Play Ball

I'll admit it, I'm a fair weather baseball fan.

Put a baseball game on the TV in the middle of May and I'm more likely to switch the channels to the Home Shopping Network or that odd infomercial for the Trojan Vibrator, the one that "blows your hair back."

But come October and the Division Series, the Championship Series and the World Series and I hang on every word uttered by Tim McCarver. I love the action, I love the nail biting drama and I love the convoluted strategy.

Safety squeezes, pitchouts, running on 2-0 count. I can't get enough of it. It's all so heady. It's the athletic equivalent of chess. Played by a bunch of lunkheads who chew tobacco, light each shoes on fire and wet towel snap each other in the locker room without a hint of homo-erotica.

Last week, we had an Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher named Putz. 
And this week, I was happily introduced to the hard-throwing Doug Fister.

I'm going to tread lightly here because this is -- with few minor exceptions -- a G-rated blog and when discussing the practice of fisting and those who are fisters it's too easy to slip into no man's land. Let's just say that when Fister is on the mound I pay special attention and I am on Defcon 5 for any mishandled puns or slips of the tongue.

Speaking of slips of the tongue, I'm pulling for the Cardinals. I hear they're pulling up a utility 3rd baseman from the Toledo Mud Hens in the AA league. His name is Steve Felcher.

Soulless

Spotted this bumper sticker the other day. It wasn't the first time I had seen it, but part of me wishes it were the last. I have been meaning to jump on these Pro-Drum activists ever since the start of the hunger crises in Darfur.

Look at this clown in the picture. Not only does he have a dozen freshly minted bumper stickers to get the pressing needs of organic drummers out there, he's got the 100% cotton T-shirt that amplifies his ardent feelings.

Now you can call me tone deaf. I don't see or hear a world of difference between a hand-made Pearl High Hat and it's electronic equivalent.

But Rich, I can hear you say, surely there must a hundred other worthwhile topics to rant about than those who despise drum machines. And that is exactly my point.

There are a hundred other rant-worthy topics and this guy, and his ilk, ought to look into some of them.

There are children starving and tribal ethnic cleansing going on in Africa, there is institutional oppression of women and Non-Muslims on the Asian Subcontinent, there is the widening gap between the obscenely wealthy and the obscenely poor, there is pollution, there is violence, there is the depletion of our natural resources, there is a host of problems all worthy of a movement.

And all of them of them are infinitely more important than the flitterings of the percussion-obsessed.

While drum machines may have no soul,  neither do the people who are so fervently opposed to them.

Two Things Jews Don't Do

Today we feature another installment in my long running series of Things Jews Don't Do.

Recently, I've decided to supplement my daily swimming and running routine with some weight lifting. I've been doing a lot of reading about the beneficial aspects of pull ups but had no place for a chin up bar in my garage. I went online and found a lot of suggestions for mounting a chin up on the ceiling or with a wall mount.

Unfortunately, most of those involved drilling, measuring and lag bolts. Generally, if I hear the words lag bolts, I run the other way. And I have the poorly patched drywall holes to prove it.

Then I came across this unique and deceivingly simple solution (see above) that takes advantage of the rafters that span across the garage. It is a perfect example of quintessential American ingenuity using nothing more than a little imagination and some dirt cheap steel piping.

I hopped in the car, ran to Home Depot and quickly purchased 6 3/4" elbows, 2 3" nipples (their terminology not mine), 2 10" pieces, 2 4" pieces and one 36 inch bar of 3/4" pipe. Total cost: $29.71.

Within minutes I was home and had successfully recreated the apparatus.

A testament to simplicity, this could very well be the first and only home improvement project that did not require two, and many times three, return trips to the Home Depot.

Tomorrow, the next chapter in Things Jews Don't Do:
A proper military-style chin up.

Branding 101

Last week I ran into my old partner at temple. I didn't recognize him at first because I didn't know he was a member of my congregation and also because there are business colleagues I only associate with business. It's a matter of context.

In any case, he's now some bigwig with one of the holding companies. No need for names because, well, I don't need to give anyone a reason to blacklist my name for any future assignments. I'm sure I'm persona non-grata in plenty of places, thank you very much.

Years ago I was working on a freelance assignment at this unnamed agency. The art director and I presented a bunch of concepts to the previous Creative Director. He liked many of them but selected three for further development. Then he told us that the agency had been very successful beta-testing a new software program called Alpha One which tested creative ideas for efficiency and message resonance.

"Really?" I said.

"Really." He replied.

So, he added, can you go back and rewrite these ideas and mention the client's name within the first 7 seconds of the commercial?

"You're shitting me, right? I said.

"Not shitting you." He replied.

