still $120 million.

I was hoping for a simple 5% bump. In other words, a relatively tiny pittance of his pittance.

There's a great Yiddish saying that sums all this up:
Don't pee on my back and tell me it's raining.

Tijuana Ass

2011-09-29T06:30:00.000-07:00

I just took a little inventory and it appears I haven't written about Israel in well over a month. But I did pass this sign the other day on my way to work and it got me thinking.

Mostly about the stupid clods at the New Roads School who want to equate legitimate self defense with the barbaric practice of firing unguided missiles across a sovereign border with the intention of killing innocent civilians.

I'm sure the Prius-driving administrators at New Roads would argue that the two parties are involved in a senseless cycle of violence. And I'd agree it is senseless and it is violent. But it is not a cycle. The mayhem is instigated by the Palestinians. And any spilled blood is on the hands of Hamas, not the IDF.

How can I be so sure of this?

William Shakespeare once said, "the past is prologue."
So let's look there.

In 1994, Israel signed a peace treaty with Jordan. The two countries have been at peace since then. There have been no Jordanian attacks on Israel. And likewise there have been no reprisals. Why? Because it is not in Israel's self-interest to disturb that peace. Or act outwardly aggressive. And because Israel respects a peace treaty.

Likewise with Egypt.

That treaty was signed in 1979 and Israel has not acted aggressively since. In fact, the Israelis acted with great restraint when their embassy (which is technically Israeli land) was attacked by peace-loving Egyptians. If violence were to increase on the southern border I would hope Israel would capture the Sinai for the third time. And never give it back.

So we know what the teachers at New Roads apparently do not. We know the Israelis are capable and willing to act peacefully and neighborly. In the 63 years since the UN declared Israel a legitimate state, the Palestinians have not.

I'd like to see the word count on this sign reduced by 25%.

Fireworks hailing over little Eden

2011-09-28T06:19:00.000-07:00

This photo will have to do.

I just spent the last hour combing through hundreds of old pictures looking for the 5X7 of myself and Miss Sandee Westgate on the set of a Taco Bell commercial we shot in 2002. If I remember correctly, I had more hair and Sandee had less Sandee.

The commercial was about Taco Bell's 59 cent tacos. Odd how nearly ten years later you can still get a taco at Taco Bell for 59 cents. The spot involved a slacker guy and his fantasy of sitting in the back of a limo and being hand fed tacos by two, how shall I phrase this...bimbos. (Sandee, if you happen to Google your name and come across this blog I apologize in advance. If it's any consolation, you were the nicer of the two...uh, women.)

The commercial was written by one of our junior writers but the casting session required the seasoned leadership of myself and my partner. It was a grueling 10-hour day, but it was the kind of day that made you happy you worked in advertising and not as a foreman at a flange manufacturing plant.

Of course once Sandee and her cohort were selected things got real interesting.

The client, located in Irvine which is now Tea Party country, wanted to make sure the two women were clean and had no record of immoral behavior. They even went so far as to suggest that we hire a private investigator to check out their backgrounds. And after extensive investigation, both women turned up clean. One might say, surprisingly clean.

That was then, this is now.

If you were to find a dark secluded room in your office, turn on the private browsing and explore her website you'd see that Sandee's acting/modeling career has taken some very interesting twists and turns. In fact, if you spring for the 8.99 monthly membership you can enjoy watching her Taco Bell get rung. (rimshot please.)

Oh, don't forget to clear your browser history.

Grumpy McGrumpster

2011-09-27T06:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what this picture has to do with the today's topic but I stumbled across it when I Googled images for "Creative Director" so I am sure I'll find some kind of stretched metaphor at the end to tie it all together.

But today I'd like to talk about Creative Directors or at least the twentysomething year old kids who so liberally flaunt that title.

Have you seen an ad agency org. chart these days? In addition to Creative Directors, there are Group Creative Directors, Executive Creative Directors, and Chief Creative Officers. And then there's the digital folks who have their own twisted nomenclature.

The bureaucracy is so thick, Madison Avenue has become K Street (the search engine is in the upper right hand corner of your browser.)

In my day (and yes I'm very aware of how dated that makes me sound, but I don't give a rat's ass because the casual sprinkling of obscenities makes me appear fucking younger) titles meant something because they were earned.

It took me 15 years to work my way up from Mailroom Clerk to Media Estimator to Junior Copywriter to Recruitment Copywriter to Copywriter to Senior Copywriter to Associate Creative Director to Creative Director. Yes, I worked hard. But I also got incredibly lucky. My most visible, well-known campaign almost died at 2 AM the night before the presentation. And even after 15 years, I still had no clue how to manage a creative department. In fact, I sucked.

Now I see kids graduating from VCU or Miami on a Monday, get a job on Tuesday, produce a crappy banner ad on Thursday and demand a promotion on Friday. That may be a bit hyperbolic but it's not that far off the mark. If you were to pump me full of Noah's Mill bourbon I might even name names. Or at least slur them.

But it's a Saturday morning and my better angels have the last word on this matter. Of course you could do your own litmus test. Next time you're at a party or some awards show and you run into some millennial who fancies himself or herself a Creative Director, ask them what famous work they've done. When you hear the crickets, that's your cue to excuse yourself for another Gin Rickey.

Now I've boxed myself into a corner with no smooth transition to a snappy ending that explains the Hitler/Chaplin visual.

Awww shitsticks!

Shabbat Shalom

2011-09-26T06:15:00.001-07:00

I was at Cedar Sinai hospital the other day visiting my uncle after his hip replacement surgery. Before boarding the elevator I noticed this little gem.

For those who don't know, this stems from a rather arcane adherence to the ancient Sabbath laws which prohibit all manner of work including, apparently, the pushing of an elevator button.

I'm not religious in any sense of the word but I appreciate the sentiment behind mandatory rest. We all work too hard and get caught up in our responsibilities. And it is a good idea to take a day to slow down and retreat from our labor. But in whose crazy book is it written that the pushing of a button amounts to work?

The truth is while you're reading this on Monday, I'm writing this on Saturday. Of course, I don't view this type of writing as work, so I'm not in any violation. But if I were to mention that right now you can lease a Lexus RX 350 with All Wheel Drive and available Blind Spot Detection Display for $429 a month, well that would be work.

Do you see how thin the line is?

How difficult it must have been 5000 years ago for those old Talmudic rabbis to decide the proper code of conduct on the Sabbath.

As Rabbi Eliazar saith: ...and so it is agreed that the 5th rib of the sacrificial goat shall be eaten only on Wednesday and only during a Harvest Moon. And only by members of the Levite tribe. Rabbi Gamiel I believe you have something to say.

Rabbi Gamiel: We are but poor men but wealthy in the wisdom of the Torah. We are not soothsayers. But what if in the future, the Lord, blessed be he, were to construct a large edifice. And in that edifice doctors and caregivers would nurse our ill and elderly.

Rabbi Josiah: Yes, that would be wonderful.

Rabbi Gamiel: And what if in that edifice there were a magic box that would transport visitors to the any level of that edifice.

Rabbi Akeebah: Oh the Lord doth bless the children of Israel.

Rabbi Gamliel: Yes, but to make the magic box work one might have to hit a tiny button.

Rabbi Eliazar: I see no problem with a button.

Rabbi Gamliel: But what if one were to push that button on a Saturday?

Rabbi Akeebah: On the Sabbath?

Rabbi Gamliel: Yes, but it was to visit a sickly loved one.

Rabbi Josiah: On the Sabbath!!! The Holy Sabbath?

Rabbi Gamliel: Yes. But did I mention they were sick?

And with that the other rabbis smote Rabbi Gamliel to death with their kiddush cups. Because he was contrarian, even for a Jew, and because he chewed his food with his mouth open.

My gay clothes

2011-09-22T06:55:00.000-07:00

I dropped my uncle off at Cedars Sinai Hospital yesterday. He's there to have a hip replacement. The surgery went well and now he has a long road of recovery ahead of him.

Naturally, I'll be there to help. Not only because he's family and it's the right thing to do, but also because I owe him. Big time.

You see, my uncle who happens to be gay, used to work in the finance department at Saks Fifth Ave. My brother and I, who are not gay, were often on the receiving end of lavish sartorial gifts from the Young Man's Department at Saks. I can't tell you how often my uncle would visit on birthdays, or on Chanukah, bearing boxes of handsomely-boxed and meticulously-wrapped cashmere sweaters, tweed sport coats and 100% wool slacks.

On my 9th birthday I was hoping to get an official Spaulding Mickey Mantle outfielder's glove. But Saks Fifth Avenue didn't have a sporting goods department, so instead I got a turtleneck sweater that would not fit over my watermelon-sized head.

Needless to say, my brother and I were dungarees guys. And never fashion forward. So all these fancy-pants clothes never got worn. Maybe once on Yom Kippur or when some aunt died, but very rarely. They went into a bag with lots of mothballs and were never seen again.

