There's a lot not to be happy about these days.
The ad industry is a state of disarray. Clients want more for less. Agencies pay less and want more. And as a result, agency staffers die on the job. Making advertising almost as dangerous as fire fighting and crab catching. But there are foosball tables.
On a more personal note, my neighborhood is also going through some changes. Older homeowners are leaving for that great California craftsman in the sky. And newer homeowners are moving in. All of them with loud, barking dogs who seem to live outside 24 hours a day.
And finally there's our Constitution-abusing Commander in Chief who has brought his questionable hygiene habits to the Mar-A-Lago and that other house in Washington, DC.
In light of all this, it helps to remind myself of a little anecdote I heard just a couple of weeks ago at a funeral for a friend of the family.
During a beautiful eulogy, the woman's daughter told the story of two little boys, each left in separate rooms.
In one room, the 6 year old finds himself surrounded by a truckload of shiny new toys. There are balls and guns and sticks and video games and everything a kid could ever want.
In the other room, his brother finds himself surrounded by shit. Stinky, smelly, shit, piled high from corner to corner, from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling.
The dad, comes back a few hours later.
The boy with all the toys is crying. Screaming like a baby. And throwing a tantrum fit for president. He tells the curious dad, "These aren't the toys I wanted."
The father opens the door to the adjoining room and finds the other boy, laughing, and smiling from ear to ear.
"What are you so happy?" asks the inquisitive Dad.
The grinning little boy explains, "Well, with all this shit, I figure there's gotta be a pony."
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