Adding, it would be better if you could mention the client name in the first 5 seconds.

It's funny how little we have learned from Steve Jobs, the greatest marketing visionary to ever wear a client hat. Imagine if the "1984" spot had been put to the Alpha One test. We wouldn't be talking about it. Same thing for the Apple's 1998 "Think Different" campaign. In fact, the same applies to every commercial that has ever made its way into your memory vault.

Had I a set of balls and not a looming mortgage/car/tuition/insurance payment due I would have simply followed the Creative Director's logic to its logical conclusion and brought him back an
Alpha One-friendly script like:

Open on art card of (Client's name).


Cut to a man and woman talking at a restaurant.


MAN: Client's name client's name client's name?


WOMAN: Client's name!


MAN: Client's name client's name client's name Client's name client's name client's name Client's name client's name client's name.


WOMAN: Client's name.


SUPER: Client's name.


Cut to plane dragging a banner across the sky.


BANNER: Client's name.


WOMAN: Oh client's name.


TAG: We're not just (insert industry type), we're Client's name.

WTF

Read enough business books and you'll stumble across this golden nugget of wisdom, "aspire to be the dumbest person in the room." That is hardly a difficult task when planners/strategists/Chief Experiential Innovation Officers put up slides like the one pictured above.

Can somebody please explain this to me?

There are six arrows, four ovals and a gay three-dimensional, five-layered pyramid that defies all logic and reason. And I haven't even mentioned the two acronyms, the multicolored type and the ridiculous redundancies.

Isn't Assessment the same as Findings of fact and opinion?
Isn't Analysis the same as Experimental Observations?

Surely there must have been a simpler way of saying what this chart (?) intends to say. Something with one simple circle or a triangle or even a nice parallelogram. I would suggest an alternative, but frankly I don't know what the hell chart intends to say.

I do know that the person who prepared this had something very important in mind. Seriously, look at the carefully drawn light streaks on the left side of the pyramid. That's some impressive shading. Same goes for the strategically-placed ovals that seem to pop off the page. I had no idea that art was part of the current MBA curriculum.

And yet still after laborious assessment and analysis the only insight I have gained is that I am an incurable Luddite.

Perhaps the pundits are correct. The problem with the American economy is that we have become a nation of marketers and information shufflers. We have stopped making things. We don't manufacture anything of any value to anyone, anymore.

Of course, if you needed to document that monumental decline with a snappy pie chart or a trapezoid, well, we could have that to you before noon.

He's such a Putz

As I mentioned before, you can count me among the easily amused.

The other night, for instance, I had to fiddle with the DVR to get just the right shot of this young man, a relief pitcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks with the sad surname of Putz.

I can count on one hand the number of Yiddish words that have successfully slipped into our vernacular. Putz, schmeckel and schmuck come to mind. I'm sure there are a dozen more, but I'm writing this on the morning of Yom Kippur, I have no food in my belly (and won't until sundown) and in a couple of hours I will have to slap on the monkey suit and sit in shul goose-stepping to a God I don't believe in.

If you're that interested get off your tuchas and look up your own Yiddish words.

I can't imagine the grief J.J. Putz took growing up with such a last name. Particularly since he pursued a career in the testosterone-fueled world of athletics. Maybe it wasn't so bad in Michigan, where Putz grew up. After all he was named Mr. Baseball. And Midwesterners, like my Minnesota-born wife, are so notoriously nice.

But in 2009, Putz was traded to the NY Mets. Meaning he played in Flushing, my old neighborhood. Which also means he came under the careful scrutiny of the NY Post reporters, who can mercilessly spin a good headline.

That must have been tough. But I'm sure J.J. handled it all with aplomb. After all, by this time in his career I'm sure Putz has developed a thick skin.

You know you want it.

You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

Last week I shared the story of Sandee Westgate and one of the last Taco Bell commercials we filmed at Chiat/Day. And to lure you in I baited the hook with an almost-NSFW shot of her from Google images. Well, the traffic numbers have been analyzed and let's just say you people are driven by base instincts.

In that light here's another story about my brush up with the porn world. And by the way, if you live in Los Angeles, even if you're a Southern Baptist, home-schooling, tomato-canning survivalist, you're within 6 degrees of fornication of the porn world.

In March of 2009 I was hired to be the Interim Creative Director at DIRECTV, in charge of their Tier 3 and Tier 4 communications. It was FSI's, local dealer inserts, newspaper ads, the kind of stuff that is frankly more useful as kitty litter lining than meaningful persuasion. But it was a good day rate, a long term gig and we, the country, were in the middle of a financial crisis.

I was happy to take their money and churn out the kind of punny work that so easily passes for clever.