Of course, when my uncle would visit my mother would ask us to put on the itchy pants and sweaters, but we never did. And my uncle never batted an eye or made any further inquiry. I suppose that small collection of fashionable clothing tucked away in the back of the closet was the original incarnation of "don't ask, don't tell."

Dog Snot and other nonsense

2011-09-21T06:16:00.000-07:00

Call me paranoid but I don't use my mailbox for anything but receiving anymore. Years ago some utility payments were stolen from my outbox and since that time I've taken to using the US government issued blue box located a few blocks from my house.

Taking the bills down to the mailbox gives me a good excuse to escape the often raging hormones in my house as well an opportunity to walk the dog.

The other night, while mailing out some invoices -- is there anything better than billing someone for services rendered? -- I noticed a young guy with a stack of flyers and a staple gun. After I deposited the envelopes in the box he started walking my way. He bent over to pet Nellie then offered to give me a card.

"Sorry", I said, "I didn't hear you."

"Let me give you my card" he replied, "I'm a professional dogwalker."

OK, I thought, but I was actually walking my dog. I didn't know I needed the services of someone to do the very thing I was doing at the time. In fact, I thought I had been doing a damn fine job of walking the dog. I let her mark bushes. I pick up her poop. And by the time she gets home she's huffing and puffing and wearing what appears to be a dog smile.

I circled the block thinking how odd it was that people were creating jobs for themselves by doing mundane activities which under normal circumstances could easily be done by the potential employer. It's as if I were to walk into a pizza joint, approach a family and offer to help finish their hot pepperoni pie.

"I'm a professional pizza slice eater" I would explain.

Then I took a closer look at the young man's flyer. Turns out he's Certified and Insured to perform CPR on a dog. I had no idea. In the nine years I have been walking my dog, not once has she started choking or required anything resembling the Heimlich Manuever. Though once, with lightening-fast quickness, she did snag a squirrel in her mouth.

So as a precaution I've gone online and learned the proper method for administering CPR to my dog. It involves holding the dog's mouth closed and then putting a lip lock on the dog's wet, poop-sniffing nostril. The practice is so gross the woman in the youtube video did it on a K-9 doll.

I'm sorry Nellie but if a Kibble or a Bit goes down the wrong wind pipe, you're on your own.

Hanging Ten with Lee Clow

2011-09-20T06:06:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I posted a youtube video that I had stumbled across while putting off the task of writing body copy for a newspaper ad. I don't know how we used to procrastinate before we had the Internet. I suppose we would just talk with colleagues or jealously thumb our way through awards annuals. I don't see a lot of the latter these days.

Our other favorite form of procrastination was pranking.

Of course this was before the advent of the big holding companies, when rocking the boat was the status quo and eccentricity in all its odd forms was nurtured. Drunken creatives were allowed to get drunk. Whiners were allowed to whine. And non-bathers were allowed to foul the air with their personal stank, as long as they produced award-winning work.

This was when advertising was fun. And HR people knew how to look the other way.

Back to the pranking. Early in the summer of 1992 Chiat had just hired a young talented writer from NY. Mind you, this was a time when Chiat/Day didn't have any juniors. When I say a young writer I mean someone who had already paid some real dues, done some real ads and won some real awards.

Like anyone at the time, he was honored to be joining such elite company. He was also a little awestruck. He couldn't get over the fact that he was in the same building as Lee Clow.

But as we were all to learn in a company with so many pranksters, it's never a good idea to show any weakness.

His new partner immediately seized the moment and snagged some official Lee Clow stationary. He carefully mimicked Lee's distinctive handwriting style and left this note (see above) on the young writer's desk. The next morning, Josh (he gave me permission to tell this story) could not contain himself. He must have racked up a few hundred dollars in long distance calls, telling anyone and everyone on the East Coast of his impending man date with The Bearded One.

For the next week, Josh tailed Lee everywhere he went inside the agency, never mentioning the note and appearing too forthright but not wanting to miss that possible impromptu moment when Lee would blink a few times and lean over and say, "I hear there's some 8-footers at El Porto."

I don't remember how Josh found out he had been punked but I do remember that for a week I, and many others in the Creative Department, had to walk around the place with a clenched jaw so I wouldn't laugh and give up the gag.

The irony here is that had Josh really wanted to surf with Lee all he had to do was ask. Lee probably would have said no, but not for any of the reasons you might suspect. And this is the part that surprises most, you see for all the mythology that surrounds the man, Lee Clow is still incredibly approachable.

He still puts his flop flops on one flip flop at a time.

Thanks go out to Josh Gold for allowing me to share this story. Make sure you check out his new film at http://www.saltaddsflavor.com/dayatthepool/

Land of the rising...

2011-09-19T06:07:00.001-07:00

Many of you will recognize this derriere belonging to Scarlet Johannsen. It was lovingly captured in the opening credits of Lost in Translation, which some may argue is a chick flick. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it.

The film chronicles the exploits of a man, played brilliantly by Bill Murray, on a business trip and the strange environment he finds himself in, complete with odd food, odd customs, and odd stocking fetishes.

In the past 20+ years in advertising I've worked on every one of the major Japanese auto companies accounts, Lexus, Nissan, Infiniti, Toyota, Honda and Acura. If memory serves, and often it doesn't, I've also worked on Suzuki, Mitsubishi and Daihatsu.

In all that time, I have never been invited to visit the factory or summoned to a business meeting on the other side of the pond, the big pond, the Pacific.

I'm told it's quite an adventure. After the umpteenth viewing of Lost in Translation with my wife, I expressed my desire to visit Japan. My wife, who can see through me like a sheet of single ply toilet paper, laughed and said, "You're just dreaming of running into your own Scarlet Johannsen and fantasizing about some fantastically impossible May/December type fling on the other side of the international dateline."

And then she added, with cutting accuracy, "I tell you what. If you find some lonely 24-year old American woman with breathtaking beauty and a body to match who wants to climb aboard the Rich Siegel train with its unwanted hair and excessive flatulence, well then by all means you should do more than give her a kiss and whisper something in her ear."

Ouch, I said, reeling from the 1-2 combination of sarcasm and insight.

But I got off the mat and brought her to my computer to show her the real, OK one of the real, reasons why I want to visit the island nation.

And make sure you watch the video past the 41 second mark.

Call of Doodie

2011-09-15T06:25:00.000-07:00

Last week TBWA Chiat/Day got the call no agency wants to get. They were relieved of their duties on Call of Duty and the account was going to a rival agency. All of which makes little sense, particularly considering the stellar spot, with Kobe Bryant, Jimmy Kimmel, et al, they had produced earlier in the year that resulted in millions of sales.

But as the saying goes, "no good deed goes unpunished."

There's another more applicable maxim, taught to me by my old boss David Murphy, when El Pollo Loco started courting a new agency after we had delivered a yearly increase of 13.8% in sales,
"Fuck them."

I am no stranger to the strange antics of Activision, the publishers of Call of Duty.

Years ago, I was brought in to conceptualize ideas for a Guitar Hero Super Bowl spot. This was a huge assignment and the agency pulled out all its guns, including teams from Chicago, NY and LA. Hundreds of creatives, most of them younger than me and most of them -- unlike myself -- residents of the gaming world.

Undaunted, and relishing the opportunity to compete with the millennial set, I tuned out almost everything said in the briefing session. (Good creatives don't want more information, they want less. They want the one essential part of the communication. If only the people who put together 'briefs' understood that.)

I had spots written in my head before I left the initial briefing session. Of course I followed them up with twenty more.

A week later I got the call from the Chief Creative Officer telling me that of the hundreds of scripts submitted by teams throughout the country, they had narrowed the field to four. Including one of my scripts. The very first one that found its way to paper. (BTW, I say my script because I was flying solo on this and was not working with an Art Director, lest anybody accuse me of being unfair.)

A week later, the same field had been halved again.
Two weeks after that, a winner had been chosen.
It was the spot I wrote.

Finally, after laboring in this damn business for more than 20 years, I was going to have a Super Bowl spot. And not just any Super Bowl spot. This was an elaborate multi-million dollar production involving kangaroos, flaming pianos, Aerosmith, chainsaw jugglers, Al Gore and Pakistani Plumbing Supply Salesmen.

With the playoffs looming, the spot was given Red Ball status and rushed into pre-production. A director had been chosen (a top A++ guy), editors and music people had been hand selected and locations had been preliminarily scouted.

All we needed now was a signed estimate.

And that's when I took a 50-caliber head shot between the eyes. In their infinite wisdom, the client, who had put the agency through multiple flaming, steel-spiked ringers on this assignment, decided on a whim to withdraw from the Super Bowl and sell the previously-purchased media space for a hefty profit.

TBWA Chiat/Day will move on from this temporary setback and do an award-winning spot for Gatorade, Visa, Apple or Nissan. They'll take in millions of dollars, run off to France, pick up some Gold Lions and drink $500 bottles of champagne on the Omnicom yacht.

I, on the other hand, am still reeling from the 2007 Super Bowl spot that never was. And now I have to write some banner ads for a local mattress store. And I have tree roots in my main sewer line. And it looks like I have to do a full house-to-street mainline replacement that will reach into 5 digits. And my prostate is growing faster than a teenage Sumo Wrestler.

