As the year draws to a close

We've reached that point in the year where I have officially run out of gas. I simply don't have the energy to work up a good rant. Or I'm too hungover from last night's binge of Maker's 46 to throw down today.

Nevertheless I have an obligation, albeit a self-imposed one, to deliver on some funny.

So today, I'm turning to the kids.

As I've mentioned before I'm a sucker for click bait. Last week while checking out an article entitled "Wait Til You See The Booty's On These Mommys" I stumbled across a link to "Hilarious Drawings by Kids." You're just two clicks away from seeing the entire collection, but for now and to close out 2015, I've curated my favorites.

Bobby is only 18 months old  but has already mastered spelling. It won't be long before young Robert is pulled over to the side of the road and asked to spout all 26 letters.

In reverse order.

Young Tiffany wants to follow in her mother's high-heeled footsteps. Mom is a rainmaker and seems to be entertaining many men who look like Odell Beckham.

If you do visit the Buzzfeed collection of hilarious kid drawings, you're going to see a lot of cocks. More cocks than you'd ever want to see. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Tiffany, it appears, had two of her drawings selected.

And finally there's this from stubborn Ralph who is very self aware for a 5 year old.

(I hope you all have a Merry Christmas. And thank you for stopping by. Tune in next week for a special surprise that requires no writing on my part.)

I'm flying solo

If you came here for a review of the new Star Wars movie or some other gushing fanboy drivel about the over-hyped sci-fi franchise, you came to the wrong place.

I simply found a good pun and couldn't resist using the topical ploy.

There was a little voice inside my head telling me not to, but I ignored that little voice and most others when it comes to telling me what I should or should not write.

This goes a long way to explain why I am still living in Culver City, why I drive an 8-year old car, why I am struggling to put two kids through college and why I spend my weekends creating banner ads or knocking out social media ideas for the local mattress store.

Or, if I may quote my student evaluation from my 3rd grade teacher:

"Rich does not like being told what to do. And he eats too many Ding Dongs and Yodels."

Recently I was reading a HuffPo article written by a colleague who is funnier, thinner and has more hair than me. He was a copywriter but left the ad world a long time ago to pursue a career in TV writing. That was a path I always thought I'd find myself on.

This former copywriter, let's call him Ryan for those of you who like to solve mysteries, details his 20+ year journey through the TV world. As you might expect there were stops and starts and ups and downs and lots and lots of network notes.

"This could be funnier."

"Can't say that."

"The character is too dark. Can he have a lisp and a pet canary?"

If you think that makes no sense consider who is writing these network notes -- Network People. Executives, development people, political opportunists who by and large have never, ever written or created anything in their entire overpaid, self-important careers.

And yet that is de rigueur in the world of television and movie making. Frankly, I'm surprised that disgruntled postal workers were never supplanted by disgruntled sitcom writers.

Surely, you say, there are similar situations in the ad world. And of course, you'd be correct. But here's the difference. A TV script or a movie screenplay entails days, weeks and sometimes months of thinking. Remove one thread and the whole thing can fall apart.

A commercial is much more disposable. Kill one joke and I can replace it with another. Hell, I've got a million of them. Somewhere on this hard drive.

Perhaps it's why I enjoyed writing my book of short stories without the aid of literary agent, a publisher, an editor or even a proofreader.

"Yes, I could omit the story about my masturbatory adventures at Southern California's whack shacks in order to produce a baby, but I don't want to and it stays in."

And it's why, after close to seven years I am still plugging away at this inconsequential blog. I enjoy having the freedom to say, think and write whatever the fuck I want. It's the most satisfying job in my entire career.

I just wish it came with proper dental care.

Your Yule Tide Log Video

By now many of you have gotten soused at the company Christmas party.

Media companies have showered you with their year end swagger.

And your supervisor has given you the well-worn speech about why there are no bonuses and the attendant "belt-tightening", "sagging economy" and the "fractured disintermediated landscape yielding unpredictable revenue streams."

But you're probably thinking to yourself it's not really Christmas until Siegel rolls out another December yarn about the age old Caganer.

As a refresher, the Caganer, or Shitter for our non-Hispanic friends, is a staple character in any Nativity Scene; as important as Mary, the virginal mother, Joseph, the cuckolded husband and Old Man in Robe #2, the mysterious bearer of Myhr.

If you look closely at many official nativity scenes you will see the Shitter standing just outside the hut, or the manger, or whatever that half-assed lean-two is called.

While the Baby Jesus is being born, the Shitter is also busy with a delivery of his own. He drops a coiled Lincoln Log onto the land signifying that the Saviour has arrived. And, that the heavy mutton and potato soup he ate for lunch has successfully completed its digestive journey.

I mean no offense by any of this. I'm simply regurgitating -- for lack of a better word -- the tale of the Caganer as I understand it from my scholarly Wikipedia research.

The 25 foot high Caganer pictured above makes regular annual appearances at a mall in Northern Spain.

Not to be outdone, residents of another town deep in Catalonia, have painted a 40 foot high Caganer of their own. Loop it and it can be your own yule tide log video.

There's also been a clever nativity scene meme floating around the Internet. As you might have guessed, the Caganer or even any allusion to the Caganer was sadly omitted.

