Tuesday, July 31, 2018

The Tale of the Taza

A few weeks ago, Wills Burns, who I know only through social media, put up a post on behalf of his friends at Taza Chocolate, based in Boston. They were looking for advertising/marketing help but didn't want to spend the money for a big, bloated ad agency. So, they held a Round Robin type contest. For freelancers.

They offered an unmentionable stipend and held out the promise of larger renumeration for the winners. Many of my colleagues in the freelance world scoffed at the idea. They held their noses up and claimed this was just one more step in the race to the bottom.

My partner and I -- no strangers to the world of start ups and scrappy companies trying to make the most of a buck -- had a different take.

First of all, what did we have to lose? We normally get together at my house to work on paying projects, how would it kill us to spend a few extra hours every day working on Taza? Moreover, since the summer doldrums are in full effect, business has been on the slow side lately anyway.

Secondly, perhaps more importantly, this was fucking chocolate. And we're two fat Jews who love chocolate. At the very least we'd get our hands on some tasty samples of super premium, stone ground chocolate.


The other thing is, and you can read this as thinly-veiled self promotion, but it's not, this was an opportunity to do what we have been doing, or used to do, our whole lives -- building a brand.

For us, this is the fun stuff. We had no planners in our ears. No hourly check ins. No false deadlines. No presentations before a pompous Leadership Council or Partner Panel. It was just two guys at a dining room table coming up with big, bold, ballsy ideas and laughing our asses off while we did it.

That's not work.

Amortizing fixed assets with corresponding depreciating tables, like what my brother the CPA does, that's work.

So we didn't win, so what?

And we ended up giving them work that we normally would have been paid twenty times than the fee we did earn, again so what?

We had an an opportunity to do what we do best. And what we love most.

We met and presented to a bunch of great people who literally gasped and snickered their way through our entire presentation, that doesn't happen often enough. At one point the CEO was reading one of the long copy ad-like objects we had written and was later quoting snippets from it.

And though we came tantalizingly close to winning the Taza account, we were promised to be put in touch with a fellow CMO at a different company on a well paying assignment/project.

The way we see it this is one of those rare Lose/Win/Win type of situations.

Monday, July 30, 2018

102 Degrees Of Hell.

What a week it was.

It started about 10 days ago, on Friday June 22, when my partner and I found out we had not won the Taza Chocolate account. An account we had poured our hearts into the previous three weeks. I think they told us we came in second place, but to be honest I didn't hear a word they said after the disappointing news. (More on Taza tomorrow.)

The weekend following quickly devolved, like a Precedent Shitgibbon news conference.

My wisdom tooth which had started aching while I was camping in the Sierras was now in full blown "Get Me Out Of This Skull" Mode. Thankfully, it waited until I was on my home turf and not while stuck in a nylon tent in BumFuck, California, where the nearest dentist is also the town's blacksmith, welder and meth cooker.

The entirety of the weekend was spent on the couch. Whining incessantly. And seriously abusing the opportunity to turn my wife into my own personal nursemaid. Which, for the record and because of of my preternaturally good health, I rarely do.

I also got an emergency dispensation of Vicoden from my dentist.

And quickly proceeded to abuse the dosage. If you've ever been afflicted with an angry, throbbing wisdom tooth cursed with a heaping helping of Siegel determination, you'd understand why waiting four hours between opioidal feeding times was simply out of the question.

On Monday we were off to see the oral surgeon. And by 2:37 PM, the monster molar that had been banging on the walls of his jail cell for the past two weeks, was out of my head.

This is when the real pain began.

That night, at home, before my recovery process could even get underway, I bent down to scoop up a bowl of dog food and tweaked my lower back. I didn't just tweak it. I twanked it. I twerked it. I twuncated it to the point of paralysis. I was in full Stephen Hawkins mode.

"Deb-or-rah, please bring me my pain go bye bye medicine."

As if that weren't enough, I also began to suffer from post-sedation chills. And sweats. Sweating, by the way, is something I do very well. That night my wife was awakened, not unlike the scene from the Godfather when the Hollywood producer finds himself in a pool of horseblood. Only in this case the sheets were drenched in me.


As if all that still weren't enough, I could not do any meaningful exercise. And if you know me at all you know I'm kind of addicted to my two a day routine of weight lifting and cardio. I had to abstain from alcohol. At least when my wife was around. She has all these crazy rules about not mixing alcohol with painkillers, pffft. And I ate very little. Very, very little. It's been like 7 days of Yom Kippur.