My feelings towards Activision?
Fuck them.

Guilty of Bad Taste

2011-09-14T06:39:00.000-07:00

I see a lot of people, mostly on Facebook, trying to find their way out of jury duty.
And I understand why.

When things get busy at work or hectic at home the last thing anyone wants to do is sit in a musty courtroom, with your smelly peers, and drink piss poor courthouse coffee while waiting for justice to make an improbable cameo appearance.

I felt the same way until a few years ago when, during an unusually slow freelance period, I decided to take the county up on their offer of 15 dollars a day and a sneak peak into our penal system. Not only was I selected for the jury panel, I was immediately chosen as the jury foreman.

"Why me?" I asked Juror #4, an older African-American woman seated to my left.

"You said some funny things to the judge," she responded, adding, "and besides, I'm not doing it."

Thanks to some incredibly-clear, high-definition surveillance footage captured on the 7-11 in store camera, we convicted the defendant of robbery in short time and sent him off to prison for a long time.

But the story doesn't end there. I was fascinated by the crime itself. What would drive a man to rob a convenience store and risk life and limb, all for fifty two dollars and change? So I jotted down the defendant's name with the hope that some day I might get a better glimpse into his life and his persona.

Well, that day has come.

Thanks to the awesome intrusive algorithmic power of the Internet I have found my guy and learned a little more about what makes him tick.

According to his not-completely-awful-written missive seeking a pen pal, Mr. Pryor is set to be released from jail in the year 2019. I think he's being overly optimistic and have it on good word that he is a three striker and likely to remain in jail for the remainder of his life. But if he believes that with a little good behavior he can secure his freedom by the end of the decade, more power to him.

But I want you to take a good look at him leaning on his late model Chrysler Le Baron. I'm thinking anyone wearing a matching print shirt and shorts should have a couple more years tacked onto their sentence just for their abominable crimes against fashion.

And I'd add another year for the sagging white knee high socks.

High Pressure System Moving South

2011-09-13T06:04:00.000-07:00

People are talking about the weather a lot lately.

It could be related to Hurricane Irene, that ripped through the East Coast not long ago. It could be the entertaining Republican debates and various candidates attributing foul weather to the whims of a very petulant God. Or it could be attributed to the Arkansas weatherman who, after a stormy night of drugs and alcohol, woke up naked in a tub with a dead wearing a dog collar.

The last story went viral and soared into the stratosphere of Google Trends.

You have to feel bad for Brett Cummins, the young meteorologist with so much potential and his whole future in front of him. It had to be devastating to be humiliated like that on the national stage. To be the butt of so many gay weatherman, ectasy-enhanced dog collar jokes. And to become fodder for the late night talk shows. Not to mention the millions of amateur bloggers just itching for new salacious material.

How do you ever recover from such a monumental embarrassment?

The only thing that could possibly take the searing spotlight off young Brett Cummins would be to have another weatherman in another state commit something even more shocking and unforgettable.

Something like this:

And now for something completely different

2011-09-12T06:23:00.000-07:00

I am a sucker for gadgets. I like things that do other things to other things. What's that? A do-hickey that carries my whatchamacallits and my thigamajigs. How much?

Last week, I discovered a gadget (that's a technical term for some HTML widget type gizmo) for this blog. It allows me to keep track of the most popular postings. Is it narcissistic? Of course it is. What about this blog isn't? And since so many of you never leave a comment or any indication that you've been here, the Top Ten postings gadget provides that momentary validation that you simply do not.

So I installed it.

Unfortunately, the column did not fit into the template design. And I was forced to do what no copywriter should ever do, I started messing around with the layout. In the messing with the layout I somehow managed to change the template. I didn't want to change the template. I was perfectly happy with the simple, functional design of the previous template. But somehow I lost the old template. And it looks like I'm going to have to learn to love this one.

Years ago, one of the spinning nozzle jets on the outdoor jacuzzi stopped working. I popped the unit out and decided (probably because jacuzzi repair guys charge $450/hour) that I could fix it myself. Jacuzzi repair should probably be added to the list of Things Jew Don't Do. In any case it wasn't a good idea, because once the ball bearings on the spinning jet nozzle spilled out onto the garage floor there was no putting them back in.

Now the water swirls on one side of the tub and is dead calm on the other, sort of like the vortex that was formed just before the stern of the Titanic sunk below the surface of the North Atlantic.

The bottom line is I don't know how to get the old template back.

This may not have been the funniest posting in the 2 & 1/2 year history of this blog. It may not even qualify for the top ten postings. But at least now you'll know where to find them.

Holy Mother of God!

2011-09-08T06:40:00.000-07:00

Ok, I don't do this a lot, mostly because I don't watch a lot of TV these days -- double dipping and trying to stay ahead of the needs of three women tends to cut down free time -- but this is Must See TV.

There have been survival shows before, Survivorman and Bear Gryll's Man vs. Wild. But Dual Survival adds a unique twist. They have paired Army Veteran/Sniper Dave Cantebury with the diametrically opposed hippie dippie, no shoes wearing, grub eating, Arizona minimalist Cody Lundin. They are the Laurel and Hardy of the wilderness world.

It's fascinating to watch these two men match their wits against the elements atop a mountain in Wyoming, a rain forest in Thailand and the hippo-infested delta of Botswana.

Last week, the two intrepid survivalists were dropped off in the rugged hills of Tierra del Fuego in South America. As if that weren't enough and to demonstrate what it would be like to be lost and wounded, crazy Dave whipped out his hunting knife and tore a 3 inch gash across his right forearm. Then, in an even crazier move he had his partner Cody pour black gun powder in the open wound and ignite the powder to cauterize the laceration.

He set his arm on fire as if it were the Chinese New Year!

Good night nurse, this guy has enough balls for three men.

And to think the other night I got on my wife's case for buying the wrong brand of mixed nuts, I like the ones with lots of cashews not those horrible tasting Brazilian nuts.

I feel bad.
I feel very, very bad.

More Advertising Suckage

2011-09-07T06:46:00.000-07:00

As many of you who know me in the real world can attest, and as many of you in the digital world are discovering, it doesn't take much to trigger an angry advertising anecdote. Perhaps because in the 20+ years in the business there have been so many of them. Probably no more or no less than the next fellow, but I'm like an elephant and never forget.

And I never let a good grudge go to waste.

Last week I was trolling cnn.com and came across the story of the New Mexico cop caught having sex on the hood of his patrol car.

At the end of the story reporter Jeane Moos makes light of the fact that the officer and his 'friend' were being watched by a chihuahua. And every red-blooded American knows chihuahuas equal Taco Bell.

Except that famous advertising campaign died 10 years ago.
Perhaps 2001's second greatest tragedy.

I have an intimate knowledge of the Taco Bell dog's (her name was Ginger) death because I sat, helplessly, in meetings with the men in logo-pocketed polo shirts and crisp khaki pants who did the deed. Why, you may ask, did they pull the plug on a campaign that gave us dozens of funny catchphrases, spawned millions of dollars worth of merchandising and attained instant pop culture status?

Good question.

I know my buddies Chuck and Clay, the guys responsible for creating the campaign and delivering the south-of-the-border hilarity, were asking the same thing. I'm sure the myopic marketing pro's with their Yankelovich and ASI and Millward Brown qualitative TPS reports could explain. They'd tell you it was all the little dog's fault. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the dirty stores, the half-hearted service or the crappy food.

But riddle me this Khaki Pants MBA.
What has Taco Bell done marketing-wise since 2001?
Is there anything even remotely memorable? Or cool? A single witticism that some stoner kid would want to put on a T-shirt?
I'm thinking outside the bun, I'm thinking you guys screwed the pooch.
Literally.

The last time I even heard the brand's name was on a Friday night at the Santa Monica Promenade, when my daughter stopped me before stepping in some vomit on the sidewalk.

"Ewww", she said, "It looks like some half-eaten Taco Bell Chalupa."

Actually, it looked better.

My daughter takes communion

2011-09-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

Well, it didn't take long at all.

As I mentioned earlier in the year, in a post that appeared in the Huffington Post, my daughters are attending Catholic High School. And as I suspected, the experience has already started to bear fruit in the way of funny stories.

Last week was the girl's first mandatory mass. They had to wear their Catholic high school skirts, their Catholic high school socks and their Catholic high school shoes. Additionally, they had to wear a collared white shirt with the Catholic high school tie. I have a hard enough time putting a tie on myself (one of the factors that steered my career choice), you can imagine how difficult it was to throw a proper Windsor knot on my two girls.

Later that day, when I got home from work, my youngest daughter -- the non-Semitic looking one with the blue eyes and blondish hair -- had a confession to make. She was standing with her new found friends, in their freshest and crispest attire, at the front of the church when the priest started handing out wafers, she called them cookies. Feeling unsure -- even more unsure than any normal 14 year old girl would -- she found herself looking down the barrel of a sacramental shotgun.

And in a moment of great uncertainty, accepted the body of Christ, and ate the cookie.