It wasn't very challenging but it was interesting to immerse myself into the client environment. I think all ad agency creatives should do this so they get a proper perspective on what it means to actually work.

Everyday I would show up at the corporate headquarters in El Segundo with hundreds of DIRECTV staffers. They were always dressed up. They didn't show up with their dogs. They didn't ride Razors down the hallways. And when you'd walk by their cubicle, they weren't shopping on Zappos or Facebooking or playing Snood, they were nose-deep in spreadsheets, analysis reports and sales charts.

I never knew what any of it meant but the results speak for themselves. DIRECTV is the number one provider of satellite TV service. They are the market driven kingpins. They are meticulous and leave no trend or percentage point or customer comment card unturned. It's all about the details.

Which is all the more fascinating when you consider that they have an entire team committed to bringing you the finest in adult entertainment. As my buddy Jeff pointed out, a significant portion of DIRECTV's revenue stream comes from channels 593-599, the pay per view porn.

"Ever push the button for the 7th floor? You can't go there unless you have a certain key card. That's where the porn people work", Jeff added.


That's when it struck me that everything I was seeing on the fourth floor was being duplicated on the seventh. Dedicated professionals striving, fighting, aching to do their best and make a career for themselves in the efficient delivery and distribution of smut.

I hate status meetings, but oh what I would have given anything to sit in on one of theirs.

"Where are we with the new MILF movies?"


"I just got off the phone with Vivid. Next month they're releasing Housewives Gone Wild 14 and Cougars and Corndogs."


"Good. Dennis, I'm seeing a 2.3% revenue drop in Legal and Latino. What's going on?


"My team is digging into the ASI reports as we speak and we have some focus groups scheduled in Houston, Detroit and Des Moines."


"Alright let's get to bottom of that. Liz, I understand you've got a new poster for the new Sappho series?"


"We have it as a pdf. I'll put it up on the powerpoint so everyone can see it."


"That's nice. Good work. One thing though. That dildo looks a little small. Anybody else think that?"


Murmur, murmur, murmur.


"Can we make that cock 10% bigger? Can we do that?"

Risky Business

Spotted at the Waterpark Office Complex in Santa Monica.

I almost didn't see the abysmal rating until I overheard two women who had made a beeline for the exit when they saw the "C" rating. You have to be awfully hungry and lacking for choice before you sit your ass down for a Cobb Salad at a place that has barely earned the right to keep their doors open.

Getting a "C" is not like getting a "C" in Geometry because you momentarily forgot the Pythagorean Theorem or a "C" in English because you dangled a participle. The restaurant grading system is far more lenient. In the name of commerce it has to be. In reality an "A" is "B", a "B" is a "C" and a "C" is "let's go eat somewhere else, somewhere free from vermin infestation."

I know this because I paid my way through college, and a few misguided years after college, as a short order cook/saucier/line cook/ and chef apprentice. I've seen the inside of restaurant kitchens and if you've seen what I've seen, you'd opt for a Swanson's HungryMan Meal 7 days a week.

Before I entered advertising, I was the Head Cook and Kitchen Manager at a steakhouse in West. LA.

In addition to the great ribs and steaks, we catered wrap parties for movies including PolterGeist and the original Twilight Zone. On one particular weekend, the delivery guys had just dropped off a month's worth of dry goods: linens, condiments, and non-refrigerated produce. That afternoon I ripped open a 50 lbs. box of extra-large Idaho baking potatoes. As I tore the cardboard flap open, a potato-sized rat darted across my hand and scurried out into the restaurant. I didn't know what the hell had just happened. It was like a potato had sprouted legs and sprinted from the box like Carl Lewis.

I almost had a heart attack. At the ripe age of 23.

For the next hour, Valentino, Abel, Fernando, Paco and I, with broomsticks in hand, chased that wily rat to no avail. In the following weeks we were to find out the rat was not only wily, but pregnant. In two months time we had more rats than we had customers. They were behind the drywall. On the ceiling. One even bolted across the dining room floor, in the middle of Happy Hour.

Which didn't make anyone happy.

The restaurant, like most restaurants, didn't last much longer.
But through it all, we never had a Health Inspection rating lower than a "B".

Press lightly on the gas pedal

Tomorrow morning my oldest daughter will be taking a test to get her driving learner's permit. And though I've invested a few hundred dollars for her to take a course to prepare for the test, I am secretly hoping she fails.

I'm just not ready to hand her the keys to a car. Ok, today's cars don't actually use keys, but I think you get my drift.

I'm still not comfortable with the fact that she wears a bra. With two teenage daughters and a wife, there's enough bras in my house to outfit a nunnery. I can't pull a pair of socks out of the dryer without getting my hand snagged in a Maidenform. What has my life become?