Nor could I vent on Facebook, having been blocked for three days for using the phrase White Trash.

The good news is that's all behind me.

And what doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And, it turns out svelter. My 36 waist cargo shorts are now feeling a little baggy.


Thursday, July 26, 2018

Chachi loves Joni

In case you didn't recognize her, that's Joni Ernst.

Senator Joni Ernst.

Years ago she campaigned on a platform of loving guns and wrestling with pigs on the farm she grew up on. I don't know how that makes her qualified to represent the people of Iowa on important policy making decisions.

But then, there's so much about this country I don't understand.



Senator Joni Ernst
825 B&C Hart Senate Office Bldg
Washington DC 20510

Hi Joni,

Pardon the informality but after reading how much you used to like wrastling with the pigs and such, I didn't think you'd mind. In fact, I think you'd prefer that to the stately "Dear Senator."

By the way, it should be noted that you are letter #23 in my yearlong campaign to correspond with each and every Republican Senator in our esteemed upper house of Congress. I can't tell you how satisfying it has been to begin a real live dialogue with our US Senators.

No, literally I can't tell you.

Because to date, I haven't received one letter or email back. Nice to know our representatives value the opinions of the common man. Or, in my case, the foul-mouthed, bitterly cynical man.

I'm writing to you today because after a cursory look at some wiki pages, I noticed that your state, Iowa, is the second leading producer of soybeans. 

In years past, most notably the Obama years, when there weren't any trade wars going on, this might have been a point of pride. But today, in the dysfunctional era of Precedent Shitgibbon (again, please allow for the informality) the mention of soybeans can only lead to heartbreak.

The last I heard, the price on a bushel of soybeans had been cut in half. And with the tariffs, in China and in Europe escalating, those prices only have one way to go -- down.

Which means there'll be a glut in the market.

Which means you're likely to encounter some very pissed off farmers at your next town hall.

But I've gotten way out in front of myself haven't I Joni? 

Because just yesterday, Captain Fuckknuckle announced a new $12 billion subsidy package to soybean farmers. 


Finally these farmers can jump on the government handout gravy train. They can start suckling on the teat of the American taxpayer. They can become the new welfare queens of the Midwest.

Our farmers, who once set the standard for hard work in America, can finally take a stroll down Easy Street. If there's a check from Uncle Sam in the mailbox, why get up at 4 in the morning. Why not sleep in? Wake and Bake? And cozy up on the couch to watch Maury Povich and Wendy Williams.

If I didn't know better, I'd say this smacks of socialism. But I do know better and I need to heed the words of the wise man in the White House who said, "What you're seeing and what you're reading isn't really happening."

 Right Joni?

Rich Siegel
Culver City, CA 90232

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

The Tale of the $101 Gas Cap

I've spent the better part of my 44 year old life building brands. Two of those years, 1994-1996, the brand I was building was Lexus.

I can tell you from experience, they spent yen up the ying yang to convince America, and the world, that Japanese engineering was equal to or better than the engineering coming out of Germany. And they have succeeded.

In 2003 I purchased the boaty LS 400, a fancy man's car. A luxury vehicle that took the edge off my 106 mile daily commute from Culver City to Irvine. I was so in love with that model (and the brand) that years later I traded it in for the LS 460, a more performance oriented vehicle.

I still love the car.
The brand, not so much.
And this is why huge multi-billion dollar corporations find themselves on the short end of the customer loyalty stick.

I went to Jim Falk Lexus in Beverly Hills, where I had been (note the past tense) servicing my LS for years. The call from the service technician was par for the course. Some ungodly amount for the most minor of services that had I spent more time in Shop Class I could've been doing myself. But they give you a loaner car and it makes the whole ordeal more convenient.

Then Part II of the conversation. In addition to the normal service they found some other items that needed repair. Of course they did, I know from years of experience, that's to be expected.

But Part III of the conversation was not.

SERVICE TECH: "Also, there's no gas cap."

ME: "How much for the gas cap?"

SERVICE TECH: "A hundred dollars and sixty five cents. Without tax."

You might think I'm exaggerating because I've been known to do that, but if the judge will allow, I'd like to present Exhibit A.