Naturally, the retelling of the story brought my daughter to tears. There aren't many experiences that don't bring her to tears. Of course the apple didn't fall from the tree and moments later she was making light of the situation. Telling us how she felt reborn. And how she was craving a roast beef sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise. (OK that's a bit cliche but come on she's only 14.)

If you read my original piece in the Huffington Post you'd see I got a lot of angry comments from old Jews who thought I had somehow betrayed my tribe. They would no doubt have a kanipshin over what I'm now calling "The Eucharist Incident." Those are the same old farts who get their panties in a bunch when politicians or corporations say something innocuous like "Merry Christmas."

I would tell those altacockers to pound sand.

I'm actually proud that my daughter didn't want to appear disrespectful and naively took part in a Christian ritual. Big deal. How many times at a Jewish wedding or a funeral or a Bat Mitzvah, do we ask our gentile friends to don a yarmulke? Or rise with the congregation at the opening of the ark? How is that not the same thing?

The point is, maybe we should all become more familiar with our neighbor's religious rituals.

Two nights ago my wife and I were at the St. Monica's Church for Back-to-School Night. As we sat in one of the back pews and listened to the monsignor drone on about this year's fundraising, I couldn't help but admire the beautiful stained glass and the distinctive looming arches of Moorish architecture.

I also noticed there were quite a number of Jews in the church.

They were all on crosses.

The Almost-Teflon Don

2011-09-01T06:06:00.000-07:00

I moved to Southern California three weeks after graduating (barely) Syracuse University. That means I've been living out here for 12 years. I know, you're doing the math and thinking, "Rich you look old for 34."

Sadly, I didn't discover the benefits of sufficient UV sun protection until it was too late.

Despite living here for a dozen years, there are some distinctive SoCal pleasures I have not enjoyed. For instance, I have never been to Catalina Island. I'd like to, but I'd also like not to hurl my whole grain oatmeal breakfast over the starboard side of the ferry.

Sometimes the iconic experiences that many talk about simply don't live up to the hype. I know many folks, including my fellow blogger Jeff, who swear by the classic hamburgers at the Apple Pan or the legendary roast beef au jus at Phillippes downtown. Frankly, I found both disappointing. The burger was OK, but nothing resembling special. And downtown LA, for those of you who have walked the cracked, urine-soaked streets, just doesn't lend itself to a memorable dining experience.

On the flip side of all that, this week I made my virgin visit to a 99 cent store. And I'm happy to report the experience was well worth the price. There were miles of aisles of off-brand and off-off-brand bargains. Everything from canned bananas to Chinese tool sets that were neither metric nor standard American sizes.
I'm not sure I'll be able to use any of the socket wrenches but the illustrations and mangled translations in the user guide made it a must-have item.

And at 99 cents, how could I go wrong?

As we made our way to the cashier with our Heinds Katsup, Pepci Kola and Tampaks Feminine Napkins, my daughter noticed a small book section. It was inordinately stocked with Victoria Gotti's memoir, This Family of Mine. They didn't have enough shelf space for all the copies. They were literally spilling over into the 99 cent pet food section.

I don't think a lot people who shop at this store are interested in reading Ms. Gotti's Mafioso adventure. But serendipity may prevail. They may have much better luck marketing the book as a 99 cent chew toy.

On Pussy

2011-08-31T06:38:00.000-07:00

The big TV in my house has been hijacked.

It's hard to argue with three women, my wife and two daughters, and their proclivity for fashion, food and all things New Jersey. And so I am learning the art of the retreat. To the man cave, where on my much smaller set, I can enjoy football, Hitler and all things prison-related.

Thanks to MSNBC's non-stop airing of Lockup, I have become quite well versed in the language of Penitientary. I know SHU is the Segregated Housing Unit. Also known as Ad-Seg, or Administrative Segregation. I know Chomo is a Child Molester. I know how to turn a roll of toilet paper into a makeshift burner capable of boiling water. And I know how to fashion a deadly shiv from an old credit card statement stuffer.

That's how scarily familiar I am with prison life.

The other night I watched as Dr. Rudy Vasquez, prison psychiatrist at California's Corcoran State Prison, explained the benefits of the Adopt-A-Kitten Program, whereby well-behaved violent offenders are given kittens from the local shelter. They take on the responsibility of a care-giver, feeding, grooming and attending to all the kitten's needs.

As the Doc explained, "it gives the prisoner a purpose and something to love. It also provides a lonely prisoner the company of a tender living creature that can return the love."

I may be an inveterate cynic, but that's the part that worries me.

Whip it good

2011-08-30T06:44:00.000-07:00

Spotted the other day in a conference room following an employee birthday party.

Truth be told I don't see whipped cream cans much anymore. We try not to keep a lot of processed food in the house. And even if we did, it would never occur to me or my wife to bring one of these home.

Maybe I'm a victim of today's design craze, but the whipped cream can technology seems so antiquated. Where do people keep these in their fridge? Next to the 2 cents plain seltzer bottles?

You'd think by now Crate and Barrel or some German Design Firm named, Uber, would have gentrified the whipped cream dispenser into some cool must-have kitchen accessory.

In college, the whipped cream can was a highly cherished item. Not for its creamy content but for the Nitrous Oxide propellant. The same Nitrous Oxide favored by dentists and outpatient surgeons and commonly referred to as laughing gas.

When my buddy Dave and I worked at Denny's in Syracuse, NY, we made it a point of getting the night shift on Wednesdays. That's when the dairy truck made its delivery and restocked the walk-in cooler with cases (note the plural) of whipped cream. As Mr. Zagrino was signing for the delivery, Dave and I were furiously ripping open the new treasure trove and inhaling the Nitrous Oxide out of every can.

The skilled Nitrous extractor knows the exact pressure needed to release the gas from its container without getting a mouthful of whipped cream. After six or seven 'puffs', the non-stop laughter began.

It worked out well for Dave and I.

It didn't work out so well for the truck driver pulling off the NY State Thruway for some well-deserved sugary dessert. From our cook's station behind counter, we'd watch the night waitress vigorously shake the can of whipped cream, point it at the perfectly carved out slice of apple pie only to watch the watery cream dribble out of the dispenser like an old man coaxing some cooperation from his over sized prostate.

At this point in the proceeding, the waitress would glare at us.
And we would start laughing all over again.

Ahhh, the memories.

When the party was over and the false employee camaraderie had dissipated and the doors of the executive conference room had closed, I snuck back in and sucked all remaining laughing gas out of the can. The next birthday isn't for 10 days, so I think I'll be good.

I hate you, Steve Jobs.

2011-08-29T06:42:00.000-07:00

Now I realize a headline like that requires immediate explanation, particularly in light of the media love fest that ensued following Jobs' resignation last week, so allow me to elaborate.

In 1993 I was hired to work on the Apple Computer account. The new Creative Director at BBDO (Apple's agency at the time) had read some long copy ads I had written for Nissan and lured me away with the promise of career-making opportunities. Oh and a ton of BBDO money. He thought my snappy, sometimes cheeky, narrative style would be a healthy addition to the talented staff of writers already working on Apple.

He was wrong.

I had every confidence I could capture the Apple voice. (A lot of clients think their brands have a voice, they don't. Apple is one of the few that does. ) The problem was that distinctive voice was established in the early 80's when Apple was at Chiat/Day. And when Steve Jobs was at the helm.

In 1993, Steve was nowhere near 1 Infinite Loop, Cupertino, CA. In 1993, the caretakers of Apple -- and the Apple voice -- were a team of clueless, corporate bureaucrats who were fond of committees, task forces and task force committees. They took the notion of decentralization to a weird and not-so-wonderful place. The kind of place that makes modern day Somalia look like the pinnacle of efficiency. Every decision was labored. Reconsidered. And reprocessed. Until it was successfully transformed into an indecision.

I'll give you an example.

One night I was held captive in the office until 1:00 AM (This was not at all unusual for anybody working on the Apple account). I was awaiting feedback on copy I had written for a 10-page insert that was to run in the Wall Street Journal. The copy literally had to meet the approval of a dozen different marketing "managers" (quotation marks inserted with great disdain).

In one of the emails I had received, one particularly well-crafted paragraph came back marked in red. With some colorful commentary from the Apple Brand Manager. "We can't say this. And even if we could, we wouldn't. This is not written well at all. Please redo."

Crushing, right?

But two minutes later, I received another email, from a different "manager" and that same paragraph was marked in blue. It too was footnoted, "This is the best copy I have ever seen. If we do nothing else in this insert, this paragraph of copy has to get published."

Mind you, it was one o'clock in the morning and I had no idea of the management hierarchy and whose supervision superseded who. Nor did I have any idea of how to proceed.

I only knew that at times like these, when mushy-minded technocrats ruled the day, I would have been happy to endure the clear-headed leadership of someone more mercurial.
Someone more demanding.
Someone, ironically enough, more capable of binary thinking.
But someone like that wouldn't come back until 1997.

For not being CEO of Apple when I was working on the account, I hate you, Steve Jobs.