If by some circumstance she does manage to pass the test my next task will be to hire a surrogate father. You see, I know myself. I know my short temper. I know that at the very first incident that requires hard braking, my right foot will go through the floorboards on the passenger side of my precious Lexus.

My father had the same self-awareness.

He relinquished that responsibility to Coach Brentnall, who supplemented his high school teacher's salary moonlighting as a Driver's Ed teacher during the summer. Of all the coaches, Coach Brentnall was perhaps the best natured. He never had much use for me on the football, soccer or baseball fields -- the only sport I excelled in was water polo -- but he liked having me in the back seat of the 72 Chevy Impala, if only to add some levity to what was always a dangerous adventure.

My memory may be a little off, but I'm pretty sure one of the girls in the class hit a deer while we learning how to execute a proper three point K-turn. It was either a deer or a freestanding mailbox that looked like a deer. In either case it brought great laughter from those of us seated in the back.

In retrospect, the '72 Chevy Impala might be the perfect driver ed vehicle.

It didn't have airbags or energy absorbing crumple zones. It didn't have a collapsible steering column or a Blind Spot Detection System. It had seatbelts for 6 passengers, but in those days we couldn't be bothered by seatbelts. But what it lacked in today's modern safety measures it more than made up for in Bethlehem's finest. Because the '72 Chevy Impala was 4,342 pounds of rolling Grade A galvanized steel, impervious to anything but a direct hit by a Mack Truck.

I know my daughter has something sportier in mind for her first car, but I think I'll start scouring the pages of autotrader.com for an old road-hogging Impala.

I'll let her pick the color.

We don't do raises anymore

Here's a universal truth about labor: if you're not in management the economy is always bad.

I've been around the working world long enough to see several economic cycles. The recession of the early 90's was followed by the boon of the dot.com era. President Clinton even managed to erase the deficit and, in addition to a Smithsonian-worthy blue dress, he produced a budget surplus.

The early 2000's saw the economy go in the shitter again. And again, it rose from the ashes. With unemployment levels hovering around 5%.

The current recession, which started in 2008 shows no sign of relenting. And management hopes it never does. Because with unemployment high and headlines of fiscal doom choking our newspapers, they have everything they need to cart out the old, "we're in belt-tightening mode."

But can anybody remember or tell me when their employer wasn't in "belt-tightening mode"?
Like god-awful rap music it seems like it's here to stay.

Years ago during one of the boon times, I held a pretty senior position with one of the big holding companies, I'll leave them unnamed because occasionally I still feed at their trough. I was Senior VP of whoseywhatsits. It was impressive for about half a second. I remember telling my mother about my new title. She yawned over the phone. And pressed on with her more riveting story about winning $600 at Bingo that week.

Having served faithfully for more than 20 months under this burdensome title and won two National Effies for my efforts, I approached my boss with the notion of a bonus and a pay raise. The idea was floated back to the NY mothership and summarily rejected within 48 hours.

"We don't have the money," I was told with a straight face.

One week later, Adweek spelled out the details of a proposed bonus package under consideration for the CEO of that same unnamed holding company. For holding the line on costs and eliminating redundant employees, he was handed a check for $120 million.

Now $120 million is just a pittance compared to the bonuses brought home by the boys at Goldman Sachs.
But it's still $120 million.

I was hoping for a simple 5% bump. In other words, a relatively tiny pittance of his pittance.

There's a great Yiddish saying that sums all this up:
Don't pee on my back and tell me it's raining.

Tijuana Ass

I just took a little inventory and it appears I haven't written about Israel in well over a month. But I did pass this sign the other day on my way to work and it got me thinking.

Mostly about the stupid clods at the New Roads School who want to equate legitimate self defense with the barbaric practice of firing unguided missiles across a sovereign border with the intention of killing innocent civilians.

I'm sure the Prius-driving administrators at New Roads would argue that the two parties are involved in a senseless cycle of violence. And I'd agree it is senseless and it is violent. But it is not a cycle. The mayhem is instigated by the Palestinians. And any spilled blood is on the hands of Hamas, not the IDF.

How can I be so sure of this?

William Shakespeare once said, "the past is prologue."
So let's look there.

In 1994, Israel signed a peace treaty with Jordan. The two countries have been at peace since then. There have been no Jordanian attacks on Israel. And likewise there have been no reprisals. Why? Because it is not in Israel's self-interest to disturb that peace. Or act outwardly aggressive. And because Israel respects a peace treaty.

Likewise with Egypt.