That is, until now.

Let's build this thing.

I'm contemplating a small construction project around the house.

More specifically, I'd like to build a fence around my two monstrously huge air conditioning units which now sit on the driveway and take up as much space as a 1966 Simca.

Of course pouring concrete has never been one of my strong suits. The last time I did it was under the watchful eye of my father who, too cheap to hire skilled workers, had my brother and I do all the hard labor under threat of immediate eviction. Or having to watch our shows on the Black and White TV.

Anyway, back to my new a/c units which would not fit in the state of Rhode Island.

I quickly abandoned the fence idea in favor of a nicely constructed slatted box that I could easily place over the ugly oversized condensers.

In my mind the box, sturdily built from dark Brazilian mahogany could also double as a patio table, thereby amortizing the cost for the ridiculously expensive wood.

I saw myself in the garage squaring off beautifully hand selected 4X4 knot-free posts. Measuring and mitering precision cut 1X1 angle supports. Then carefully and meticulously screwing in the imported slats with my newly purchased Lithium battery portable hand drill with extra torque for those hard to reach places.

My wife, who has borne witness to many examples of my past handiwork, had another idea. She went to the computer and dragged out a file of pictures I had compiled of Russian construction failures.

"This," she said, "is why you're not going anywhere near this project"

"Hello, Angie's List?"

Me and mister, mister Jones

It'd be easy to pile on the hatewagon and do a scathing post about the Coiffed One. But frankly, like Mr. Trump's scalp, there's not a lot of uncovered territory.

Instead, I'd like to spend a few moments on this assclown.

His name is Alex Jones. You might not know of him, but millions of his fellow conspiracy theorists do.

We just marked the 3rd anniversary of the horrific mass shooting in Sandy Hook. And I recently came across an article about Alex Jones who shared his twisted theories about the killing of 20 schoolchildren that was allegedly faked in order to further the cause of gun control.

Despite the blood, the carnage and the unconscionable loss of innocent life, Mr. Jones insists it was all a False Flag -- a staged operation orchestrated by masterminds in the Federal Government. Let's just gloss over the fact that he believes there are masterminds in Washington, DC, the same people who gave us the incomprehensible tax code, can't manage the VA and spend billions of dollars for stealthy fighter jets that don't fly and are not stealthy.

By the way, according to Mr. Jones, the San Bernardino shootings, the Paris Massacre, the Boston Marathon bombing, the Ft. Hood murders, the multiple attacks in Mumbai, the London 7/7 tragedy, and even 9/11, were all False Flags.

Mr. Jones spouts his completely unsubstantiated theories on a syndicated radio show called Info Wars, a little ironic since nothing he claims is backed by any real information.

And yet he has his followers.

Thousands, if not millions, who dine on his diet of half truths, innuendo and veiled anti-Semitism. Listen long enough and you'll hear all about the Illuminati, the Rothschilds, the Trilateral Commission, the Bielderberg Conference, the New World Order, Mossad and the Free Masons.

How do I know about this?

I've made the mistake of tripping into his dark conspiratorial rabbit hole. And it's not very pretty. You could do a little investigating of your own. But it's nothing but a waste of energy and good Internet bandwidth.

You'd be better off watching skateboarders smack their nuts against handrails.

You're Invited

Today is not July 17th.

It's nowhere close to July 17th.

But as sure as the unwanted hair recently shaven from my ear will grow back at an astonishingly fast rate, I will receive a meeting invite for July17th.

The electronic meeting invite has become as ubiquitous as the 5 second pre-roll ad on every Youtube video.

Not long ago, I was contacted by a Creative Service Manager from an out of town agency. She had inquired about my availability, my outrageous day rate and my attitude towards travel and hotel preferences. If awarded the gig, I was told, I'd receive a letter of confirmation and would need to sign an NDA, a nondisclosure form for you laymen.

Before any of those formalities had been dealt with, I had already received a meeting invite.

And that was just the first.

Minutes later, the fastidious production coordinator (I guess they're not Traffic people anymore) had sent me another meeting invite. This one, for a day and a half later, was for a preliminary check in. Not a formal review, just a temperature check so the Associate Creative Directors knew we were headed in the right direction.

Two meeting invites and I hadn't even seen the brief yet.

Ding!

I'm alerted to check my mailbox again.

I thought it could have been from Patagonia. You buy one fleece pullover from these sons of bitches and then they don't leave you alone until you've seen their entire collection of fleece pajamas, fleece underwear and fleece tea cozies.

But it wasn't from Patagonia.

It was a third meeting invite!

Scheduled for the the same day as the Associate Creative Directors soft temperature check in. This meeting was for later in the day. With the regular creative directors. They wanted to make sure any course correction given by the ACDs, just 4 hours earlier, had been executed faithfully.

By this time you'd think the detail-oriented coordinator would have put away the calendar and moved on to Zappos or posted a few more selfies to her Instagram account, but you'd be wrong.

The three previous meeting invites were supplemented with three additional meeting invites, including a telephone call in conference call for 9pm on Sunday night, just 14 hours before the client "tissue" session on Monday morning.

Ding!

I have another email.

