It's in the bag

Yesterday I plugged a competitor's blog.

Today I'm plugging a former copywriter's business.

Her name is Pam Barsky. I met Pam a long, long, long time ago. We were both students at the Carson/Roberts Creative Workshop -- names that will mean nothing to today's generation of copywriters and art directors.

(Other meaningless names include Bill Bernbach, Jay Chiat, and Howard Gossage.)

For some reason, Pam was disillusioned by the ad game. It defies all reason, but she found it demoralizing, stifling and riddled with political ass nuggets.

So she did what few of us do, she got out.

And started a boutique in the tony neighborhood between Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. Selling bags. For some reason women need bags. And lots of them. These are not just bags. Each features a pithy headline/slogan/theme, if you will.

She turned her ability to string a few clever words together into a venture that made the sales register ring.

Is that jealousy you detect? You're damn right it is.

Her business thrived so she packed up and did what few sane Californians do, she moved to NYC, the vortex of the Polar Vortex. Now dozens, maybe hundreds, maybe thousands of Gothamites are tooling around the city with Pam's creativity in full display.

She doesn't have to water anything down.
She doesn't need client approval.
And she gets to write whatever the fuck she wants.

It's sort of like this blog, only she makes money at it.

Pam was kind enough to send me some of her handiwork. I promised her a picture of both my daughters with two of her bags. But after a recent spat about college choices, my oldest daughter isn't speaking to me.

Not only do I suck at developing an exit plan from advertising, I'm not so good at this fatherhood thing either.