Slip sliding away

Have you noticed how more people are employing the 'slippery slope' argument in their arguments?

If we ban semi-automatic weapons or high capacity magazine clips, what's next? Will the government repeal the Second Amendment, take away all our guns and throw us in some Soviet-style gulag? Maybe they'll take our kitchen knives, and scissors and hedge trimmers? I'm not living in a country with unruly shrubbery.

This one has been making the rounds too.

If we allow the gays to marry, what's next? Are we going to allow a man to marry three women? Can a man marry a horse? A dog? A pig? What if a man wants to marry a topiary hedge which he can no longer shape, thanks to our increasingly-powerful Nanny State?

It's an exercise in irrationality.

Particularly since, with the flick of a finger, the slope can be turned the other way.

If we allow the government to cut the tax rate for billionaires when will it stop? If 22% will suffice why not 12? Why not 2%? What if the government simply stops collecting taxes? Then who will pave the roads? And who will maintain the tarmac and air traffic control tower for my Gulfstream IV?

Or what about this.

If we ban abortions, what kind of surgical operation is our Big Brother government going to prohibit next? Root Canals? Bunion Removal? Tonsilectomies? Maybe we shouldn't allow people to pass kidney stones, because every kidney stone is precious.

That's the problem with Slippery Slopers.
One fanciful flight of the imagination leads to another and another and another.

Once they get on the slippery slope, they just can't seem to get off.

Let's Go Dordts!

As the father of Irish Twins, daughters born 17 months apart, I've grown quite accustomed to sibling rivalry. It goes with the territory.

If one daughter gets something  -- attention, a car, a chicken wing -- the other daughter has to receive something of equal or greater value.

And so it was only natural that my youngest started feeling neglected when her older sister, who is officially now a high school senior, started fielding recruitment calls from prospective colleges. I wrote about this several weeks ago.

These are not the big name high profile colleges that you read about on ESPN or see prominently displayed on license plate frames or overly inflated resumes. We're talking about C and D level institutions, the kind of schools that offer degrees in Crocodile Husbandry or Oven Mittology.

Well, last week my youngest daughter's prayers were answered. She received her first recruiting inquiry. From Dordt College.

I'm going out on a limb and assuming you've never heard of Dordt College. They don't have a football team. Or any famous alumni. And I doubt the scientific world pays any attention to papers published from Dordt in Sioux Center, Iowa, a suburb of Sioux City.

None of that fazed my daughter Abby, who was so excited to receive the brochure she vowed to become a Dordter. Of course my wife and I protested, which only made our defiant 15 year old more steadfast in her decision.

Then I told her to turn to page 3, testimonials from current students.

"Dordt has broadened my vision of what God's world is and how I fit into it. We are called to participate in the mission of God wherever we are."

After two years of Catholic High School my daughter has already had her fill of liturgy, fairy tales and institutionalized hypocrisy.

Dordt is now dead as a doornail.

Lost and browned

With all the posts I've written about dog poop, human poop, and poop in general, I'm sure some Freudian would say I'm anal obsessive. And that's fine. Because recognizing the problem is halfway towards the solution.

In that spirit of regularity, I'd like to return to the issue one more time, though it will hardly be the last.

You see in addition to being anal obsessive, I'm also a self admitted misanthrope. A while ago I considered changing the tagline for Round Seventeen to "Your one-stop shop for misanthropy." But the rhythm didn't feel right so I abandoned that notion.

But I have not given up my disgust with people.

Particular those who go about their business with a blissful ignorance of the world that surrounds them. You know who I'm talking about. Neighbors who run power equipment at 2 in the morning. Co-workers who feel the need to "share" their favorite house music. Smokers who believe emphysema is a disease that should be enjoyed by all.

And of course, careless pet owners who have volunteered to fertilize the planet, whether it needs it or not.

By the way, the above photo was snapped by my daughter and sent to my iPhone with the accompanying message, "Were you in Santa Monica?" I'm going to assume she was referring to the sign.

In any case, my disdain for ©Shitter Litterers knows no bounds. Indeed, with the aid of their local advertising agency, the people in one small town in Spain found a unique solution to problem of ©shittering.

If I could I would award this work a special metal.

And it wouldn't be gold, silver or bronze.

Pick One

 

Have you ever thought about ditching your life as an ad agency staffer and exploring the wonderful, carefree existence of a freelancer? A life full of rainbows, unicorns and fat, tax-free paychecks.

Or maybe the shoe is on the other foot.