Exhibit A

By the way, there is no exhibit B or C or even D. Because as Jaime the Service technician was itemizing the $4000 plus in repairs, I was already scanning through the catalogue at Pep Boys where I found a gas cap replacement for $5.62. 

That's a 2000% mark up!

So concludes my patronage at Jim Falk Lexus. Or any other Lexus "stealership" for that matter. Because we're done. 

And this is where the short sightedness of greedy corporations comes in. Because the loaner car given to my wife was a sporty NX Crossover, which she thoroughly enjoyed driving while the technicians at Jim Falk Lexus were figuring out how to drain the Siegel Stay-Out-Of-A-Dirty-Nursing-Home-Savings-Account.

With a little cajoling on her part and a promise to trim my ear and shoulder hair, I might have considered trading in the LS 460 for a brand new NX. But any inclination I might have had to make such a big purchase is gone. 

Much like my original gas cap.

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Let me outta here

These days if you're not careful you can spend a lot of money on shit you don't use. A situation not helped by online shopping and automatic annual renewals.

I can't begin to tell you how many domain names I own on GoDaddy.




They seemed awfully clever and necessary at the time of purchase. But in retrospect quite useless considering my lack of coding skills. And my pitiful absence of follow through.

Last year, for instance I signed up for Adobe Pro DC Acrobat DocuMaster 9000 or some variation thereof. They have so many sub-brands of their fakakta software I can't even keep track.

The package came in handy for signing NDA's, new hire forms and all that other crap big agencies send out with every new gig. BTW, I've worked for all the big holding companies, why do I have to fill out a form every time I'm handed a brief? Don't these agencies have computers?

I thought technology was supposed to make our lives easier.

I was wrong.

Anyway, I decided to cancel my expensive subscription to this useless Adobe program and it took me close to half an hour to do so.

The online chatbot asked me if I wanted a transcript of our chat.

Oh, you're damned right I want the transcript.

Monday, July 23, 2018

Into the woods

Last week, as the 11 regular readers of this blog know, I was missing in action.

Lost, gleefully, in the majestic woods of the Eastern Sierras. Where we hunkered down beneath the mighty Twin Pines of Upper Grey's Meadow and settled in along the roaring, snow melted and trout-stocked waters of the Independence Creek.

Without the purple prose, we backed the Acura MDX into Campsite #12.

Before I get to my accounting of the trip, I need to address what I feel is the bobcat in the room. Because even though we are currently separated by miles I can hear the collective harumphing of Roundseventeen readers...

"Wait a minute, Jews don't camp."

To which I'd like to point out, we were the original campers.

Let us read from Exodus 3:19, "And the Lord freed them from their bondage and commanded them to leave Egypt in haste. And venture forth into the desert. Where they had no Coleman lanterns, bug spray or self inflating mattress pads."

Moreover, those Jews didn't camp for a week or even two, they roamed the Sinai Peninsula for 40 god damned years. And I'm sure they did it without ever complaining.

This year's trip, our 15th in the last 16 years, was special. Not only for what it was, but for what it wasn't. You see we had little or no telephone service up in the hills. And so, for 5 glorious days we went without news of Precedent Shitgibbon and his botched exercise in Diplomacy 101.

The escape from the escapades of Captain Fuckknuckle was sorely needed. And I am happy to say I have returned fully invigorated. Ready to redouble my efforts in the fight against this Fascist regime.

Also of note, we, my wife, myself and the two couples we camp with, did something we had never done before.

If you were to get out your topographic map of the Upper Grey's Meadow Campground you'd see there's a huge ridge just on the other side of the creek. For years we had always wondered what's on the other side. But since it stands 500 feet, for the purposes of this story, let's make that 1500 feet of vertical height above the campground, we had never sacked up and made the ascent. This year we did.

This ridge is without shade. It's a hardscrabble hill of sunbaked clay, rocks and brittle high dessert shrubbery. It's thorny. It's hot. It's literally crawling with rattlesnakes. But it was hardly enough to stop this group of hardy 44 year olds.

We scrambled left.
We scrambled right.
We navigated ravines, loose gravel and the constant thinning of oxygen at 8,000 feet above sea level that had our hearts beating faster than a rutting gerbil. Nothing was going to stand in the way of us planting our imaginary flag at the top of that summit.

And nothing did.