That treaty was signed in 1979 and Israel has not acted aggressively since. In fact, the Israelis acted with great restraint when their embassy (which is technically Israeli land) was attacked by peace-loving Egyptians. If violence were to increase on the southern border I would hope Israel would capture the Sinai for the third time. And never give it back.

So we know what the teachers at New Roads apparently do not. We know the Israelis are capable and willing to act peacefully and neighborly. In the 63 years since the UN declared Israel a legitimate state, the Palestinians have not.

I'd like to see the word count on this sign reduced by 25%.

Fireworks hailing over little Eden

This photo will have to do.

I just spent the last hour combing through hundreds of old pictures looking for the 5X7 of myself and Miss Sandee Westgate on the set of a Taco Bell commercial we shot in 2002. If I remember correctly, I had more hair and Sandee had less Sandee.

The commercial was about Taco Bell's 59 cent tacos. Odd how nearly ten years later you can still get a taco at Taco Bell for 59 cents. The spot involved a slacker guy and his fantasy of sitting in the back of a limo and being hand fed tacos by two, how shall I phrase this...bimbos.  (Sandee, if you happen to Google your name and come across this blog I apologize in advance. If it's any consolation, you were the nicer of the two...uh, women.)

The commercial was written by one of our junior writers but the casting session required the seasoned leadership of myself and my partner. It was a grueling 10-hour day, but it was the kind of day that made you happy you worked in advertising and not as a foreman at a flange manufacturing plant.

Of course once Sandee and her cohort were selected things got real interesting.

The client, located in Irvine which is now Tea Party country, wanted to make sure the two women were clean and had no record of immoral behavior. They even went so far as to suggest that we hire a private investigator to check out their backgrounds. And after extensive investigation, both women turned up clean. One might say, surprisingly clean.

That was then, this is now.

If you were to find a dark secluded room in your office, turn on the private browsing and explore her website you'd see that Sandee's acting/modeling career has taken some very interesting twists and turns. In fact, if you spring for the 8.99 monthly membership you can enjoy watching her Taco Bell get rung. (rimshot please.)

Oh, don't forget to clear your browser history.

Grumpy McGrumpster

I'm not sure what this picture has to do with the today's topic but I stumbled across it when I Googled images for "Creative Director" so I am sure I'll find some kind of stretched metaphor at the end to tie it all together.

But today I'd like to talk about Creative Directors or at least the twentysomething year old kids who so liberally flaunt that title.

Have you seen an ad agency org. chart these days? In addition to Creative Directors, there are Group Creative Directors, Executive Creative Directors, and Chief Creative Officers. And then there's the digital folks who have their own twisted nomenclature.

The bureaucracy is so thick, Madison Avenue has become K Street (the search engine is in the upper right hand corner of your browser.)

In my day (and yes I'm very aware of how dated that makes me sound, but I don't give a rat's ass because the casual sprinkling of obscenities makes me appear fucking younger) titles meant something because they were earned.

It took me 15 years to work my way up from Mailroom Clerk to Media Estimator to Junior Copywriter to Recruitment Copywriter to Copywriter to Senior Copywriter to Associate Creative Director to Creative Director. Yes, I worked hard. But I also got incredibly lucky. My most visible, well-known campaign almost died at 2 AM the night before the presentation. And even after 15 years, I still had no clue how to manage a creative department. In fact, I sucked.

Now I see kids graduating from VCU or Miami on a Monday, get a job on Tuesday, produce a crappy banner ad on Thursday and demand a promotion on Friday. That may be a bit hyperbolic but it's not that far off the mark. If you were to pump me full of Noah's Mill bourbon I might even name names. Or at least slur them.

But it's a Saturday morning and my better angels have the last word on this matter. Of course you could do your own litmus test. Next time you're at a party or some awards show and you run into some millennial who fancies himself or herself a Creative Director, ask them what famous work they've done. When you hear the crickets, that's your cue to excuse yourself for another Gin Rickey.

Now I've boxed myself into a corner with no smooth transition to a snappy ending that explains the Hitler/Chaplin visual.

Awww shitsticks!

Shabbat Shalom

I was at Cedar Sinai hospital the other day visiting my uncle after his hip replacement surgery. Before boarding the elevator I noticed this little gem.

For those who don't know, this stems from a rather arcane adherence to the ancient Sabbath laws which prohibit all manner of work including, apparently, the pushing of an elevator button.

I'm not religious in any sense of the word but I appreciate the sentiment behind mandatory rest. We all work too hard and get caught up in our responsibilities. And it is a good idea to take a day to slow down and retreat from our labor. But in whose crazy book is it written that the pushing of a button amounts to work?