Not So Intelligent Design

2011-08-25T06:24:00.000-07:00

Last week presidential candidate Rick Perry responded to a boy's question about whether he (Perry) believed in evolution, saying, "I'm familiar with evolution, but it's out there. There are gaps in the theory."

The governor pointed out that there are no fossils to indicate transitional mutations between animals, conveniently ignoring the mountain of evidence, DNA, bone structure, cell structure, organ functions, behavioral patterns, etc., that suggest a clear relationship among all living things.

A few days later, Perry affirmed his full faith in the gap-riddled theory of Intelligent Design.

And yet, like all believers in Intelligent design, he can cite no evidence other than devout faith, in support of his theory.

How, for instance, does Intelligent Design explain:

suicide bombers, car salesmen, theater talkers, CMO's, karaoke singers, The Situation, people who text and drive, Ryan Seacrest, indecisive salad bar customers, toupee wearers, the women of Walmart, clove smokers, nipple piercers, people who believe in holistic medicine, white supremacists, Furries, open mouth eaters, Rapturists, telemarketers, golfers who plumb bob their putts, focus group mediators, bedazzlers, fanny pack wearers, J. Alexander, beauty pageant moms, hipsters who pretend to disdain hipsters, West Virginians, international customer service representatives, enema nurses, people who say "awesome", honor killers, Digital Ninjas, Facebook meal posters, noisy neighbors, evangelical Libertarians, cheap rich people, and of course:

They call me Diomedes

2011-08-24T06:42:00.000-07:00

A wise man once said, "Innovate or Die."
So today I am innovating.

In addition to marketing myself as a Freelance Creative Director/Copywriter, I will also be presenting myself as a Digital Diomedes. You may recall Diomedes was an ancient Greek Warrior who commanded a herd of carnivorous equines.

Apart from the catchy alliteration, my new title demonstrates my growing expertise in the digital arena. I've complemented my traditional brand experience with a wealth of work on banners, micro-sites, app development and even mobile devices.

But Rich, you say, every copywriter has worked on banners, micro-sites and Facebook applications.
To which I reply, in today's parlance, "haters gonna hate."

Like the Digital Ninjas, the Experiential Entrepreneurs, the Innovation Strategists, that have preceded me, I am not going to let the lack of any rigorous education or meaningful accountability stand in my way. Once I master the jargon and cultivate a full head of unwarranted confidence, I will be a Digital Diomedes.

Should anyone challenge my digital pseudo-proficiency or my cocky unflinching infallibility, I will respond as my twenty-something predecessors have:

"You don't get it, do you?"

And then I will sic one of my man-eating horses on their sorry ass.

Less Hats, More Work.

2011-08-23T06:49:00.000-07:00

I see hats.
I see lots and lots of hats.
Knit caps. Pork Pie hats. Fedoras.

I guess it's part of the business, but it's way too affected for my taste.

In my day if you wanted to show the world you were a character or were blessed with unusual talents, you did the kind of work that would make others say "Damn." What you didn't do was skip over to some Melrose boutique to find a knit cap that matched your tatted sleeve so that others would say, "Damn, that guy is a pretentious tool."

Mind you, I realize I am unusually obsessed over this misguided sartorial choice but the truth is I don't work at an agency anymore. I'm a hired gun. And so I don't get to gripe about office politics or bureaucracy or the unfair revenue distribution at the big 4 holding companies. I'm a man without a curmudgeonly cause.

And so I choose hats and the douchebags who choose to wear them.

But as my style-savvy friend Laura puts it, if I were deadly serious about the matter, I could deliver a death blow to this haberdasherous behavior.

This was my father's Hobbs Fedora. It's one of the few possessions I received upon my mother's passing 6 years ago. If I were to start showing up at work wearing this handsome chapeau, I'm sure many a hipster would start removing theirs.

But I can't. Not because I don't have the cajones. The hat is about 5 sizes too small for my over sized cranium. And, having sat in my mother's condo for years on end, it still reeks of cigarette smoke.

More Energy

2011-08-22T06:07:00.000-07:00

I didn't grow a legion of 4 readers and achieve 13 page hits a day by not doing my homework. Oh no. I study the Google analytics, pore over the charts and confibulate the html seo-optimized flik-flks to get a clear picture of my audience, their preferences and their hot buttons.

Did you know that my Filthy Cock posting on April 20 is still one of the most read pieces? So I'm well aware of your prurient inclinations.

The postings that bring second highest traffic are usually stories about advertising. That's no surprise either since many of you are friends and colleagues hoping I'll dish some dirt and name some names. Of course, that's not going to happen but I do like to skate perilously close to the edge.

Years ago, I was hired to write a radio campaign for a Mexican restaurant. After dozens and dozens of scripts, I got a call from the Creative Director. He liked one direction in particular and sold the idea to his client over the phone. Great, I thought. (Though in reality as a freelancer you'd like the client to keep rejecting the work so you can ride the day-rate gravy train.) Nevertheless it's always a good feeling to sell some work.

Then he surprised me with another tidbit. He wanted me to produce the spots. Great, I thought, because, I like to have control over my own work. Not so great when I heard the client will be at the voice over recording session.

That's where this train went off the tracks.

In general clients don't have a healthy understanding of production. Hell, I didn't feel comfortable with it until I had been on the job for 7-8 years. And this client, let's call her Ms. Shitforbrains, was no exception.

With every successive take she would ask, "Can she read it with more energy?" She could but that wouldn't make it better I replied. By Take 21, she stopped asking me to relay the direction and grabbed the box that allows the engineer to talk to the talent and shouted, "THIS TIME, MORE ENERGY!!!"

Apart from her unprofessional demeanor, this client was completely unsophisticated. Asking for "more energy" is perhaps the least constructive direction one could possibly give a performer. It is, as my friend Claudia puts it, "the last refuge of an idiot."

The two-hour voice over session turned into a six-hour battle. Fatigued and at my wit's end, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Upon my return I saw something I had never ever seen before. The client took my momentary exit as her cue to leave the engineer's room and enter the recording booth, where she literally gave the talent a line by line reading of how she wanted the spot to sound.

When it was done, the engineer played back her 60 seconds of non-stop, highly ENERGETIC screaming into the microphone. The client, quite pleased with herself, turned to me and said,
"what do you think?"

"Perfect," I said, "just perfect."

Tanks

2011-08-18T06:46:00.000-07:00

A milestone passed a few weeks ago and somehow it went unnoticed.
It was the 500th entry here at roundseventeen.

Now I often think maybe it's time give up this narcissistic journey. Maybe it's time to move on to something more productive. Start a hobby. Or take up a collection. My buddy, and current boss, collects clown paintings. He also has an impressive assembly of antique glass eyeballs. I've always wanted a collection of something but never had the discipline for that kind of pursuit.

Now I have a collection of mindless, stream of consciousness rants and ravings. I guess that's something.

And just when I'm about to pull the plug on this thing I get an email from one of you. Telling me how much you enjoy the blog. And how it provides a daily laugh.

I got one of these e-mails a few weeks ago from a friend I hadn't seen in a long time. He's going through a difficult time and his wife is going through an even tougher time battling cancer. I won't divulge his name or quote from his email.

But I was touched by the sentiment and flattered to know that what I'm doing here can somehow diminish the pain. Even if it's just a little.

And so for that email, and others like it, I thank you for the thank you's.

I know I've made light in the past about not getting paid for this endeavor.
But the reality is, I do.

One State Solution

2011-08-17T06:15:00.000-07:00

We are now nearing the end of summer and the Arab Spring has failed to produce much of a harvest. In addition to the centuries-old Sunni-Shia rift, there's the rise of fundamental Islamism that continues to wreak havoc from Libya to Pakistan. Not to mention West Africa. The light at the end of the tunnel seems to be an oncoming train.

But what if that oncoming train were not a train but an Israeli tank?

I know it's beyond the imagination of 300 million Arabs who can't see past the tip of their broadsword, but consider how Jewish rule of the entire region could bring peace and prosperity to an area of the world that has seen neither.

First the obvious -- Oil.

At the current $85 barrel, the countries of the Middle East are sitting on trillions and trillions of dollars worth of natural resources. That wealth is wasted on tasteless sheiks who think it's classy to make a doody on a solid 24K gold toilet. If you'll forgive some of my fellow tribesmens' awful affinity for bad Judaica, it's a fair bet that tremendous amount of money would be spent on better things like hospitals, roads and schools-- not Madrassas, with only one book, but real schools where 21st century learning would trump the current 7th century edumucation (intentional misspelling).

Freedom of Speech.

It can't go unnoticed that while Syrians are dying in the streets, yearning for the right to speak their mind, other Syrians, those living in the Israeli-governed Golan Heights, are free to go about their business without fear of being gunned down in the middle of the night. Even if their business is about badmouthing the government of Israel. You know, for the atrocious conditions they live in.

How free is freedom of speech in Israel? You might recall that years ago, the Iranian government sponsored a Holocaust Cartoon contest. A despicable display of blatant anti-Semitism. Not to be outdone, an Israeli company, Dimona Comix, sponsored the Israeli Anti-Semitic Cartoon Contest. Not one government official came knocking at the door with a cease and desist.