Have you ever yearned to crawl back into the agency world and cozy up to a full time gig with free bagels, paid vacations and an endless supply of moleskin notebooks?

It's quite the dilemma. And it probably gets discussed more in the hallways of an ad agency than that other proverbial discussion about the "asshat client with all the vision of a ground mole."

I know this to be true because I've batted for both teams.

In fact, next week I'll be celebrating 9 mostly-successful years as a freelancer. Before that, was more years than I care to think of as a full time ad guy sucking on the corporate teat.

A couple of months ago I received an email from a friend in NY, who shall remain nameless, but whose story is quite universal. He was going through a rough patch in his career, meaning he had to work on a day that ended in a "Y", and was envious of my position as a hired gun.

What he didn't know was I had recently turned down a gig in Orange County, mostly to recover from the exhaustive Honda/Acura pitch, and that my phone had stopped ringing.

One day off turned into one week off.
One week off turned into a fortnight.
And a fortnight with no visible stream of revenue turned into mild panic disorder. With nightmares of my family eating out of a dumpster and me in a dirty nursing home with Jamaican orderlies pilfering my loose change and my Vicodin.

The point is, there's enough tsuris for everyone.

Staffers have to sit in the middle seat on a last minute flight to Des Moines.
Freelancers have to sit in a janitor's closet, jerry-rigged to be an office.

Staffers have to listen to junior clients tell them why the work is off strategy.
Freelancers have to watch Montel Williams tell tattoed amateur rappers they are the father.

Staffers have to smile through pep talks, status meetings and employee reviews that always end in, "there's no money for raises or bonuses."
Freelancers have to endure spouses and children yammering, "when are you going to get a real job?"

In short, the grass isn't always greener on the other side. It's brown, it's full of weeds and it's often littered with the unwanted business of the neighbor's dog.

So it boils down to picking the lesser of two evils. For me, I'd prefer the poison of a freelancer.

Back to the dry spell. Eventually, as it always does, the phone did ring, multiple times. And like a schmuck I ended up taking the gig with the lowest day rate.

JILF

Apparently, the stupidest question you could ask a gay person is, "when did you know you were homosexual?" I know this because we had a discussion about it with my gay uncle on a recent visit to his home in Palm Springs.

Mind you, I didn't ask the "offensive" question, my uncle was simply recanting a media gaffe he had seen on Fox News.

That's the interesting thing about having a gay family member -- as Dick Cheney and Senator Portman can tell you -- you get to see life through a different set of eyes. In my case, a set of eyes that may not fully appreciate the picture above.

Feast your eyes on Barbara Eden, 78-year old Barbara Eden, appearing on stage at a fundraiser in the original costume that brought her fame. That's not special effects. Or tailoring. Or even magic genie power. That's just simply clean living and a disciplined workout routine.

It's also an affirmation of my own personal hardwiring.

You see, if you were to ask me, "when did I know I was a heterosexual?" I would not be offended. In fact, I could almost give you the exact date and time.

It was the first time I saw an episode of I Dream of Jeannie.

Truth be told, tonight I might still dream of Jeannie.

Not Sold Here.

This is an earthquake resistant table. A lightweight device that features a sturdy birch desktop that sits on a set of shock absorbers that can withstand 1000 kg of falling cement and steel. Placed side by side, these tables can also form a life saving tunnel and an exit from crumbled buildings.

It's an outstanding example of innovation that could spell the difference between life and death for thousands of people in earthquake-prone countries.

But you won't find this remarkable table in Pakistan.
Or Iran.
Or Indonesia.
Or a dozen other nations that sit on or near the turbulent Ring of Fire.
Why?
Because it was designed and built by Jews. More specifically, the Jews who live in Israel.

And if you hadn't heard, there's a global boycott of Israeli goods being organized and promoted by a group of mostly third world countries -- the ones I call Losers -- that could, ironically, benefit the most from Israeli innovation.

Apparently it's morally acceptable to sacrifice a few thousand schoolchildren in the name of taking a stand against the alleged "apartheid" being practiced in Israel. Conveniently ignoring their own deplorable record on human rights including state-sanctioned rape, honor killings, institutionalized misogyny and blasphemy laws that make any form of apostasy punishable by death.

Of course the earthquake resistant table is just one example of people cutting off their nose to spite the people in Israel with noticeably larger noses.

There are dozens of other Jewish medical and technological breakthroughs that these folks wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

Including the PillCam for the non-invasive diagnosis of gastrointestinal diseases, mushroom-based treatments that have shown remarkable success fighting pancreatic cancer, and a clever radiation-free baby monitoring device that can prevent crib death.

