In the club

When it comes to clubs or organizations, I subscribe heavily to the Groucho Marx philosophy. 

I'm not going to quote Mr. Marx, knowing full well many readers of this blog are completely unaware (aka, too young) of his magnificent body of work. And his famous misanthropy. I'm hoping it will send some scurrying to the Google in search of answers.

If I can turn one reader into a Marx Brothers fan, my work here will be done.

My commitment to remaining an outsider is a lifelong one. To wit, I identify as Jewish and have a working knowledge of all its rich traditions, including the need to purchase tickets in order to attend high holiday services.

"You have to BUY tickets to sit in temple?", said a bemused Ms. Muse.

But I don't subscribe to many of its quirks and crazy religiosity. See Yeshiva University and its recent refusal to allow any LGBTQ clubs on campus. Fuck them, that's embarrassing and reflects a troglodyte POV I can't get behind.

There are many other instances where I have walked away from club-joining, including my aversion to fraternities while in college, runner's clubs when I was doing 10k races on a regular basis, and even my karate dojo, which felt a little too cultish for my independent ways.

However, I woke up the other morning after a tense and dreadful dream. I was back at Chiat/Day (see picture above which includes a glimpse of my old office, just to the left of the surfboard-toting old Datsun) in the heat of yet another life or death new business pitch. 

Interesting how after losing a pitch, many agencies will cut back and institute layoffs. And after winning a pitch, agencies will disburse bonuses to those, and only those, on the top side of an org. chart. The side I was never on.

Mind you, this is not the first time this type of dream has occurred. 

And while I can't provide the details of these cerebral adventures, I can tell you there have been many. 

And because I was always surfing my own adrenaline waves while in their employ, I couldn't get escape these dreams fast enough. Especially if they involved one particular under-skilled, alcohol-imbibing, pussy-grabbing member of upper management who always dropped a turd in my career punchbowl.

And yet, despite the unpleasant imaginary reliving of past vocational grievances, Chiat/Day is the one club I was, and still am, proud to be a member of. 

Perhaps, despite my protestations, I have always wanted to have that sense of belonging. And my membership in this elite club, that once ruled the roost in the ad world, did the trick for me. 

Still, it's been more than 20 years since I was gainfully employed there. I wish they'd get out of my dreams and that I could replace them. 

I'd gladly swap a new business pitch for something that involved Charlize Theron or Emily Ratajkowski.