And finally, at least for the sake of brevity, Peace.

Before Muslims started killing other Muslims, just because it was a Monday or there was nothing good on TV or any other reason (they don't seem to need a good one) they were killing Jews. Consequently, the Israelis got real adept at stopping these internal insurgencies. Is there any doubt the IDF would put the kabash on such nonsense?

And while Arab cultures were stoning homosexuals or rape victims, Jews saw fit to give women equal rights, forbid honor killings and allow gays to serve in the military.

Under a united Israeli rule, the hundred or so sects of Islam would be free to peacefully practice their own religion. Just the way they do today in the Jewish sliver of a country, Israel.

Of course, none of this is going to happen. It would be a monumental affront to Arab pride. I'm not sure what it is exactly they are so proud of. I'll have do some more research and get back to you on that.

Pytka Part Two

2011-08-16T06:38:00.000-07:00

They say ad people are all about shameless self promotion. Last week I did a little self-unpromotion and drew attention to The Worst Commercial I Ever Wrote. This is not something a lot of people would do, but as my wife likes to point out, I'm not easily embarrassed. In fact she says, I lack the embarrassment gene.

With that in mind, I'd like to share another Joe Pytka story.

Apple Computer is now the wealthiest company on the planet. But it wasn't always like that. In 1994 when Steve Jobs was nowhere to be seen, they were struggling to stay afloat. And if you knew anything of the marketing team that was running the company you'd understand why. Some of the most misguided, vision-less careerists I've ever had the misfortune of working with. As one of my former bosses put it, they were guilty of "muddy thinking."

I love that phrase.

For some god-awful reason we were trying to position Apple as a business computer, capable of running spreadsheets, P&L's and other uninspiring crap. The BBDO team created a fake sneaker company and hired Joe Pytka to shoot 10-12 commercials on the set. Some were scripted. Some were improvised.

On the third day of shooting, at 2 AM, we found out one of the actors scheduled for the next day's shoot dropped out. The production team started scrambling. Panic was scheduled to arrive at 2:15. Then Big Joe turned to the team and towards me and said, "Let's have Cheech (that's what he was calling me) do the bit."

I said, "What?"

He said, "Come on, you're a funny guy. It's three lines. A monkey could do it."

I guess that's why Pytka is known as an actor's director.

Long story mercifully shorter, I came in the next morning. Did the whole wardrobe and make up thing, walked onto the set (with jeers from my colleagues) and proceeded to act. I flubbed the lines a couple of times. But so did the actress I was working with. But after 7-8 takes I started getting the hang of it. Pytka shoots with a long lens, so after awhile you forget the camera is even looking at you. Maybe this would be the beginning of a whole new career, I thought.

Then I heard, "Cut." Then I heard the client whispering to the Executive Producer. Then I heard my 28- minute long acting career was over.

Joe pulled me aside and assured me I had done a fine job. He even mentioned casting me in some future spots. Yeah right. He said the client thought the spot would play better with a different actor (the one pictured above.)

Different of course meaning an actor with More Hair and Less Nose.

"They was dressed like caaawwpps."

2011-08-15T06:43:00.000-07:00

I finally got around to watching The Town the other night.

That damn Netflix DVD had been sitting around for weeks. I'm going to have to rethink my whole monthly membership relationship with them. Why can't there just be a store with all the DVD's of all the movies and then you could go to that store and rent a movie when you want to see it?

Anyway, it was serviceable bank heist movie. Good actions scenes. Nice plot development. And lots of salty New England dialogue. You can count on Ben Affleck, a local boy, to capture the flavor and nuance of Boston.

It's a city like no other. My sister-in-law lives there and we have gone back for several family functions. I'm not familiar with the Charleston area where The Town takes place. We were charmed by places like Marshfield and Scituate, a little south of Boston and right on the water. At one point, we even talked about moving there.

And why not? Boston is an advertising city. I could have found work at Mullen or Arnold or Modernista (although in retrospect, that wouldn't have been a good choice). The public schools in the suburbs are excellent. You can buy a fresh Maine lobster for the price of a Tito's taco.

And of course I love the people of Boston. Especially the bawdy Irish Catholics with their hard nosed drinking and their straight-faced sarcasm.

Not only that, housing prices in New England are much lower than here in Southern California. I could have sold my house and bought a 13-room Colonial with oceanfront views. And still had enough money left over for a proper Man Cave Basement with free flowing kegs and a lifetime supply of Sam Adams.

So what stopped us, you might ask.
Or, "what staaawwwppped us?"

That's right, it's that damn accent.

I can listen to it for about 10 minutes before it starts giving me a wicked awesome migraine. And I don't get migraines. It's not just one person with that pick-axe-on-a-chalkboard accent, it's all of them. From Duxbury to Rockport.

In 1965 Albert DeSalvo was identified and convicted as the Boston Strangler. Though doubts remain to this day whether the state got the right man. Seems they could never pin down his motive. I'm just spitballing here, but if I had to guess why that man was driven to throttle 13 women with his bare hands, it would have something to do with that accent.

That damn Boston accent.

Carmeggeddon 2012

2011-08-11T06:32:00.000-07:00

Spotted in my neighbor's driveway.

Hard to believe that the little girl across the street, the one who loved playing big sister to my two daughters, is now driving a car. Poorly, I might add.

It's even harder to believe that today I am dropping my 15 year old girl at her first Driver's Ed class. I swear it was just yesterday that she stood in the driveway, naked as a jaybird, playing with garden hose. I suppose if that were yesterday-- and not 14 years ago -- Driver's education would be the least of my concerns.

But she's 15 now and she'll be driving next year.

When she isn't on youtube or texting her friends, she's spending an inordinate amount of time on autotrader.com. If her driving habits are anything like my neighbor's daughter, I don't think a Volvo will suffice.

Maybe I'll buy her a tank.

The Jesus Gene

2011-08-10T06:28:00.000-07:00

Here's a little secret about writers, most of the time we don't write.

In an 8 hour day, for which I charge handsomely, about 33 minutes is actually spent writing. The other 7 & 1/2 hours? That's for Scrabble, Facebook, Agencyspy.com and general goofing off on the Internet.

A bean counter might look at that and have a coronary, but anyone intimately familiar with the creative mindset knows those 7 &1/2 hours are crucial to the process. It's like slow cooked chili. You put all the ingredients in a crockpot, set it on a low simmer and walk away. By the time the sun sets, you've got a delicious stew of spicy, meaty goodness that you just can't get by opening up a can of Hormels.

The other day during one of those diversionary flights of fancy and while "working" on a new car launch, I stumbled across this new Google map photo of the house I grew up in. The house bears little resemblance to the one in my memory. The trees are larger, the landscaping has changed, and the house has nearly doubled in size. The photo is pretty high up, but I'm willing to bet the yard has less weeds as well.

I can't help but wonder if the built-in bookcase that my father constructed still hugs the stairway railing. Or if the Swedish Redwood Sauna he installed in the master bathroom is still cooking at 130 degrees.

My dad was pretty handy around a woodshop. He could handle a left-handed miter saw. He knew his way around a 3.5 HP reversible router. What's more impressive is that it was all self taught. Compliments of the Time Life Series on Finish Carpentry.

My buddies would often come over and ask, "What's Al building today? A boat."

He had the persistence and the know-how, given a little more time he would have pulled it off and I'd be writing this today from the deck of a 50 foot schooner.

I'm now at the stage of my life when my father, and my uncle (who is also no slouch), took up woodworking. And I'm feeling the itch to buy a belt sander. But I suspect my inner carpenter will emerge much slower.

I'm still trying to figure out how to assemble my daughter's new Ikea nightstand -- Der Nittenflorka.

The worst commercial I ever wrote

2011-08-09T06:44:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I will use this pulpit to critique other people's advertising work. I don't do it nearly as often as I'd like (let's face it there is a lot of crap out there) because I still have to work and put food on my table and bagging on potential employers is just not good business sense.

The other reason is, I don't want people thinking I walk around with the attitude that "my shit doesn't stink." Because it does.

Big time.

Many moons ago, when I was a Creative Director at Chiat/Day, my partner and I were put in charge of the homestore.com account. The CEO of this fledgling company fancied himself the next Bill Gates, and he might have been, had Bill Gates been a sleazy, underhanded snake of a man without a shred of personal integrity. Mr. Gates is now giving away billions of his dollars to starving children. The former homestore CEO is now sitting in a federal prison for stock embezzlement.

We had proposed a great campaign for homestore -- which is now realtor.com with all the real estate listings in the country. The campaign was all about Americans who live in unconventional housing. It was a great way to demonstrate the broad spectrum of American individuality and how that is expressed through the homes we chose to live in. Eventually the campaign became a documentary, Home Movie, that aired at Sundance and went on to a national theatrical release.

But the homestore CEO didn't think the idea was big enough to launch the company. He wanted something epic. And, like many who walk into the Chiat/Day building, he wanted something like Apple's "1984."