It's not from Patagonia. It's not another meeting invite. It's from the Creative Service Manager informing me the agency has given the assignment to an internal team and my services and my attendance for the six previously mentioned meetings will not be necessary.

Maybe I'll play some golf on July 17th.

Why I Sucked at Being a Creative Director, Part II

Can you feel it?

It's coming.

The much-anticipated Christmas/New Year's break. Or the period advertising people refer to as the most likely time I will get home before 9 o'clock and not get called in to work a weekend. Of course that can all change at the drop of an RFP.

Or if Johnny Client decides, after months of painstaking committee fucking, rewriting, tweaking, reshooting and re-editing…

"I'm not sure our new Super Bowl spot feels fresh and Disruptive™ as it did when I first signed off on it. Can you guys show me something new? On Dec. 26? Thanks."

The end of the year has also got me thinking. A moment for introspection. That's when I thought I would follow up on the most popular post ever written for Round Seventeen -- Why I Sucked at Being a Creative Director.

People like reading about my many faults and shortcomings. And they don't make any attempt to hide their glee. It's like an inverted schadenfreude, which is usually savored in private. In fact when I published the original post, I had "friends" offering to pile on.

"I'll tell you another reason, Siegel."

Thanks, but no thanks. I can handle this assignment on my own. Though I'm convinced my next book  would far exceed the sales of my current offering, if I just compiled a series of essays and titled it: Why I Suck At… 

Anyway, picking up where I left off.

7. I have a short fuse. There I said it. I won't take it back. And I won't go in search of any fuse-enhancement pills. Not only is my temper short, it's volatile. I do not suffer fools gladly. I can deal with  people who are sneaky, political, brilliant, drunk, or just perpetually drunk, but I have no stomach for people who are stupid. And sadly when you've sat in three hour long wardrobe meetings discussing the merits of a cardigan vs. a vested sweater, you know there's plenty of stupid to go around.

Mind you, there have been many successful creative directors with short fuses, but they had redeeming qualities that I don't, like hair or nice shoes.

8. There's no me in Team. I know many people belong to the Congregation of Collaboration, I'm not one of them. There was a time, a better time, in advertising when I knew the names of all the great writers and art directors. I won't call them "rock stars" because I hate that delusional metaphor, but they were the heavily awarded individuals who had made a name for themselves by standing out from the crowd. If you've seen the credit list on any work lately you know credit nowadays belongs to the crowd. Assistant Associate Coordinators never enjoyed such limelight. In 2015, I didn't touch one assignment that wasn't also manhandled by half the creative department.

9. Lost my wind sock. I can read a room and can generally tell how and what to present. The industry, on the other hand, is thoroughly confounding. I always assumed clients want work that will make a splash, move the masses and create a recognizable spike in sales. That tells me to plant a flag, establish a unique tone of voice and execute it loudly on TV, in print and outdoor. But the well-informed creative director of today knows otherwise. As the Swedes on Happyish were fond of saying, "It's not about campaigns anymore." It's about getting Likes. Going viral. And to quote myself from a previous post, creating a "vast array of frivolous fuckwadian digital knick knacks™."

10. Ad ADD. In addition to my aforementioned short fuse, I have the even more crippling affliction of a short attention span. It's why it took me close to three years to write the book none of you bought. It's why I can't see a screenplay through from beginning to end. And it's why if a spot has reached the point of a 15th, 16th or 17th rewrite, I'll simply cave in and say, "have the client write it and I'll just polish up the turd."

There you have it, my Top Ten reasons on why I sucked at being a creative director. Could I write ten more? Of course I could. But then this thinly-veiled humblebrag would lose its disingenuous sheen of modesty.

Besides, it's getting a little long in the tooth and I just rummaged through the pantry and found some chocolate flavored Pop-Tarts with my name on it.

Merry Christmas.

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Turds

This is not my car.

This is my life.

Lashing Out

Two weeks ago, Ad Age published an article titled: 50 Best Places to Work in 2015. I'm happy to say, and not in the slightest pandering way, that I've collected paychecks from five of them: Deutsch, RPA, Sapient Nitro, Team One and M&C Saatchi.

Who says I don't know how to butter that bread?

All due respect to the editors at Ad Age, who received a complimentary copy of my new book but refused to give it any digital ink, I think you guys missed the boat.

You see, for my money, and I'm guessing for yours as well, I would have preferred an article about the 50 Worst Places to Work in 2015.

As a freelancer with a dozen years under my belt, plus another twenty as a staffer, I could easily rattle off a list of 50 dysfunctional, mismanaged, political hellholes. If I drank another cup of coffee I could run the number up to 75. But then I might never work again.

My daughters would have to drop out of college. And I'd be reduced to living out my remaining days on store-branded macaroni and cheese and generic vodka. No. I'm not going to bite the hand that feeds me Wild Caught Alaska King Salmon sold at Whole Foods for only $29.99/lbs.

I'm not.

But I am going to reprint some choice nuggets I found on glassdoor.com, my new favorite website. And I am going to whip out the magic cloak of anonymity and let you do your own guessing and detective work.