The truth is while you're reading this on Monday, I'm writing this on Saturday. Of course, I don't view this type of writing as work, so I'm not in any violation. But if I were to mention that right now you can lease a Lexus RX 350 with All Wheel Drive and available Blind Spot Detection Display for $429 a month, well that would be work.

Do you see how thin the line is?

How difficult it must have been 5000 years ago for those old Talmudic rabbis to decide the proper code of conduct on the Sabbath.

As Rabbi Eliazar saith: ...and so it is agreed that the 5th rib of the sacrificial goat shall be eaten only on Wednesday and only during a Harvest Moon. And only by members of the Levite tribe. Rabbi Gamiel I believe you have something to say.


Rabbi Gamiel: We are but poor men but wealthy in the wisdom of the Torah. We are not soothsayers. But what if in the future, the Lord, blessed be he, were to construct a large edifice. And in that edifice doctors and caregivers would nurse our ill and elderly.


Rabbi Josiah: Yes, that would be wonderful.


Rabbi Gamiel: And what if in that edifice there were a magic box that would transport visitors to the any level of that edifice.


Rabbi Akeebah: Oh the Lord doth bless the children of Israel.


Rabbi Gamliel: Yes, but to make the magic box work one might have to hit a tiny button.


Rabbi Eliazar: I see no problem with a button.


Rabbi Gamliel: But what if one were to push that button on a Saturday?


Rabbi Akeebah: On the Sabbath?


Rabbi Gamliel: Yes, but it was to visit a sickly loved one.


Rabbi Josiah: On the Sabbath!!! The Holy Sabbath?


Rabbi Gamliel: Yes. But did I mention they were sick?


And with that the other rabbis smote Rabbi Gamliel to death with their kiddush cups. Because he was contrarian, even for a Jew, and because he chewed his food with his mouth open.

My gay clothes

I dropped my uncle off at Cedars Sinai Hospital yesterday. He's there to have a hip replacement. The surgery went well and now he has a long road of recovery ahead of him.

Naturally, I'll be there to help. Not only because he's family and it's the right thing to do, but also because I owe him. Big time.

You see, my uncle who happens to be gay, used to work in the finance department at Saks Fifth Ave. My brother and I, who are not gay, were often on the receiving end of lavish sartorial gifts from the Young Man's Department at Saks. I can't tell you how often my uncle would visit on birthdays, or on Chanukah, bearing boxes of handsomely-boxed and meticulously-wrapped cashmere sweaters, tweed sport coats and 100% wool slacks.

On my 9th birthday I was hoping to get an official Spaulding Mickey Mantle outfielder's glove. But Saks Fifth Avenue didn't have a sporting goods department, so instead I got a turtleneck sweater that would not fit over my watermelon-sized head.

Needless to say, my brother and I were dungarees guys. And never fashion forward. So all these fancy-pants clothes never got worn. Maybe once on Yom Kippur or when some aunt died, but very rarely. They went into a bag with lots of mothballs and were never seen again.

Of course, when my uncle would visit my mother would ask us to put on the itchy pants and sweaters, but we never did. And my uncle never batted an eye or made any further inquiry. I suppose that small collection of fashionable clothing tucked away in the back of the closet was the original incarnation of "don't ask, don't tell."

Dog Snot and other nonsense

Call me paranoid but I don't use my mailbox for anything but receiving anymore. Years ago some utility payments were stolen from my outbox and since that time I've taken to using the US government issued blue box located a few blocks from my house.

Taking the bills down to the mailbox gives me a good excuse to escape the often raging hormones in my house as well an opportunity to walk the dog.

The other night, while mailing out some invoices -- is there anything better than billing someone for services rendered? -- I noticed a young guy with a stack of flyers and a staple gun. After I deposited the envelopes in the box he started walking my way. He bent over to pet Nellie then offered to give me a card.

"Sorry", I said, "I didn't hear you."

"Let me give you my card" he replied, "I'm a professional dogwalker."

OK, I thought, but I was actually walking my dog. I didn't know I needed the services of someone to do the very thing I was doing at the time. In fact, I thought I had been doing a damn fine job of walking the dog. I let her mark bushes. I pick up her poop. And by the time she gets home she's huffing and puffing and wearing what appears to be a dog smile.

I circled the block thinking how odd it was that people were creating jobs for themselves by doing mundane activities which under normal circumstances could easily be done by the potential employer. It's as if I were to walk into a pizza joint, approach a family and offer to help finish their hot pepperoni pie.

"I'm a professional pizza slice eater" I would explain.

Then I took a closer look  at the young man's flyer. Turns out he's Certified and Insured to perform CPR on a dog. I had no idea. In the nine years I have been walking my dog, not once has she started choking or required anything resembling the Heimlich Manuever. Though once, with lightening-fast quickness, she did snag a squirrel in her mouth.