Except when we huffed and puffed our last breath and drank the last bit of water and finally ascended what seemed un-ascendable, we discovered there was a fire road leading to the top.

Getting back down was significantly easier.

Thursday, July 12, 2018

The Genius from Montana

This is Senator Steve Daines.

He's from Montana. You probably don't know him but the FSB agents in Russia know all about this cheese monkey. He's one of their new Useful Idiots.

Read more about Steve in Thursday Thrashing letter #21.



Senator Daines
1 Russell Senate Courtyard, 
WashingtonDC 20510

Dear Senator Daines,

Or shall I address you as Senator Schrodinger? 

As you seem to have mastered the time/space continuum and now have the ability to be in two places at the exact same time.

Last week, you pulled off a miracle of science, perhaps the biggest breakthrough in physics since the splitting of the atom.

There are pictures of you and your wife at 4th of July fireworks celebration in Washington DC. There are also published pictures of you, alongside 7 other Republicans (The Prostrate Eight) at a conference table with your new Russian overlords in Moscow.

How can this be? Particularly since a cursory check of the airline schedule shows it be to be physically and logistically impossible.

This can mean only one of two things, Senator:

Either you're a boldfaced liar, like the other 20 Republican Senators who I have already corresponded with in my yearlong campaign of letter writing. 

Or, through the dint of hard work and good old fashioned American ingenuity, you and your lovely wife have broken through into the fifth dimension and now have the capacity to effortlessly defy the laws of nature that govern the rest of us mere mortals.

I have trouble believing the first choice, particularly in light of what we now know of the high character and integrity of Montana people. Watching your brethren at Precedent Shitgibbon's rally last week was simply inspiring.  

To see those hundreds of Montanans walk out of that arena when our Commander in Chief berated a national war hero like John McCain and then denigrate the charitable efforts of former President Bush, well, that just choked me up. It was so inspiring. You must be so proud of those good folks from Bozeman, Billings and Butte. 

That was American exceptionalism at its exceptional best. 

And so, there can only be conclusion, Senator Schrodinger. You have transcended time, eluded space and accomplished what Einstein, Newton and Neils Bohr could only have dreamed of.

Even more impressive is that -- and yes I've taken the trouble of reading your online bio -- your formal schooling never went beyond a bachelor's degree at the highly prestigious Montana State University.

Color me impressed.

If I didn't have to wait for the electrician to show up to replace a blown fuse, I come all the way up to Montana just to tip my hat to your achievement. Of course, with your new powers you could pop in to Culver City any time you'd like. 

Please do Steve, I'd love to shake your hand.


Rich Siegel
Culver City, CA 90232

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Damn, it's hot.

In case you hadn't heard, it's hot in Los Angeles.

How hot?

It's so hot, animals are looking for a brushfire just to find some relief.

It's so hot, you can fry an egg on the sidewalk. And you don't even have to take it out of the carton.

It's so hot, you could convince a Republican Senator there is global warming. Ok, let's not get crazy, those Russian-bought climate change denying twatweasels are beyond reproach.

In any case, it's one of those days that make me happy I sprung for the Trane 9000 Arctic Deluxe Series Z air conditioning units. Equipped with superconducting titanium coils and the hydroponic flick flacks for maximum cooleration, my house feels less like the windswept plains of the Serengetti and more like the meat locker of Applebees.

And make no mistake, I have none of the hesitant attitudes towards costly refreshing cool air that plagued my father.

You see we had air conditioning in the house I grew up in. We had air conditioning in the cars my parents drove. What we didn't have however was a father who was willing to crack open his wallet and let us see what would happen if we pushed the ON button.

Mind you, this wasn't the dry, slightly irritating heat of Southern California. I'm talking about the sweltering 100 plus degree, 100 plus humidity heat of upstate New York. The kind of heat that would melt spare tires in the trunk of the car. The kind of heat that would cause mercury to expand and break thermometers. The kind of heat that would make the Son of Sam believe he heard dogs talking to him.

If our dog could have talked he would have cornered my miserly father and said, "turn on the damn air conditioning!!!"

I'm not sure what all that thriftiness and self-flagellation bought my father, but I'm not having any of it.

It's 2 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon (I write these blogs in advance) and it's 97 degrees out. I'm gonna pour myself an icy pineapple/banana mojito and notch down the temperature to a comfortable 71 degrees.

