Get Out

I know this may be a fatal blow to readership but the other morning I had a dream.

The dream was so vivid and so frightening that I awoke with a shudder and took many deep reassuring breaths that the world I was trapped in, was only in my skull. Nevertheless it merits discussion.

I had fallen into a cult. The cult leader was a former All-Star at Chiat/Day advertising, whose name I will not divulge, suffice to say he was not well liked. Some even called him a Dick. Nevertheless, he was surrounded by scores and scores of sycophants. I realized something was up when I was asked to produce some ideas on a ridiculous 45 minute timeline. 

The working conditions were horrible. The desks were nothing but bales of hay.

Somehow I managed to escape the compound (located by Venice Beach) and found myself in a field, in what would now be Oakwood. I started running. But was tracked down by two teams of Catchers on supercharged golf carts. They dragged my sorry ass back to the compound where I was greeted by a slew of ad veterans, including my old partner Dennis L. and legendary writer Kathy H. 

( I hope they won't mind the name dropping)

There were many others, but you know how dream memories go. In the end I resigned myself to being stuck in this advertising hell forever. And then woke up.

I discussed this nightmare with Ms. Muse as well as my friend/ex-boss/ex-roommate/ex-writing partner/fellow traveler through life Jim Jennewein, who had an interesting take on the matter. He attributed it to my current transitional state -- from employed ad copywriter to semi-retired ad copywriter.

How astute, I thought. 

Furthermore, as I was telling Jim (now a professor at Fordham) how the industry had been broken and how wages had been halved and halved again by greedy beancounters eager to please shareholders and purchase a third vacation home near the Cayman Islands, I still held out hope. Misgiven as it was. And, still received hundreds of job alerts for companies seeking freelance writers.

That, he said, was a mistake. 

True, because there's no way in the data driven world of dreck and more dreck, I'd be selected out of 897 eager applicants. Nor would I want to, considering many of these so-called jobs, now pay by the word. I believe 2 or 3 cents is the going rate for a writer with 35 years of experience, like myself.

Therefore, in the interest of avoiding nightmarish dreams and to make my exit from the "cult" permanent, I have actively stopped seeking employ. Indeed --in the vernacular of the day-- I have changed my job alert preferences. See picture below.

Should any potential employer now respond I know without a doubt I will be the perfect candidate. And willing to move the discussions to the next stage. 

As long as the desks are not made of hay.