OK, the last one was not really fair, since the babies who were unfortunate enough to be born in these enlightened countries, rarely actually sleep in cribs.

The futility speaks for itself.

By the way, to counter this misguided movement the Israelis have organized a boycott of their own.
Refusing to buy or import any of the amazing products and innovations coming out of Malaysia, Bangladesh, Syria and Yemen.

No one seems to have noticed.

The Other Shoe has Dropped

This is an old print ad (remember those?) John Shirley and I did way back in 1999.

Not a great ad. But not bad either. At the risk of making of humble brag, I believe it was shortlisted at Cannes. And lost out to a bunch of Swedes who did some fun drop leaflets for a parachute school in Svedensk.

My point is, the whole 'people living in a shoe' motif was done in the previous millennium.

Apparently the statue of limitations has expired, because in the last week alone -- a week where I have been watching a great deal of TV thanks to the exciting NBA playoffs -- I have spotted THREE separate commercials featuring residents of the proverbial overgrown shoe.

The first one comes from adidas. This one almost slipped by me because the shoe visual is only evident at the beginning of the spot and once more towards the end. Moreover the commercial is voiced over by a fast talking rapper, meaning I only caught every other word. I've never been good with rhymes or limericks, so I have a special appreciation for people who can make it work.

Also, of note, the rapper is sporting a full grill of gold teeth. Years ago, some of my good friends, quite possibly the most liberal-minded people on the planet, got in hot water with Rev. Jesse Jackson for doing a Toyota spot about gold teeth and being racially insensitive. I wonder why the principled Reverend isn't all over this adidas spot?

The second spot, from DirecTV shows us an old man who lives in a shoe with seemingly hundreds of little children. Fortunately, with Directv, he can watch his favorite shows on any portable device. This begs a certain question. Most people who have multiple portable devices are technically savvy. And they already know that they can stream TV, movies, etc.,  to their various platforms. Why then do tech clients feel the need to produce multimillion dollar commercials to promote a non-proprietary feature?

Plus, I'd rather DirecTV shoot more commercials that feature the Genie. I can't get enough of the Genie.

The third spot is a newcomer. It comes from T-Mobile. This is a competitive spot and highlights the many advantages T-Mobile has over AT&T. So many advantages that, according to the teenage resident, it almost negates the social stigma of living in a shoe.

I don't know about the social stigma of living in a shoe, but at one time there was a professional stigma about doing ads that looked like other people's ads.

If I were in an edit bay staring at footage of a 50 foot shoe and people walking out the door of the heel, I'd pull the plug and start over. But maybe that's just me, I'm kind of old school.

Seeing better

I've told this story before, but in light of the recent "controversy" regarding a Cheerios spot with an interracial couple, it's worth repeating.

Years ago, I was down in New Orleans to shoot a documentary, Home Movie (Two Thumbs Up from the late Roger Ebert). We weren't actually in N'orlans, we were 50 miles southwest of the city, in the far reaches of the Bayou Boeuf.

On one particular hot and muggy day -- they were all hot and muggy -- the humidity was messing with the camera lens, so the shooting slowed to a snail's pace. We found ourselves killing time and chatting with some of the locals, who mistook us for big time Hollywood guys.

I distinctly remember sitting on a lawn chair and talking to Earlene, a woman who looked a decade older than her 44 years on earth. In those 44 years it became apparent that she had never sat in a dentist's chair. While not long on dental hygiene or book learning or even proper foot coverings, Earlene was blessed with the gift of country wisdom.

She told me tales about the Ku Klux Klan coming through her neck of the woods and terrorizing the black residents. She told me how the Bayou was literally split in two. And how the two communities never, or tried not to, interact with each other. She told me how hate hung in the air like a late afternoon thunderstorm.

She also shared some interesting observations about inbreeding. You see, in their desire to keep the races pure, white folks in this secluded rural area only dated other white folks. Most of whom were distantly related, second cousins, third cousins and such.

In other words, the gene pool was getting dangerously shallow.

As a result, there was an increase in the population of babies born with birth defects, mental retardation and learning disabilities. (Snarky comment: the last category must have been hard to detect.)

But sometime back in the 1940's or '50's, a few brave souls dared to cross the color line.

As you might imagine, it was not looked upon favorably. And the racial turmoil of the 1960's did nothing to help the matter. Then something interesting happened. The health of the babies, that is the mixed race babies, being born in the bayou improved.

The gene pool had expanded. And so did the notion of what was and wasn't acceptable.