So as a precaution I've gone online and learned the proper method for administering CPR to my dog. It involves holding the dog's mouth closed and then putting a lip lock on the dog's wet, poop-sniffing nostril. The practice is so gross the woman in the youtube video did it on a K-9 doll.

I'm sorry Nellie but if a Kibble or a Bit goes down the wrong wind pipe, you're on your own.

Hanging Ten with Lee Clow

Yesterday, I posted a youtube video that I had stumbled across while putting off the task of writing body copy for a newspaper ad. I don't know how we used to procrastinate before we had the Internet. I suppose we would just talk with colleagues or jealously thumb our way through awards annuals. I don't see a lot of the latter these days.

Our other favorite form of procrastination was pranking. 

Of course this was before the advent of the big holding companies, when rocking the boat was the status quo and eccentricity in all its odd forms was nurtured. Drunken creatives were allowed to get drunk. Whiners were allowed to whine. And non-bathers were allowed to foul the air with their personal stank, as long as they produced award-winning work.

This was when advertising was fun. And HR people knew how to look the other way.

Back to the pranking. Early in the summer of 1992 Chiat had just hired a young talented writer from NY. Mind you, this was a time when Chiat/Day didn't have any juniors. When I say a young writer I mean someone who had already paid some real dues, done some real ads and won some real awards. 

Like anyone at the time, he was honored to be joining such elite company. He was also a little awestruck. He couldn't get over the fact that he was in the same building as Lee Clow.

But as we were all to learn in a company with so many pranksters, it's never a good idea to show any weakness. 

His new partner immediately seized the moment and snagged some official Lee Clow stationary. He carefully mimicked Lee's distinctive handwriting style and left this note (see above) on the young writer's desk. The next morning, Josh (he gave me permission to tell this story) could not contain himself. He must have racked up a few hundred dollars in long distance calls, telling anyone and everyone on the East Coast of his impending man date with The Bearded One.

For the next week, Josh tailed Lee everywhere he went inside the agency, never mentioning the note and appearing too forthright but not wanting to miss that possible impromptu moment when Lee would blink a few times and lean over and say, "I hear there's some 8-footers at El Porto."

I don't remember how Josh found out he had been punked but I do remember that for a week I, and many others in the Creative Department, had to walk around the place with a clenched jaw so I wouldn't laugh and give up the gag.

The irony here is that had Josh really wanted to surf with Lee all he had to do was ask. Lee probably would have said no, but not for any of the reasons you might suspect. And this is the part that surprises most, you see for all the mythology that surrounds the man, Lee Clow is still incredibly approachable.

He still puts his flop flops on one flip flop at a time.

Thanks go out to Josh Gold for allowing me to share this story. Make sure you check out his new film at http://www.saltaddsflavor.com/dayatthepool/

Land of the rising...

Many of you will recognize this derriere belonging to Scarlet Johannsen. It was lovingly captured in the opening credits of Lost in Translation, which some may argue is a chick flick. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it.

The film chronicles the exploits of a man, played brilliantly by Bill Murray, on a business trip and the strange environment he finds himself in, complete with odd food, odd customs, and odd stocking fetishes.

In the past 20+ years in advertising I've worked on every one of the major Japanese auto companies accounts, Lexus, Nissan, Infiniti, Toyota, Honda and Acura. If memory serves, and often it doesn't, I've also worked on Suzuki, Mitsubishi and Daihatsu.

In all that time, I have never been invited to visit the factory or summoned to a business meeting on the other side of the pond, the big pond, the Pacific.

I'm told it's quite an adventure. After the umpteenth viewing of Lost in Translation with my wife, I expressed my desire to visit Japan. My wife, who can see through me like a sheet of single ply toilet paper, laughed and said, "You're just dreaming of running into your own Scarlet Johannsen and fantasizing about some fantastically impossible May/December type fling on the other side of the international dateline."

And then she added, with cutting accuracy, "I tell you what. If you find some lonely 24-year old American woman with breathtaking beauty and a body to match who wants to climb aboard the Rich Siegel train with its unwanted hair and excessive flatulence, well then by all means you should do more than give her a kiss and whisper something in her ear."

Ouch, I said, reeling from the 1-2 combination of sarcasm and insight.

But I got off the mat and brought her to my computer to show her the real, OK one of the real, reasons why I want to visit the island nation.

And make sure you watch the video past the 41 second mark.

Call of Doodie

Last week TBWA Chiat/Day got the call no agency wants to get. They were relieved of their duties on Call of Duty and the account was going to a rival agency. All of which makes little sense, particularly considering the stellar spot, with Kobe Bryant, Jimmy Kimmel, et al,  they had produced earlier in the year that resulted in millions of sales.