Then I'm going to pass out on the couch and let that cold air keep blasting until I have to reach for a comfortable warm blanket.

And, I'm going to do it without feeling the slightest trace of guilt.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

The Coyotes of Culver City

Coyotes and Southern California. They go together like Precedent Shitgibbon and brain injury.

Normally, people jump to the image of an exploitive asshole, taking poor immigrants for every peso they've got. Loading them into the back of an beat up old Nissan Cargo van. Tossing them some Sparkletts water and some packets of stolen airline nuts. And then dropping them off in one of the ungodly neighborhoods of El Centro in the Imperial Valley. Pro tip: all the neighborhoods of El Centro are ungodly.

But the coyotes I'm talking about today are of the four legged variety, see above.

We've got 'em.
And by we, I mean Culver City.

There are coyote alert posters plastered throughout the neighborhood.

Apparently, they nest above the hills in Baldwin Park and venture down into the tonier sections of Culver City at night looking for cats. To eat. It all feels so lycanthropic, thank you Toby Barlow.

Moreover, there's a hardly a day goes by that one neighbor or another hasn't gone onto nextdoor.com to tell the harrowing tale of the "disappearance" of Mr. Biggles, Schrodinger or Catrick Swayze.

It's heartbreaking.

But then again if you've ever watched a few hours of the National Geographic Channel, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nature is a bitch. One minute you're watching a young impala make a miraculous escape from a bullet fast cheetah and enjoying some Serengetti schadenfreude.
Twenty minutes later you're watching one of the cheetah young cubs, dehydrated and bony (because his mother lost a kill), fall in a ditch and never get up.

As my neighbor, the great M. Emmett Walsh put it when I told him I think there are tree rats running along our mutual fence, "Hey, they gotta live too."

Rats gotta live.
Coyotes gotta eat.
We all live in the same neighborhood.

There is one notable exception however.

If you're the kind of person who disregards the warning at the bottom of the flyer and insists on actually feeding the coyotes, you represent the shallow end of the gene people. You're a candidate for the Darwin Award. You're the kind of douchebag neighbor who has a jet engine loud car alarm that goes off at all hours of the day. To you, sir or mam, I would suggest you ALWAYS feed the coyote.


Monday, July 9, 2018

Moving Backward

Have you seen the new charm offensive from the good folks at Uber?

I'm sure you have because they've gone decidedly old school with it and plastered the airwaves with big production TV commercials -- remember those?

This isn't going to be some chincy, online banner effort. Hell no. Uber wants you to know they're moving forward. And they want you to know their new tagline is Moving Forward.

I caught myself pondering all this. Why? Well, not because it was a slow day in the news. We don't have those anymore. But because it all seemed so familiar. And unsettling. Like a taste I knew but couldn't identify. Like the fragrance of a perfume an old girlfriend used to wear. Or was it my mother? I mentioned it was unsettling, didn't I?

I repeated the phrase over and over.

And then it struck me.

Uber's new tagline seemed familiar and well worn because Uber's new tagline was once Toyota's.

And I know this from years of experience, working on Corolla ads, Camry ads and the ubiquitous Toyotathon ads. By the way, there's a Toyotathon going on right now and you better visit your local Toyota dealer now because the savings and these amazing deals won't last.

(Editorial note: Please excuse me. My hands took over and involuntarily typed that urgent CTA. I had nothing to do with it. It was simply misguided muscle memory.)

Back in 2013 Toyota abandoned the Moving Forward platitude and went for something more declarative and robust, Let's Go Places.

All of which gives me a natural springboard to bitch about what all copywriters bitch about: taglines.

They suck.

Because more often than not they're poorly written word salads that mean nothing. Or look good on a coffee mug. Or fit nicely on a T-shirt handed out at a moral building corporate retreat.

These days, taglines come in the one word or the very fashionable two word variety. And instead of reflecting the core DNA of the company, they tend to espouse some bullshit zeitgeist conjured up by planners, all reading off the same research material. Giving us the standard tropes about Empowering, Progress, Future, Together, Innovating and then, even more Empowering.

The contrarian in me says taglines should be long. Excessively long. And repeated until they become memorable.

Most industries can't hold up one company with a great tagline. The overnight delivery business has two.

When it absolutely positively has to be there overnight.


We run the tightest ship in the shipping business.