And so to get to produce the work I wanted, I had to write the spot I didn't want.

Despite Joe Pytka at the helm, despite the beautiful landscape and cinematography, despite the million dollars of production value, the spot is a bloated dud. The music is wrong. The tone is wrong. The concept is wrong. Mind you I had a hand in the production, so I take full responsibility. But at the end of the day, the homestore CEO got the epic he wanted -- an epic turd.

The only good to come from the entire debacle was the Media department telling us there was very little inventory left for 60 second commercials. So the spot aired for three weeks in 1999. With very limited rotation.

I wince every time I see it, so if it aired once, it was once too many.

Thanks Coach

2011-08-08T06:13:00.000-07:00

Is it me or is everyone in the world becoming a Life Coach?

Seems a day doesn't go by that I don't hear the wonderful news that someone has received their Life Coaching Certification and that they are accepting new clients. Ten years ago it was friends and family selling vitamins or Amway products, today they are becoming Life Coaches.

I have to tread lightly here or I will surely offend a growing number of people, including friends and colleagues. But it should come as no surprise that I'm not a candidate for Life Coaching. I don't need someone to help "marshall my inner resources" or "create a personal action plan" or "set into motion game-changing behaviors."

I just have to stop eating fatty foods.

My skepticism is not without merit. Years ago, one of the companies I was working for offered to pay for me to see a Career Coach. He helped me to see that corporations did not operate as a meritocracy. He helped me to understand that if I was not being given the raises, promotions and company cars I thought I deserved it was because I had allowed myself to become a victim. Or as he put it, a jailhouse bitch. Turned out Coach Ray knew exactly what he was talking about, as I learned he had spent 8 years in the penitentiary for Fraud.

Of course now I don't work for corporations, I work for myself.
Consequently, I'm much happier.

So I won't be spending any time with a Life Coach, particularly someone who refers to themselves that way after purchasing this:

That's not to say there is no room for improvement, there always is.

But if I need additional motivation, I'll take that up with myself. And if I need advice or outside perspective, I'll take that up with my friends. And if I need to get something off my chest, I'll take that up with you -- the four regular readers of roundseventeen.

Moving

2011-08-04T06:01:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I pointed out a mural that stands in the lobby of Wieden & Kennedy in Portland. I may take issue with the sentiment of the piece but there is no denying this agency does some of the smartest, coolest advertising on the planet. They are so pitch-perfect in everything they do I have a hard time spotting any missteps.

The same cannot be said for other agencies.

This spot ran more than 10 years ago and yet they could run it tomorrow and it would still move me.

What I like most about it is its simplicity. With the exception of 1/2 second on Vince Carter and another 3/4 of a second on Apollo Ohno, the spot features no celebrities or superstar athletes. Here's how the script could have looked:

Open on kid running.

Cut to montage of people playing frisbee, golf, hockey, little league baseball, etc.

SUPER: Just do it.

LOGO: Nike Swish

And that's it. It takes real craftspeople to bring such a minimalist idea to life. But even more so, it takes a visionary client to see how something so simple on paper could be so magnificent on film. Chief Marketing Officers like that are rare.

Someday, I hope to run into one.

Afghanistan Banana Stand

2011-08-03T06:44:00.000-07:00

At this writing we still have no idea whether the Congress will raise the debt ceiling or let the country go into default. But perhaps if we adhered to our own love of capitalism and the free movements of the marketplace we would not find ourselves in this precarious position.

Allow me to elaborate.

Last week CNN reported that militants in Afghanistan hanged an 8 year old boy after his father refused to comply with their demands. This is so abhorrent, it is hard to put into words. Why waste a perfectly good piece of rope when stoning, a much more economical way to punish insubordination would suffice? I've seen pictures of Afghanistan and I know that while they are not abundant in many other natural resources, they are not hurting for rocks.

And yet this rope, paid for by the American taxpayer, had to be wantonly used in another display of government financed waste. It makes the blood boil, doesn't it?

Here's a better idea. Let's reduce our national debt by one trillion dollars in one fell swoop. Let's pull ALL our troops and resources from this forsaken country and let them fend for themselves.

I'm well aware of the argument that if we leave, the Taliban and or Al Queda, will unseat the 'democratically-elected' Karzai government. Let them. We haven't won the hearts and minds of the Afghani people, neither will these Islamic extremists. Let them take over and deal with the issues of nation-building. If they can't provide food, water and electricity to the people because they are spending money on bombs, guns and suicide vests, they can deal with the wrath of the locals.

In other words, let the universal forces of supply and demand dictate the outcome for Afghanistan. And let my tax dollars pay for something more useful like teachers, cops and Navy Team Six.

BTW, I went to Home Depot to get an accurate cost of 12 feet of heavy duty rope needed to hang a
100 lbs. boy and come next April, I'm deducting $23 from my taxes.

Overheard on the streets of San Francisco

2011-08-02T06:54:00.000-07:00

Premium $80,0000 German automobile with a useless top speed of 160 mph and the same basic technology found in a $30,000 VW -- Check

High grade aluminum roof rack capable of hauling 500 lbs. of cargo -- Check.

Imported Italian baby stroller with anti-lock brakes and built-ipod connectivity -- Check

Ergonomically designed Marc Jacobs Baby Bag with storage compartments for bottles, food and parents matching knit caps -- Check

Change for the parking meter -- Damnit.

"Honey, hand me one of those disposable diapers...whaddya mean there's only three left?...Maybe if you stopped feeding him that pesticide-free, organically-grown fruit puree he wouldn't be shitting every 5 minutes like an old man in a nursing home."

FAIL

2011-08-01T06:03:00.000-07:00

This mural sits in the lobby of Wieden & Kennedy, an agency I have admired since I started in advertising. They are one of the few agencies that still does smart, challenging work that respects the intelligence of the consumer.

This little aphorism, Fail Harder, actually appears from the negative space created by thousands of push pins.

It is intended as a reminder to the students enrolled in Wieden's intern program.

It's a beautiful display and while I appreciate its intent I'm not so sure I concur with the sentiment. It feels like it was born from that same cushy school of thought that is less concerned about results and more concerned about self-esteem. The "we're all winners"and here's your trophy for participating mentality.

Sadly, I am all too familiar with this as my daughters have spent the last 8 years at a progressive, creative, developmental school. I could have added the words private and expensive, but that would be like rubbing salt in my own self-inflicted wound.

Next month they start at Catholic High School, a rigorous, college-preparatory school that embraces the 'sink or swim' philosophy. Where losing or not meeting expectations has consequences.

Maybe I'm being old school about this and don't see the wisdom of the Millenial Ways of the world (I also don't see a great body of work coming from them but that's a different story). But I do remember the way it was when I was learning the business.

We did our own self-policing. My partner and I would discuss the merits and the pitfalls of each idea. We did our best to come up with solutions to the client problems. And because we were so rarely given the opportunity to work on the choice assignments, we worked out butts off and swung for the fences. When our ideas didn't make the cut, we found out why and vowed to mend our mistakes.

But we never took any false pride in not winning.

Our credo was best summed up by Gene Kranz, Mission Control leader of the Apollo 13 -- for you younger readers that was one of the rockets we used to regularly send up to the moon -- who had a different take on the topic and said, "Failure is not an option."

What's named in Vegas, stays in Vegas

2011-07-28T06:25:00.000-07:00

It is 1:30 AM. And I am stumbling through the shopping center at the bottom of the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas, having consumed way too much Knob Creek and having lost way too much money at the Black Jack table (I should probably not hit on a 17 hoping to draw a 3 or a 4, but good bourbon will cloud your judgment.)

That's when I noticed Assouline.

Despite the late hour and the self-pity, I did have the good sense to whip out my iPhone and take a picture of this ill-named high end boutique wedged between the Hermes and Louis Vitton.

To be honest I have no idea what they sell at Assouline. I never bothered to look past the window. I suspect I was still giggling about the name, not unlike Beavis and Butthead, "Eh-eh-eh, it says ASS."

But I do have a hard time imagining the owners sitting in a room and choosing this name for their retail establishment.

"We have some excellent choices on the table but we have to pick a name that speaks to the upscale shopper and reflects our refined taste and discriminating sophistication. I think we can all agree that the right, and only, name we can go with is, Assouline."

If that taxes the imagination, try to picture an excited shopper returning home to the Upper West Side and showing her fellow Gotham socialites the treasures she secured in Nevada.

"Look at this beautiful watch I bought. It's a one of a kind."

"That is gorgeous. Where did you get that?"

"This wonderful boutique at The Cosmospolitan. It's called Assouline."

"Assouline? I must stop there."

"I also got this fabulous purse from a shop across the way, the Douche Baggery."

Just Stop

2011-07-27T06:16:00.000-07:00

As an avid viewer of Jeopardy, I have become all too familiar with their sponsors. Fortunately, I watch most the shows via a DVR and can zip through the commercials, which I realize is heresy for someone who makes a living making this crap.

Of course, I like to believe what I do is in a different league, but in reality it's not.