As many you might know, I have a pet peeve about working late or on the weekends and believe strongly in a proper work/life balance. Apparently I'm not alone in this regard. Here's a choice comment from the pages of Glassdoor:

"A lot of people actually sleep here because they don't have time to go home or because it's 5 AM when they are done and it would be too dangerous to drive."

Holy shit!
5AM!

At that hour of the morning I'm in bed, deep in REM sleep and dreaming of Eva Longoria and subliminal train rides through the Lincoln Tunnel.

Here's one of a similar nature, at a different agency.

"Politics get in the way of results. 100 hour work weeks are standard"

100 hours? There are only 168 hours in a week. And I need 43 of them just for blogging, swimming, watching Jeopardy, and fighting with my wife.

This reviewer pulled no punches.

"Management is a hodgepodge of incompetent egos. They try to look like some creative agency but never does any real work. It's all social media stuff and banners. The entire thing is a joke."

Ouch. Not only taking potshots at the agency but also landing a few blows on the fragile chin of digital advertising.

Finally, and perhaps to demonstrate our endless ability to bitch and moan about our chosen profession, there's this from a new employee who takes issue with his agency's unique parking procedures.

"Someone's already scratched my car and it's only been 30 days. This whole valet parking idea is good in theory, terrible in practice."

I could do this all day. And perhaps we will visit Glassdoor in the future for more curated anonymous reviews. But right now there are pressing issues at hand. It seems I have purchased the wrong type of plastic garbage bags and my wife wants to go a few rounds.

Wish me luck.

To the High Life

Last week it was announced that Kedric George, perhaps the last smart client in America, had decided to reach in the vault and rebroadcast several TV commercials from Miller's famed late 1990's High Life campaign.

If ever there was work I wish I had done, this campaign, including 50 commercials, would take the top spot.

This is advertising that doesn't feel like advertising.

It's small.
Purposefully and brilliantly small.
There are no more than 7-8 cuts in each spot. And each vignette is born from the seemingly meaningless banality of life: running out of mayonnaise, lawn maintenance and dirty bowling balls.

These spots couldn't be smaller or less significant if they wanted to.

And that's what makes the work so authentic.
And genius.
Because Jeff Kling, the copywriter, and I'm sure he had help from his art director (s), mined these tiny micromoments and found truthful gold.

Though Jeff and I are connected via social media, I've never met him or had the pleasure of working with or for him. But should this post ever get back to him, he should know that I hold him in the highest regard.

If you've been a regular reader of RoundSeventeen you know that I rarely engage in flattery and often dish up a steady diet of mockery and disdain for the lost art of copywriting. So today's post is truly bucking a trend.

Similarly, I've never worked with the Director Errol Morris, who also deserves recognition for the pitch perfect casting, sets, locations and camera angles. And for briefly reviving the always-stylish Johnny Unitas buzz cut.

To say I am in awe of this body of work is an understatement. I'd be lying if I told you I never tried to emulate or take a similar approach with other assignments. But creating a singular tone of voice or planting a flag and adopting a distinguishable POV is just not something today's crop of CMOs have any interest in.

They're more interested in going viral.
Or as yesterday's post pointed out, racking up the Likes.

If you've got an hour or so to to kill, do yourself a favor and watch all 50 commercials. And crack open a six pack of beer while you're doing so.

But not Miller.
Troy Aikman may know football, but he doesn't know crap about beer.

Please like this

It's a favorite pastime of people 44 years and older to talk about the glory days of advertising.

The good old days. When briefs were brief. When check ins were scheduled by the week, not by the hour. And when account people sold the work and didn't messily inject themselves into the creating of the work.

Of course these kvetching sessions are always anecdotal. There's no actual hard evidence, archeological or otherwise, that this golden era of advertising ever existed.

Consequently...

"Ahhhhh, this business has changed," is as expected as the unhappy old man at a restaurant, "The soup is cold."

But last week, while foraging around on linkedin.com for my next gig, I came across the photo you see pictured above.

Maybe you don't have your reading glasses or your eyes are still bleary from working late last night and preparing the 289 page deck for the End of Year Sales Event, so allow me to restate the caption above the picture: Audience is Everything. Applause is the New Revenue!

That my friends is a game changer!

A clear indication that the Digital Revolution is over and the Tweeters, the Sharers and the Selfie-Takers have won.

You see in the old days, revenue was the new revenue.

We toiled, perhaps mistakenly, under the belief that as an advertising agency we were charged with increasing sales for our 15% commission-paying clients. We wrote long copy ads and crafted compelling TV commercials in order to make the cash register ring.

In return for that labor we traveled in business class, stayed at swanky hotels and made it a point to order the $38 room service breakfast.

"No, not the glass. Give me the whole pitcher of freshly-squeezed, pulp free orange juice. Thank you."

Those cash registers have been replaced by little plastic doohickies that can turn a smartphone into a money-accepting device, nevertheless I've been operating under the misguided belief that advertising  was always about increasing business for the people we were in business with.

Of course that kind of quaint thinking is so 20th century.

Now, it seems, clients are like that high school cheerleader who put on too much make-up and convinced her daddy to get her a boob job.

They just want to be liked.
Desperately liked.

It's not about moving merchandise off the shelf, it's about "shifting the emotional branding landscape."

