Money in the bank

I got paid last week. 

Not in compliments. I don't usually get complimented. Curmudgeons who get grumpy because nagging back pain keeps them from their rigorous exercise routine tend not to get showered in a lot of flattery. 

And not in paybacks, in the form of refunds from my two grown daughters who are still teething at the paternal teat for cell phone usage and auto insurance. Thank you ill-conceived "family plans."

I got paid in real US legal tender, from the still legal US government. A rather longwinded way of saying I got my first Social Security check!!! Moreover the check was larger than I had suspected thanks to a last minute (and unexpected) COLA, Cost Of Living Adjustment, of an additional 2.5%.

Let's Go Brandon.

This excitement --are you feeling the excitement -- is tempered by the fact that this is by no means free money, like the bennies regularly handed out to US oligarchs, this is my money. Being returned to me after it was taken from me and I completed my indentured servitude in America's fastest drowning business, advertising.

For those of you who are younger than me (everyone) the process of securing the money owed to you by social security is not a simple one. 

I could have started collecting checks years ago when the data miners dropped a huge turd in the freelance copywriting punchbowl. Or I could have waited until I was 70 and tacked on another $1000/month in payouts. But I decided I'd go with my full benefits when the US government, in all their wisdom, decided I was entitled to a vocational breather. 

That was officially at 66 years and 7 months. Your mileage may vary.

But the tedious SS process pales in comparison to the bureaucratic abattoir that awaits you in the Medicare world. The learning curve is steep. Almost as steep as the step in my backyard that led to the fall that led to the cranky back that now requires an expensive visit from Manny the Masseuse with the magic hands.

A little more than a year ago I ran into LA Times columnist/writer Steve Lopez at a party in the Foothills. He has committed significant digital ink to the topic of retiring/semi-retiring. And we had a great chat about how to navigate the maze. If you don't read his column, you should.

I may not be the fastest walker in the herd, but I will tell you in advance, it can be confusing. More confusing than finding a football game on the streaming apps. 

As I detox from Trump, now a month into this cleansing process, you can expect to hear and read more about the retirement travails that lie ahead. 

But that'll have to wait, it's time for my mid-morning nap.

Scituate's finest

 

After yesterday's second trashing of the recent jaGUar campaign (and their tired vehicle line up) I thought I'd spread some good juju about a campaign I love. But sadly don't see enough of -- Goodby's work for Sam Adams beer.

I should preface this and say I'm a tad biased. 

After all, my sister in law has lived back there most of her life. And her three kids, and now their kids, are in and around the Marshfield area. So taken was I by the beauty of the Massachusett's coastline that years ago, I was tempted to pick up roots and move there.

Crazy, right? Who leaves Southern California to go back east and live in a saltbox?

The point is, I have some familiarity, other than the yearly Yankees v. Red Sox rivalry, to recognize New England authenticity. And that's what I love about the work, it rings true. Albeit in a glossy, manufactured, focus group-friendly kind of way.

For starters the campaign is distinctively tied to the beer. Samuel Adams beer, not my cup of suds, is unmistakably Bostonian. I could cite the connection to the real Sam Adams, but then I'd have to Google American History, not one of my favorite Jeopardy categories.

For other starters, I love how each spot begins with a crafted musical/graphic sting. Not sure why more ad agency people don't employ this technique. There's a reason why jingles worked in the 50's and 60's. In fact Ms. Muse has an encyclopedic knowledge of all them. As well as an awesome and often amazing ability to recall lyrics to every song known to mankind.

Years ago, when I was doing a radio campaign for Bizrate.com, I worked with April W. (did not secure her permission), who suggested we kick off each spot with a chorus of singers, "Another nightmare story about someone who got screwed online...e-screwed."

It was delicious. In the same way the announcer says, "It's your cousin...from Boston."

And then there's the character himself, who may or may not be a second cousin of Ben Affleck. Or Matt Damon. Or even the guy that doesn't like apples. 

He's salty, like a good Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chip basket. But he's not your typical ad spokesperson. I'm looking at you Toyotathon Jan. The client deserves mucho credit for taking the beach path less traveled. 

What I love most is that he's obnoxious, in an almost lovable kind of way. He's unfiltered. Brash. And set in his ways, come on, who wears a backward cap like that anymore? In other words, he's just like people from Boston.

Best of all, charming as it may be, I don't have to listen to that accent for more than 30 seconds at a clip. 

No offense cousins. 

Copy Everything

I've got a bone to pick. I hear you loud and clear, "Rich, when don't you have a bone to pick?" 

And that's totally fair. But if no one points out what's colossally misguided with this world how will it get any better? And so I take my job as righter of wrongs very seriously.

Moreover, while the Jaguar fiasco has gotten a little long in the large feline predator tooth, I have a special interest in the debate as I was, at one time, Group Creative Director on the account and feel I have a right to hold the current marketing genii to task.

More specifically, I take issue with the new tagline: Copy Nothing. 

I may be proven wrong when jaGUar shows us the new line up of vehicles sporting the Growler or the tamed version of The Leaper, but as far as the last 20 years go, jaGUar has COPIED Everything.

As any good lawyer knows, you can't make an assertion without having the proof. And on this I have substantial proof.

Take this 4 door sedan...

Now let's take a look at the Lexus ES 300...

Without the badge wear, you would not be able to tell the difference.

What about SUV's you say. Surely the cheeky lads in Coventry have broken new ground and fashioned an SUV unlike any other on the planet.

Here's the Lexus 350...

And here's the groundbreaking jaGUar F-Pace...

Uhhhhh.

Well they did use a fancy blue background. 

Ok, so I'm cherry picking. But I do enjoy winning an argument, though all the ample proof I've offered regarding Trump being an Idiot Savant of misogyny and feeblemindedness over all these years, was of no apparent use.

Let's take a look at the convertible jaGUar, a sports car where they have made a name for themselves.

And let's take look at the BMW's version (for variety's sake) of the two seated roadster.

Wait what?

When we were trying to breath new life into the brand (way back in 2002) we stumbled upon a maxim written by the head of design at Jaguar. "If you can't tell it's a Jaguar from 100 feet away, we have failed to do our job."

The commodification of the brand and the ill-conceived X-type -- now just $199/month, sorry, bad habit --has not done them a bit of good. 

I'll be shocked if this new marketing effort does anything to help.

Shocked, I tell you.