It's nearly impossible to miss the Meineke spots, as they come on just before the Final Jeopardy question --only the most important aspect of the show. Not only do I take issue with the commercials, I'm having a little trouble with the marketing premise.

If I go to a car wash, I like being able to choose whether I want a basic wash or whether I want the super-duper protective wax. Occasionally, I'll go the whole ten yards and have the car detailed. You know just to get the smell of my wet swimming towels and swimsuits out of the car. My wife will tell you I need to do that twice a week.

But when it comes to time to having my brakes serviced, I'm not so keen on spinning the wheel of pricing options.

What is Basic brake service? Do they replace the brake shoes with some old pads they pulled off a '92 Chevy? Or is it more like, "Oh you want us to put the tires back on the car? That's the Preferred Option."

No, when it comes to the brakes on my car, I want you to get the mechanic who trains the other mechanics to take his time, a week if he has to, and to use the finest state of the art equipment. When I pull away from the shop I want enough braking power to stop a 747.

Perhaps it's an excess of caution, but that caution is borne from experience. During the course of my life -- and this may be hard to believe but it's 100% true -- I have been behind the wheel on TWO separate occasions where the brakes have had a cataclysmic breakdown.

I'd like to go my grave without a third.

Louie Louie

2011-07-26T06:15:00.000-07:00

So last weekend I was in Las Vegas, on someone else' s dime, to watch the Adidas Super 64, a huge tournament to showcase the nation's best high school ballers. It was a great weekend of work and pleasure, mostly work. While watching some 18 year old phenom flying above the rim, I noticed my old buddy Louis Orr in the stands.

Louie was a standout forward for the Syracuse Orangemen and later went on to play for the NY Knicks. He is now the head basketball Coach for Bowling Green.

I went up to the bleachers and said hello to Louie. Told him I was Syracuse alumni and he couldn't have been happier to see me. I asked his assistant coach to take a photo of Louie and myself with my iPhone. He snapped a couple of pics. This guy might know his X's and O's but hours later, I was to find out he didn't know anything about technology. He failed to hit the Click button.

So I don't have any pictures of me and Louie. But I do have a favorite memory.

Like most athletes, Louie tried to build a curricula of the easiest classes. Come to think of it, I was guilty of the same offense. We sat next to each other in a class on Public Speaking. It was known on campus as the easiest of A's. Each week the students were to prepare a speech and present it before the class. That was it. Do twelve 2 minute speeches, get three credits towards a sheepskin.

As a former class clown, the class was a bit of a cakewalk for me. The same cannot be said for Louie and the other football and basketball players taking the course. They were always being reprimanded by the professor and told NOT to do speeches that involved sports, sporting events or anything that even had the word sports in it.

On his last speech of the class, Louie started strong. He was telling the gripping story of his aunt and her ongoing battle with cancer. He drew the crowd in with a sweet anecdote about how she cooked Sunday dinners. He tugged at the heartstrings with the details of her disease. He stirred the emotions with the tale of her bravery through painful and often harrowing treatments.

But then he blew the ending.

"The way she fought back and overcame the obstacles in her life reminded me of the time we were in North Carolina. It was the second half and we were down 13 points. Our 2-3 zone wasn't working and the Coach decided to go man to man with a full court press..."

Louie still got an A in Public Speaking, but I was happy to see he made a successful career for himself in basketball.

Stinky Ink

2011-07-25T05:58:00.000-07:00

I was in Vegas over the weekend for the Adidas Super64 High School Basketball Tournament. The best 64 players in the country meet in a 64 team NCAA-type tournament. I saw some amazing kids. But also as you might expect watching high school ball, I saw a lot of sloppy play.

I suppose that's why all the top college coaches were here scouting; hoping to shape one of the diamond-in- the-rough players and teach him the fundamentals about pacing, team play and overall basketball intelligence.

While we're on the topic of intelligence, take a look at the man's leg and pay particular attention to the spiky-haired cartoon character tattooed on the side of his calf. Now I've seen stinky ink. But rarely anything so poorly drawn. If I didn't know better, I'd say the tattoo artist had a hook for an arm.

My daughter draws better than this. When she was 3 years old.

I snapped this shot while waiting for my plane at the Southwest Terminal. I'm getting better at taking surreptitious photos. But this was especially difficult, particular when Dan (the account guy I was traveling with) and I were fascinated by a young woman seated behind us, an outrageously-endowed blonde/stripper/escort dressed in see through sheer nylon. Apparently on her way back to Vegas after visiting a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who was offering four implants for the price of two.

Sorry, I didn't snap a picture of her.
But hey, you're on the Internet, if you're interested in that kind of thing I'm sure you'll be able to find it.

Cindeeeeeee!!!!

2011-07-21T06:47:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, a British provocateur attempted to slam a foam pie in the face of Newscorp CEO Rupert Murdoch. As someone who has worked in advertising for more than 20 years, I certainly understand the urge to throttle someone deemed evil or idiotic.

I have sat in too many meetings with too many cretins and listened to too many stupid remarks, it's actually shocking that I pen this entry as a free man and not as tattooed lifer doing my third bit for Assault and Battery. But I'm a grown up, with a wife, daughters and two mortgages to support. So I've learned to suppress my inner Neanderthal.

That wasn't always the case.

In fact when I was 18 years old and filled with actionable piss & vinegar, I hit someone in the face with shaving cream pie, in front of a 100 stunned onlookers. Her name was Cindy. And she lived on the same floor in my college dormitory, which was mostly comprised of incoming freshman and sophomores. But Cindy didn't seem like a college student.

I have a hard time even picturing her as someone in her late teens or early twenties. The way she smoked her long thin cigarettes and spoke in a whiny, nasally voice made her seem like a 45 year old yenta, playing Mah Jong by the pool and complaining about her warm iced tea.

Those were just some of the qualities that made her so onerous. And it was all I needed to justify my actions. I planned my attack like Navy Seal Team Six. The RA's had gathered 100 or so students of Sadler 6 to hear the latest policies regarding phone use, meal cards and curfew hours. Cindy had taken her seat by a meeting table right by the stairwell. I, prepared with a home made pie of canned peach filling and Gillette shaving cream, stood at the wait on the 7th floor. I had also put on a full face ski mask, as if that would mask my identity. Given the high sign by a friend in the meeting, I bolted down the staircase, sprung through the door, spotted my target and firmly planted the pie all over her prematurely-aged face.

It was all so perfect. And all so perfectly uncalled for.

I can't believe I was ever that mean and petty and childish. Of course my behavior pales in comparison to some of the other guys on the floor who also had an unfavorable opinion of Cindy. If somebody ever attacks Murdoch with a fetal pig stolen from a Bio Lab, I'll share that disgusting tale.

A Rabbi walks into a bar

2011-07-20T06:25:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, a friend posted a video from the TED conference. I have become a huge fan of TED conferences speeches and have discovered some amazing things unveiled by some amazing people.

This particular speech was by Turkish author, Elif Sharak.

She made some interesting and valid points about the fallacy of identity politics. And my buddy heartily endorsed her point of view. But her speech stuck with me, as good speeches do. And I decided it needed some additional context.

You see, it's easy for a Muslim woman, a member of a group that accounts for nearly 1/4 of the world's population, to poo-poo identity politics. It's even easier for a white Christian male, whose numbers also top a billion, to espouse identity agnosticism.

But my narrative, and the narrative of 14 million others is a little different. My generation was born in the shadow of the Holocaust. I don't have the luxury of ignoring my identity. Nor would I want to.

Perhaps it's best summed up in an article by Joe McCain, brother of Arizona Senator John McCain, a man I once admired but who has sadly given way to nutty right wing extremism.

I hope you'll give this a read.

Besides, if I gave up on self-identifying, I would forfeit my right to tell good Jew Jokes. And that my friends, is worth the price of admission.

Moe Overhead

2011-07-19T06:56:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, a fellow copywriter and freelancer, asked if I'd be interested in doing a long term gig in Las Vegas. He was assembling a group of funny writers, somehow I got on the list, to write some TV show or something. I only remember I was booked otherwise I would have jumped on the opportunity to spend weeks with other writers crammed into a rented Winnebago.

As you can see from the picture above, it was a good thing I passed.

It seems while driving back my buddy misjudged the clearance of a highway overpass. Or he misjudged the height of the RV. In any case the vehicle came to an abrupt stop like an accordion exhaling one last sour note. Fortunately no one was hurt. Or decapitated.

As my occasionally funny buddy wrote when posting this picture to his Facebook page, "pretty sure we can buff this out."

Last week I found out he is leaving the freelance world and has accepted an ECD position at DDB in Los Angeles, which is located at the former home of TBWA Chiat/Day.
In the iconic binocular building.

I don't know if you can make it out from this picture, but the entrance to the underground parking garage passes right under the bridge of the binoculars. It's a pretty low clearance. Lower than many highway overpasses.

I just hope that if Erik decides to drive to work in his 2003 Sedona Maple Red Pontiac Aztec that he has the good sense not to put his prized Air Supply CD's in the visor pocket.