Page hits are the new currency.

Units sold have been usurped by YouTube visits.

It's all so convoluted.

Just as bewildering as how a restaurant can charge $13 for a bowl of bad matzo ball soup.

You heard me

(Facebook has been reminding me of posts I shared in the past. They started reaching back a year. Then two. And now three. They showed me this beauty from back in 2012. I write so many posts I often forget what they're about. So I re-read this one and found it just as applicable today as it was three years ago. In other words. Nothing has changed. That's not exactly true is it? I wrote a book of short stories which none of you have bothered to purchase, thank you very much. So it's in that spirit of disappointed indignation, I'm skipping today's usual font of free funny and re-printing some shit from the past. Enjoy.)

I've been in advertising many, many years.

I know dozens of my contemporaries are looking for ways to get out. These are mostly staffers, working managerial positions and not having half the fun they used to.

I'm not looking for a way out, mostly because I like working the way I do.

As a mercenary. Sometimes actually going in to an office. Sometimes working from my house. But rarely meeting with planners, account people or clients. Or dealing with any of the mishigas that can instigate the fight or flight response.

In that respect, I'd like to work many, many more years in this crazy business.

Not to get a spot in the Super Bowl or create another award winning campaign, though that would be nice. Not to build my portfolio. I'm way past that. Not even to prove the remarkably obvious point that age and experience are more instrumental to an agency's success than free bagels, Friday afternoon keg parties or a creative department full of clueless hipsters in stingy brim fedora hats.

No.

I'd like to work in advertising so that one day, maybe, perhaps, with a little luck, on the off chance, with a sprinkle of serendipity, I might hear a client say:


"That's good, but it doesn't make me nervous. I want something that makes me feel nervous."


"I like the dog, but wouldn't it be better with a monkey?"


"I have a gut feeling about this, let's skip the focus groups."


"This feels like spoon-feeding. We shouldn't speak down to our customers."


"I like it, I don't care what my boss thinks."


"I know this should have a social media component, but let's save that money and put it into the production budget."


"Let's give it more white space."


"Now that the planner has left the room, can you tell me what he does?"


I could probably come up with 100 more of the quips, but the codeine based cough medicine I've been taking is making me sleepy.

Feel free to add your own.

Tis the Season

As a copywriter, it's my job to make you want things.

Maybe even things you don't even need.

Take the Cast Iron Giraffe Paper Roll Stand (pictured above) for example. I didn't write the copy for this one-of-kind-gift, found on Bitsandpieces.com, but I have spent considerable time going through the catalogue, marveling at the assortment of tshotchcockery that singlehandedly fuels the Chinese economy.

Think about it, for only $19.99 you could own this paper roll stand and have a "fun way to store your toilet paper." And who isn't looking for that?

The catalogue goes on to say…

"Our handcrafted giraffe paper holder is a whimsical and attractive accessory for storing and presenting your toilet paper or paper towels. The giraffe's long neck will deliver paper wherever you need it. Holds two rolls of toilet paper or one roll of paper towels. Decorative, functional and fun. Distressed brown finish. #40099"

They could have left it alone, but they took the time to distress the brown finish. That's some fine Taiwanese craftsmanship.

Maybe you didn't receive the bitsandpieces.com catalogue in the mail and you're hoping that Rich shares more of the premium gift ideas weeks before the sacred celebration of our Savior's birth. Well you are in luck my friend.

Next up on the RoundSeventeen Shopping Network…

It's Bessie the Cow Tree Hugger.

I don't know why you need to spend $29.99 on a cow to hug your tree. And if there was any clever word play going on, I couldn't for the life of me figure it out. But I do know if you're going to the trouble of getting a 6 inch long miniature cow garden sculpture for your yard, you definitely want one made from sturdy weather resistant polyresin -- the finest polyresin West of the Yangtse.

Maybe that's too static for your taste.

Say hello to Racing Grandma and Grandad.

This, according to the catalogue is "the oldest race there is." Simply wind up the Granny and pull back the Grandad and let the race begin. Ready…steady…slow! It's hysterical fun for the whole family. Let's not forget the good folks at bitsandpieces.com have thoughtfully included an online video to capture all the scintillating fun.

It's 360 degree, fully-integrated brand engagement. If they're smart, Granny and Grandpa will have an Instagram page, Live Twitter feeds and oodles of ongoing Snapchattery.

Finally, assuming you haven't had enough fun, there's this…

It's a tie.

It's a piano.

It's Both!

I don't go to too many holiday parties. And I've never been to one where some bon vivant was entertaining the crowd with moving renditions of Billy Joel classics on his Piano/Tie, but I guess it's early in the season and there's still hope.

Shlock Photos

There's this unwritten law in advertising that you never speak publicly about bad clients. You don't name names. And you don't burn bridges.

By and large I have abided by that law. I don't know if you know this but I recently wrote an entire book about my travails in advertising and though I alluded to some names, never crossed the line.

Today, I'm going to throw caution to the Santa Ana Winds and willingly break that law.

Why?

Because I'm 44 years old. I'm almost done paying for my daughter's college education. And like my disdain for the Open Office plan, there are just some things that need to be said.