Slowly, the line of separation was being erased.

In fact, as Earlene put it, "years later, there were no longer two communities, of equal numbers, but three communities, white, black and mixed." As it turned out, the thing that people feared the most -- interracial dating -- was the thing that literally saved them.

After a lunch of chicken fried in muddy thick black oil, the skies erupted and we were pelted with a passing 20 minute rain.

The humidity dropped.
The air thinned out.
And the camera lens was suddenly clear.

No Cannes Do

MEMO TO THE STAFF AT RICH SIEGEL WORLDWIDE

Date: 5/31/13

Re: Cannes

Subject: Cannes't

As many of you know the annual advertising festival celebrating the best and brightest the industry has to offer will soon be upon us. 

As many of you have also heard the sagging economy and the growing demand to meet shareholder expectations have forced many holding companies, and by proxy, their ad agencies, to cut unnecessary expenses and contract their staffing.

In light of these painful measures and in the desire to keep everyone here at Rich Siegel Worldwide gainfully employed, we have decided to suspend this year's trip to southern France.

Before the groaning starts let's stop and consider the consequences.

Sure, it would be nice to soak up the sunshine at Les Rochers while nibbling on stinky cheese and sipping on a $500 bottle of Louis Roederer, but it would leave an awful aftertaste knowing that it came at the expense of someone's mortgage and/or tuition payment.

Sure, it would be fun to turn up the collars on our polo shirts, don a fedora and hang out at the Gutter Bar drinking 100-year old single malt whisky while puffing on a Don Arturo Edicion Aniversario, but it would also be a little tone deaf knowing the account coordinator, who worked so tirelessly this past year, is now slinging and singing at the local Cold Stone Creamery.

And yes, it would be great to pal around with a bunch of hard-drinking, hard-body Brazilians who've made a career out of flashy ads for condoms, bubble gum and novelty socks, but have never faced the daunting challenge of a bank ad or a dealer sales event.

However, the pain of pink slipping so many good decent people makes all that impossible.

We here at Rich Siegel Worldwide want to go to Cannes in the worst possible way.

But out of respect and prudence, we also recognize that going to Cannes would be the worst possible decision.

I'm losing wisdom

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Thank you for screwing up my life for two weeks.

Thank you for sending me to three different dentists, in three different office buildings, in three different non-validated parking garages.

Thank you for impaling that figurative train spike into my lower jaw and leaving it there until it aggravated my sensitive Trigeminal Nerve.

Thank you for forcing me to eat pureed food and a special sneak preview of what life will be like in my golden years.

Thank you for making me look like a pussy in front of my two daughters, who don't understand my unnatural fear of dental surgery.

Thank you for the sleepless nights and the nightmares about half-assed anesthesiologists and dirty dental equipment.

Here's the cracked Wisdom Tooth (pictured above) you wanted so desperately.

I hope you enjoy it.

Rich


PS. Thank you for the generous supply of Vicodin. With a little planning and some careful rationing I might just make it to my second daughter's high school graduation.

Popping off on Popoff

As some of you might know I've started a tumblr and a running collection of odd Kim Jung Un photo's with my own captions. I don't know why I've kept it going, other than the fact that Kim Jung Un, the world's most inept despot, is the gift that keeps on giving.

Through tumblr, I made contact with someone who appears to work for the official North Korean Public Relations Department. He has turned me on to a treasure trove of new, never-seen-before photos, which I will naturally be doctoring for my own twisted purposes.

The other gift that keeps on giving is Rev. Peter Popoff.

He runs a TV ministry and is currently scamming thousands of people out of millions of dollars. He keeps his faithful not with the promises of salvation and eternal companionship with the Almighty, but with the empty hope that Jesus will somehow bestow great wealth upon his flock for following his arcane instructions.

Posing as the deceased English teacher who used to live in my house, I started a correspondence with the Popoff ministry. This relationship has paid off with surprising dividends. Nothing in the way of spiritual or financial enlightenment, but dividends nonetheless.

Take the packet of special Holy Land Anointing Oil (see above). It has a nice jasmine scent to it. I'm going to anoint my jacuzzi with this divine oil with the hope that it spreads the lord's tidings all over my swarthy Jewish body.

Speaking of Jews and appropriating Jewish culture, check out the replica of Joshua's Shofar, used to command the troops in the 7 Great Battles.

You may scoff at this diminutive trumpet, but I am confident that the sounding of this priestly instrument will summon the armies of righteousness to my side. And that I, Ruby Shipp, dead for more 20 years, will be "blessed with the wealth miracle of multiplication."

