It's that time of the year again.
All my colleagues, well at the least the ones that are more talented, more ambitious and more skilled at climbing the corporate ladder, are feasting and gorging themselves (at the expense of other ad agency personnel who haven't had a raise or a bonus in a dozen years) in Cannes in the south of France.
Do you detect some sour Cabernet grapes?
Of course you do.
I've made no secret of my disdain for this lavish and useless bacchanalia of fedora hats, ill-fitting Speedos and Scaramucci-worthy ass licking.
In fact, I've gone through the past 10 years of RoundSeventeen and noticed I had a written a blog about Cannes each and every year.
I've poked fun at the not-so-prescient panels.
I've riffed on the gluttony.
I've done a number on the number of entries.
I've dinged the drooling fascination with all things digital including the Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks™.
And last year, I did an itemized bill for what the average Cannes goer spends in a day. If you're an account executive or a media planner working 73 hours a week and haven't had a weekend off since Bin Laden was killed, you don't want to look at those numbers.
In short, I've said and written about all I can say on the matter of Cannes.
I can't say any more.
Except this.
If the point of all this wining, dining, yachting, drinking, "thinking" and canoodling is to inspire clients and creatives alike. If its purpose it to help us break through and land on big ideas that fuel commerce and push our collective culture in a new direction. If Cannes is meant be the spark that ignites new thinking, new media, new possibilities that will propel our industry and change the vector of capitalism for decades to come, then I have one simple question.
Where is the work?
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