Recently, I was in San Francisco. On the way to the airport we passed by the former corporate headquarters of Siebel Systems. I'd be shocked if any of you heard of Siebel, much less knew what they did.

Theirs was the world of CRM, Customer Relationship Management, and at the time they were masters of their domain. Their namesake, Tom Siebel (reportedly with a net worth $5 billion), ran a tight, tight ship.

Men wore suits. Women wore dresses. And the elevators were pumped with the wholesome G-rated music of the Beach Boys, Frankie Vallie and the Johnnie Mann Singers.

In other words, the perfect client for Chiat/Day, the pirates of the ad world, to be pitching. But pitch we did, ignoring the results of the chemistry check and that we were the Mentos in their 2 liter bottle of Diet Coke.

I'll spare you all the gory details. The pitched internal battles between the Planning Department and the Creative Department. The painful hours spent behind one way mirrored glass in focus group facilities. And the lost nights holed up at the Radisson SFO, conveniently located within 300 yards of Runway 25 Right. (Note to you kids reading: unless you're a Pilot or a Flight attendant, you never, ever stay at the airport hotel. Never.)

I'll spare you the gory details mostly because it's a blur. But here's the part -- as close to verbatim as humanly possible-- I do remember.

"First of all, I want to thank you for all the hard work you've brought us today," said Tom Siebel, the man with his name on the building. "It's all so beautifully packaged. The margins are straight. The pages clearly numbered. And it's all so very professional. Very good."

Very good.
He thinks the work is very good.

"However, I'm not so sure about the messaging."

Uh-oh.

"The words? I like some of the words. Not all of them. Some of them are good."

That's a few points for the copywriter.

"Not so sure about the pictures however."

Here it comes.

"Here at Siebel, we're in the business of business. So our ads should have some good business images."

At this point our account team was furiously taking notes.

"What about a woman taking an order over the phone? That's a good image. Or a man leaning over another man's shoulder and checking some work on a computer screen? Have you looked at that? Or what about two businessmen shaking hands as if they just completed a deal? That's a good image. Can you bring us back something like?"

We could.

Thankfully, we didn't.

Gone Girls

Fitting that tonight I will polish off the last of the turkey, thereby marking the official conclusion of our festive Thanksgiving celebration.

And what a celebration it was. For the first time in a long time we had both daughters --back from college-- sleeping under our roof.

The Empty Nest was no longer empty.  

Now, if by chance you think I'm going to launch into another long-winded, sentimental, weepy piece about the joys of fatherhood and the longing for an earlier time when I would happily change their diapers often filled to the brim with some mysterious brownish, greenish, yellowish poop, think again.

I've courageously explored my softer side and exposed my emotional underbelly to readers of Round Seventeen in the past only to be resolutely rebuffed.

"Why don't you go back to writing something angry about advertising?"

"Who was the guest author today?"

"I think you were funnier when you were fat."

Moreover, there are professional consequences. Those type of mushy posts only serve to weaken the Rich Siegel Brand. You see, agencies call me when they need to hawk some cars or beer or sneakers or even some fried tortilla chips that can be "enjoyed and experienced in a communal setting conducive to the generation of sharable moments." They're looking for hard-hitting, straightforward thinking and writing that appeal to Joe Sixpack and Betty Bag O'Donuts.

What they're not looking for is some teary-eyed 44 year old father who can't keep it together because his girls abandoned him and hopped on a plane to Seattle. Or Denver.

In any case they're gone now. And the evidence of their departure couldn't be clearer.

The beds are made.
There's no toothpaste in the sink.
The snotty tissues from Abby's sinus infection are nowhere to be seen.
The Volvo has been tucked away at the back of the driveway.
The lights are not on, the heat is not escaping from open doorways and the house is no longer ringing from my rhetorical questions ("Do you guys think I'm made of money?")

And it's quiet.

Too.

Damn.

Quiet.

Thankfully, they'll be back in three weeks.

Run Away

I normally don't blog on Holidays, knowing offices are closed, web traffic is down and the 14 people who regularly read this tripe are probably already soused and napping on the couch.

But today, Thanksgiving, when we celebrate the bounty, the harvest and the best damn food Mother Earth has to offer, I thought I'd leverage the irony to discuss the worst.

Every month or so, we get together with friends on a kitschy exploration of LA's not-so-Yelped about restaurants. We purposely go in search of run down joints that have seen better days. It's far too easy to plunk down a couple of C-Notes and dine at the city's numerous 5 star eateries, with their multipage wine lists and their artisanal selection of handpicked arugula salads.

It's much more challenging to seek out a long lost treasures of culinary delight. Last Saturday we discovered just how challenging that can be.

We found ourselves downtown, where, just a few urine-soaked blocks east of Bottega Louis, stands the famed 5-story Clifton's Cafeteria.

I'm only 44 years old so I was unfamiliar with this Southern California stalwart, but apparently Clifton's was a staple of good home cooked comfort food for millions of Angelenos. Sadly, it fell into disrepair, until some investors sank $5 million dollars to bring it back to its former glory.