Point is, if Uber can't come up with an original tagline, one that states who they are, what they do or even what they believe in, in a distinctive ownable way, maybe they shouldn't run a tagline at all. That's perfectly acceptable.

My other point is...

They suck.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

Happy 4th of July

We have 2047 kids in custody, snatched from their parents, awaiting trial.

We have new trade tariffs from China, Canada and Europe.

We have a denuclearized North Korea, renuclearizing.

We have a rising national debt, now at its highest level ever.

We have journalists being attacked by POTUS and shot by domestic terrorists.

We have domestic terrorists (Nazis) running for office.

We have a Supreme Court about to become a Supreme Kangaroo Court.

We have a White House staffed with crooks, liars and scumbags who need $1500 tactical pants.

We have daily assaults on our DOJ and FBI. (By a man who ran fraudulent Trump University)

We have Russian, Saudi and Israeli interference in our national elections.

And we have a President who is the subject of a Special Counsel investigation that has already produced 24 indictments, 5 guilty pleas and a campaign chairmen currently widdling birdcages from jailhouse popsicle sticks. Not to mention he has been the subject of 3500 other lawsuits including sexual assault.

We are a nation in distress.

Have another hot dog.

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

I'm on social media.

Someone, I can't remember who, sent me an email complimenting me on my mastery of social media.

They seemed to take special delight in how I had synched this blog to my Facebook account as well as my Linkedin account as well as my Twitter feed as well as my many Tumblr pages. They claimed, perhaps hyperbolically, that I hand spun social media to create an effective online presence bordering on, dare I say it, a Brand.

Not bad for a 44 year old Luddite.

And while I do go to lengths to stay on top of the current technology, particularly in light of our business, there had always been one piece of the social media puzzle that was missing -- Instagram.

Last week, much to my daughter's dismay ("Dad, that's so lame!") I fixed that. I whipped out my iPhone 7 and got on board the Instie train.

I started teaching myself the interface. The filters. And the little secrets to increase my Instie visibility. Naturally there's an agenda behind all this. It goes without saying that clients, big and small, want their advertising partners to be versed in all manner of media. And so I will be.

What I won't be doing however is conducting my Instagram account like the millions of others.

For one thing, I don't plan on following anyone.


Also, there will be no shots of meals, before or after.

No selfies.

No sunsets or beach shots or anything else that might pass for photographic pretension.

Here's a recent entry...

It's just going to be the odd shot I find myself collecting, married to a semi-witty caption, just to keep the brain synapses firing.

I would tell you how to find me on Instagram, but I haven't figured that part out yet.

Monday, July 2, 2018

No Country for Old Ad Men (And Women)

Had coffee the other day with an old colleague and fellow old timer -- there's a good chance this guy was even older than 44.

At one time in our careers, you could argue we were both on the A-Team. We were starters. We swung the heavy bats. We batted clean up and more often than not, cleared the bases. We were clutch.

At one time in our careers, you'd find us at the awards shows. Sitting at the good tables. In the front. Our smiles would be beaming. Mostly from the reflection of gold and silver trinkets gathered in front of our dinner plates. And juniors would flock to us for advice.

At one time in our careers, recruiters and creative service managers had our phone numbers, email addresses, online portfolios and escalating day rates, right at their fingertips.

You know the rest of the story. And you probably know the tenor of the rest of our little coffee clutch. Misery loves company. As well as the occasional blueberry scone.

If I may paraphrase Malcom X...

We've been marginalized.



And bamboozled.

We're not at the back of the bus.

We've been thrown under the bus by small minded bean counters and craft-despising holding companies.

We didn't land on Madison Ave.

Madison Ave landed on us.

And paved us over with hot, merciless asphalt.

OK, this is getting a bit strained, but you get the point.

Of course, I've got less right to gripe than others. It hasn't all been banners ads for Harry's House of Catheters. A few weeks ago I did a cool direct-to-client project for a high tech company.

Did some pitches for a bunch of creative guys who still appreciate the role of humor.

And I'm currently working on some political thing and another Black Ops project that I can't talk about.

And so, as I was telling my friend who was new to the world of mercenary advertising,

"That's what freelancing is all about. There's some good. A lot of bad. And a great deal of free time to spend in your garage lifting weights and finding the perfect containers for all the wing nuts, molly bolts and color-coded electrical wire caps."

Personally, I wouldn't have it any other way.