But as the saying goes, "no good deed goes unpunished."

There's another more applicable maxim, taught to me by my old boss David Murphy, when El Pollo Loco started courting a new agency after we had delivered a yearly increase of 13.8% in sales,
"Fuck them."

I am no stranger to the strange antics of Activision, the publishers of Call of Duty.

Years ago, I was brought in to conceptualize ideas for a Guitar Hero Super Bowl spot. This was a huge assignment and the agency pulled out all its guns, including teams from Chicago, NY and LA. Hundreds of creatives, most of them younger than me and most of them -- unlike myself -- residents of the gaming world.

Undaunted, and relishing the opportunity to compete with the millennial set, I tuned out almost everything said in the briefing session. (Good creatives don't want more information, they want less. They want the one essential part of the communication. If only the people who put together 'briefs' understood that.)

I had spots written in my head before I left the initial briefing session. Of course I followed them up with twenty more.

A week later I got the call from the Chief Creative Officer telling me that of the hundreds of scripts submitted by teams throughout the country, they had narrowed the field to four. Including one of my scripts. The very first one that found its way to paper. (BTW, I say my script because I was flying solo on this and was not working with an Art Director, lest anybody accuse me of being unfair.)

A week later, the same field had been halved again.
Two weeks after that, a winner had been chosen.
It was the spot I wrote.

Finally, after laboring in this damn business for more than 20 years, I was going to have a Super Bowl spot. And not just any Super Bowl spot. This was an elaborate multi-million dollar production involving kangaroos, flaming pianos, Aerosmith, chainsaw jugglers, Al Gore and Pakistani Plumbing Supply Salesmen.

With the playoffs looming, the spot was given Red Ball status and rushed into pre-production. A director had been chosen (a top A++ guy), editors and music people had been hand selected and locations had been preliminarily scouted.

All we needed now was a signed estimate.

And that's when I took a 50-caliber head shot between the eyes. In their infinite wisdom, the client, who had put the agency through multiple flaming, steel-spiked ringers on this assignment, decided on a whim to withdraw from the Super Bowl and sell the previously-purchased media space for a hefty profit.

TBWA Chiat/Day will move on from this temporary setback and do an award-winning spot for Gatorade, Visa, Apple or Nissan. They'll take in millions of dollars, run off to France, pick up some Gold Lions and drink $500 bottles of champagne on the Omnicom yacht.

I, on the other hand, am still reeling from the 2007 Super Bowl spot that never was. And now I have to write some banner ads for a local mattress store. And I have tree roots in my main sewer line. And it looks like I have to do a full house-to-street mainline replacement that will reach into 5 digits. And my prostate is growing faster than a teenage Sumo Wrestler.

My feelings towards Activision?
Fuck them.

Guilty of Bad Taste

I see a lot of people, mostly on Facebook, trying to find their way out of jury duty.
And I understand why.

When things get busy at work or hectic at home the last thing anyone wants to do is sit in a musty courtroom, with your smelly peers, and drink piss poor courthouse coffee while waiting for justice to make an improbable cameo appearance.

I felt the same way until a few years ago when, during an unusually slow freelance period, I decided to take the county up on their offer of 15 dollars a day and a sneak peak into our penal system. Not only was I selected for the jury panel, I was immediately chosen as the jury foreman.

"Why me?" I asked Juror #4, an older African-American woman seated to my left.

"You said some funny things to the judge," she responded, adding, "and besides, I'm not doing it."

Thanks to some incredibly-clear, high-definition surveillance footage captured on the 7-11 in store camera, we convicted the defendant of robbery in short time and sent him off to prison for a long time.

But the story doesn't end there. I was fascinated by the crime itself. What would drive a man to rob a convenience store and risk life and limb, all for fifty two dollars and change? So I jotted down the defendant's name with the hope that some day I might get a better glimpse into his life and his persona.

Well, that day has come.

Thanks to the awesome intrusive algorithmic power of the Internet I have found my guy and learned a little more about what makes him tick.

According to his not-completely-awful-written missive seeking a pen pal, Mr. Pryor is set to be released from jail in the year 2019. I think he's being overly optimistic and have it on good word that he is a three striker and likely to remain in jail for the remainder of his life. But if he believes that with a little good behavior he can secure his freedom by the end of the decade, more power to him.

But I want you to take a good look at him leaning on his late model Chrysler Le Baron. I'm thinking anyone wearing a matching print shirt and shorts should have a couple more years tacked onto their sentence just for their abominable crimes against fashion.

And I'd add another year for the sagging white knee high socks.