They probably should have saved some money in the budget for silverware. You see, as a $9.63 an hour full time employee stood at the front of the restaurant to point out where we pick up our cafeteria trays (and that's all she did), we encountered the first of many signs of our poor dining decision.

The cutlery bin had an ample supply of metal forks. Incredibly thin, cheap metal forks stamped from sheets of cheap metal in a Taiwanese factory manned by hungry child laborers with no foot coverings. The knives did not come from the same place. They were plastic. And probably retrieved from the recycle garbage bins at a picnic at nearby McCarthur Park.

Spoons? There were no spoons.

Again, at this point we should have bailed and caught the first train back to Culver City, where at the very least we could have gotten some crappy fare at the highly overrated Titos Tacos.

But we pressed onward to the carving station, where three guys who looked like they had just been released from San Quentin, greeted hungry diners with all the hospitality of an angry porcupine. They hacked away at the Grade C Prime Rib and reluctantly dished up the macaroni and cheese which also doubles as spackling compound.

With our food (?) secured on our dirty cafeteria trays with half a set of necessary silverware, we went in search of an empty table. To our collective surprise we were able to find one. Ironically, this was the only component of our dining experience that went according to plan.

Somewhat.

I had hoped to flag down a waiter or waitress to secure some much needed alcohol in order to take the edge off this journey to Dante's Inferno, but I believe the waiter was in the alley shooting dice with the just paroled Maitre D'.

Apparently the busboys were also in on the action. Because they too were conspicuously absent. As evidenced by the abundance of dirty dishes as far as the eye could see. On the table next to us. On the table behind us. On the seats in front of us. There were dirty dishes stacked on the artificial stone sculpture expensively made to look like the interior walls of the Grand Canyon.

Which I am now naming Clifton's Faux Fountain of Post Digestive Gloom.

Note to Management: dirty dishes should be removed from the eating area and not left in plain sight where they only serve to remind diners that they are not alone in their poor choice of restaurants, there is no God and we're all going to die.

But today is all about gratitude..

Let us all rejoice in the fact that we are NOT eating at Cliftons. That there is enough bourbon in the cabinet to get through two Armeggedons. And that we are not fans of the Detroit Lions, who will no doubt fulfill the long tradition of losing on Thanksgiving Day.

Anger Mismanagement

Anger has gotten a bad name.

Given a choice, most employers would fire an angry employee before an incompetent employee (I know this from experience.) We suppress anger. We hide it from our kids. We walk away from anger when, at least when it comes to advertising, we should be embracing it.

Take for example Apple's 1984 commercial, largely the centerpiece of the new Steve Jobs movie.

Regarded as the best commercial ever committed to celluloid, the spot hinges on anger. When viewing the first rough cut, no one said, "Does she have to be so angry?" Without her frustration, boiled to perfection, there is no spot.

Another example, and one that never fails to make me laugh, is a classic Skittles spot.



This is so pitch perfect I don't know where to begin.

Neither, it appears, do any of today's marketing whizzes. Because the moment a client catches the slightest whiff of anger in a script, or a performance, or even in the enthusiastic defense of an idea, the review instinct kicks in and the call to a new agency consultant is made.

That's how averse we have become to anger.

As a result we are left with an endless stream of formulaic commercials in every variety of mind numbing cheeriness:

Bite & Smile
Drive & Smile
Wipe & Smile
Get a Free Credit Report & Smile
Furnish a Living Room & Smile
Get Unlimited Text & Data & Smile

and of course,

Conquer Erectile Dysfunction Sit in a Clawfoot Tub & Smile.

But the truth is, happiness is cheap. It's boring. And does nothing to spark my interest. Whereas anger is real. Authentic. And when left in its purest undistilled form, the most entertaining.

When I turn to Yelp or Glassdoor or any of the consumer generated review sites, the one star reviews are so much more compelling and informative than the 5 star reviews. I could spend an entire morning in bed, cozied up with a warm blanket and nonstop stream of well-crafted, steaming disgruntled employee invective.

If clients were smart they'd tap into this largely unused emotion and beat their competitors to the punch with spots that have a built-in organic truth. But my experience tells me clients, and many creative directors, are not smart and will always default to the pre-digested bite size nuggets of non-confrontational conformity.

And that has always, and will continue to, made me angry.

Those poor porn people

I was in San Francisco last week. Again. And as you can see from this snapshot from the 23rd floor of my hotel, Xenia, the Greek Goddess of Hospitality, was much kinder than the previous week when I was double-shafted and assigned to a room next to the elevator.

Correction, next to two elevators.

Hotels rooms have changed quite a bit in the last decade. Minibars with their $9 Bud Lights and $23 bag of cashews seem to have disappeared. Keurig single shot coffeemakers have become de rigueur. And now, because of all our devices, every room now features wall-to-wall electrical outlets. Some of the outlets have outlets.

One thing that hasn't changed is Spank-O-Vision. Hotels still have it, though I have to imagine this one-time ludicrous revenue stream is now running as dry as the creeks feeding the mighty Kern River.

Thank you Interwebs.

With all the free porn on the Internet, and I'm told by friends there is quite a bit, it's not just the hotels that are hurting. The porn manufacturers and distributers must be dry humping themselves in frustration.

Years ago, I had a long term temporary gig at DirecTV.

