New Boss in town

Was chatting on a Zoom call the other night with my buddies from Team One. My Band of Brothers who went through the Chukuma-dug trenches in search of the next award winning Lexus commerical. 

At one point, during the mid-90s, the stack of dead storyboards stood floor to ceiling in our humble El Segundo office.

Good times. 

Better times now because we're not dealing with that mishigas and trying to appease an elderly Japanese man who barely knew 78 words of English, thus making the task of selling him a sophisticated luxury car commercial concept (no small feat even among English as first language marketing folk) next to impossible.

Nevertheless there are battle scars. 

Each of us, it seems, occasionally suffer from 'Deadline Dreams'. That is, we find ourselves stuck somewhere needing to come up with an idea or face some kind of peril. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest this is a common occurrence for those of us employed or formerly employed in the "I'll give you ideas if you give me money and the promise of a comfortable life business."

My Deadline Dreams always involved Lee Clow, which is understandable since I spent the better part of my career -- at least the productive part -- hawking ideas at Chiat/Day. These pressure-filled dreams don't make for a fitful night of sleep. And at the risk of going TMI, I have woken in the middle night in a puddle of my own self induced sweat.

But not so much lately. 

Ms.Muse has alerted me to a super secret of the gentile world, a secret previously unbeknownst to those of Hebraic (neurotic) Seasonings. I'm about to share it with you. It's called "manifesting." Meaning you can have a better life and the things you want, if you believe you will have a better life and the things you want.

"What?" he said rhetorically to no one but his not-so-clean keyboard.

It's true. For the past few weeks I've been chanting to myself, shortly before the Ambien kicks in, "no Lee Clow dreams, repeat, no Lee Clow dreams." And it has worked. It's like some kind of shiksa magic.

This got me thinking, always a treacherous proposition, particularly during these trepidatious times. It's time, high time, that I give my Ego and SuperEgo a rest. I'm ditching the filters and the niceties that regulated my behavior for oh so many years. 

There's a new boss it town. My ID. And he doesn't care about rules. Or deadlines. Or the the perception of others.

My ID tells me I can stay in bed until 10 or 11 o'clock in the morning, if I want to. (assuming my dog Lucy won't pee on the carpet.)

My ID says have that chocolate chip cookie, hell, have two, you burned 1800 calories today.

My ID balks at balking and commands me to do what I want, when I want and as often as I want.

I only have so many years left on terra firma, I'm giving my fate over to my ID. And in that vein, hoping I can manifest a Harris victory next Tuesday and send the orange antichrist back to the backwaters of Florida, where it belongs.