One of my coworkers told me it was impossible to access the 7th floor of the corporate headquarters in stodgy El Segundo. That, he explained, is where all the workers -- and there were hundreds -- were hunkered down in the cubicle farm doing their best to keep the pay per view porn pipeline flowing with the latest and greatest in MILFs, Barely Legal Latino Babes and a full complement of Fetishist fare.

"Now showing on Channel 594, Fits of Fisting. They're hot, they're angry, they're a handful!"

 I would have given anything to have gained access to that floor, just to witness how the banality of the corporate world found itself intersecting with the titillation of adult film making. Imagine how all the mundane office chitter chatter would sound as it passed through the Chatsworthian prism of porn.

"Hey Phil, we need you in the status meeting, we're going through the 3rd quarter marketing plans for the Lesbian Threesome Packages."

"Who left and didn't brew a new pot of coffee? I'll bet it was those slobs in the Bukake group."

"Bob, put down those P&L reports on Busty Nurses and fill out your time sheets. Otherwise I'm gonna hear all about it from Janet in Accounting."

Sadly, all that's going away. I have to imagine the 7th floor at DirecTV will soon be evacuated. And the porn people will be replaced by something else. I'm guessing it will be the burgeoning Fantasy Football phenomena.

It just won't be the same anymore. Because let's face it, a piece of paper left in the Xerox machine regarding the spread on the Chargers/Saints Game is far less interesting than one entitled Profit Margins on Spread Those Silky Thighs, Volume 12.

Crappy Holidays

If you work in the world of car advertising it is once again The Most UnWonderful Time of the Year.

You know what I'm talking about: the end of year sales events.

To illustrate today's post, I've selected a picture that does not feature any recognizable logo. I'm 44 years old and have been doing car advertising for a long time and I'll be damned if I could tell you who makes the car pictured above. It doesn't matter. Not only do all the cars look alike these days. So does their advertising.

It's no ones but fault but our own.

We use the same directors. Who cast the same people. To shoot at the same tired collection of locations (I'm looking at you Modern, Upscale Architecturally Designed House with the sleek kitchen featuring white cabinets, white subway tile and black soapstone counters).

And, in this sea of sameness, we roll out the same chirpy dialogue and the same over-enthusiastic call to action.

I'm not indicting anyone. Or any particular agency. Hell, I'm a mercenary and have been complicit in many of these bedshitting sales events. Moreover, if the check clears, I'm happy to help you with next year's Non-Denominational, Gift Giving Clearance Extravaganza.

I'll sift through hours of running footage. I'll cast perky plasticine people. And I'll sort through cut after cut of energetic, holiday-ish music that inoffensively captures the spirit of Christmas, Hanukah and Kwanza while simultaneously driving hordes of people to their nearest ____________ dealer. Offer ends soon.

Of course, it doesn't have to be like that.

Five years ago, I was hired by my friend and one of the best creative directors in the business, John Hage, to put together a different kind of Year End Sales Event. It was one of the best freelance assignments I ever experienced.

We were given time to explore different directions. None of this, "Here's the three page brief, let's check in and see where you're at after lunch."

We hired a great director, Rick LeMoine.

We found actors who could improvise.

And we had a client who trusted our decisions and gave us enough leash to poke around Quirkyland and put people on screen doing and saying things that usually end up on the cutting room floor. Or on Director's cuts.

You know me, I don't like to self-promote or toot my own horn, but I went back and viewed a few of the dozen spots (art directed by the amazing Stan Toyama) and they still produce a laugh. So, in that immodest holiday spirit of sharing…





No one is suggesting that you buy a $40,000 car as a gift for your loved one. If you can afford it and need a new set of wheels that's great. But it is hardly the only the present that will bring a smile of delight.

Sometimes that can be accomplished with a basket of Incredible Edibles. Or, if your spouse isn't tickled by the notion of chocolate covered cantaloupe, what about a book?

Who doesn't love getting a book?

The XB14 is here

I'm absolutely positive that today's news will have no effect on your life.

None.

But it has a 100% chance of changing mine.

After living in the same Culver City house for 22 years, raising two kids, and going through a complete remodel, including the addition of a second story, we are finally getting air conditioning.

Not just one air conditioner mind you, but two. Because my house has two furnaces. And after doing a lot of research and listening the pitches from the overly enthusiastic A/C salesman, I discovered I need to attach a unit to each furnace.

Thus doubling my cost.
Why would I expect anything less?
If you need any reminders this chart showing my double elevator adjacent room at a business hotel speaks volumes.

But I'm not here to gripe.
Money be damned.

The Siegels are now entering the 21st century and ready to do battle with the global warming induced soaring temperatures.

Yes, that means we'll be impacting the planet with a larger carbon footprint.

But, it also means I'll be in a better mood so I won't have to drink as much alcohol.

We'll have to close the windows, so I won't have to listen to the neighbor's dogs.

And most importantly, I'll be schvitzing less. And less schvitzing means I'll be changing my underwear and T-shirts less often. So we'll be doing less loads of laundry. Making my increased BTU consumption and that whole carbon thing, a wash.

It's getting warm in here, think I'll turn it up to Eleven.