Wow, you must be thinking, Holy Anointing Oil AND a Shofar, how can Popoff stay in business giving away all these precious adornments of God? Well, that's what great men who have been called to the Lord's service do. They give. They don't take. They give until it hurts.

In his last mailing, the Prophet Popoff wrote, "Take this Holy Anointing Prosperity Bar of Soap. Wash the devil right out of your life and release a new beginnings covenant of supernatural provision upon your life for the rest of this year!"

That's some powerful stuff, I'm not sure however that the Prosperity Bar of Soap had not been used before...

As I was scrubbing the area between my oversized toes, the Holy Anointing Prosperity Bar of soap slipped from hands and disappeared down the drain.

I'm hoping it gets me enough prosperity to the end of June and the last payment on my daughter's private school.

Mikey!!!

McDonalds doesn't make a habit of running commercials about the Whopper.

BMW doesn't rave about the handling ability of the Mercedes S Class.

And Apple doesn't like talking about the new Windows tablet. Though I will say the recent spot for it, done in a clean, competitive manner, has a lot going for it.

So it doesn't really make sense for me to speak glowingly about one of my copywriting colleagues/competitors.  Particularly now, when work is a bit slow. But playing by the rules has never been one of my strengths.

A couple of weeks ago, Victor and Spoils, an ad agency built on the crowdsourcing model (I'll save my thoughts on that for another post) paid tribute to Michael Collado, a young copywriter who used to work for me at Chiat/Day in 1997 (Best. Advertising Year. Ever.)

Because of his prodigious contributions as a freelance writer, they had an oil painting commissioned on Mikey's behalf.

The painting (seen above) hangs in the V&S corporate conference room.

I'm sure it's quite the conversation starter. But it's also a subtle reminder to the creatives working at V&S that they had better stay on their game.

You see Michael Collado is an advertising machine. He has 10 ideas before the briefing has started. He can knock out a hundred headlines before the planner reaches the USP. He'll fill a deck before you can fill your second cup of coffee.

You know that guy who flies in a helicopter over a major world city and then draws the skyline completely from memory? Well, Mikey can't do that. But if that guy ever went into business and wanted to sell his drawings, Mikey would be the advertising savant for the job.

But make no mistake, he is not just about quantity, though it is hard to believe he can write so much and so fast without hurting his fingers, the quality is there as well. In fact last year I wrote about his incredible talking head campaign for Charles Schwab that still stands the test of time.

So why haven't you heard of Michael Collado?

The truth is he scares Creative Directors. He does the kind of bold, disruptive, make-your-hair-stand-on-end kind of work that they blather on about in internal meetings or the week after returning from Cannes, but shy away from when there's an actual client at the table. Mikey was writing Skittles/Old Spice Man/Kayak absurdist type spots before those spots ever hit the airwaves.

Gerry Graf should book a flight to Tampa Bay and not leave until he has a signed contract with Mr. Collado.

As you might have guessed I'm a huge fan.

On my portfolio page I jokingly sign off with:

Rich Siegel
@Three writers for the price of two.

If Collado were to rip me off, and I know he wouldn't, he could legitimately use:

Michael Collado
@A hundred writers for the price of one.

As good as new

This is just not something you're going to see everyday, a rear windshield constructed solely from duct tape.

Actually, that may not be 100% accurate. If you'll look closely, in the center, you'll see some blue painter's tape. Perhaps this mobile MacGuyver was running out. Or perhaps he put it there as a spot of color, to break the pattern. A safety measure, as it were.

I'm no stranger to the ubiquitous powers of duct tape. I've used it to patch a hole on a bicycle tire. I've jerry-rigged a new duct tape hinge for the old refrigerator in the garage. And once I used it to wrap up a diaper when my wife was out of town on a business trip.

It's a magical, classless, wonder tool, favored by hillbillies and affluent homeowners alike.

If I may paraphrase Homer Simpson: Duct tape, is there anything it can't do?

Duct tape a has a lot going for it. It's durable. It's inexpensive. It's flexible. It's fast. And it's impervious to the elements. One thing it's not however, is invisible. And this, to me, is the most important attribute one should look for in a windshield replacement.

This may be a stretch, but in many ways this is what is wrong with advertising today.

We come up with these voluminous decks that check off so many boxes. Work that is digital, social, and engaging. Work that is media agnostic, holistic, and synergistic. Work that is on time, on task, and on point.

We do the kind of work that appears to check off every single box on the deliverables list. Except the work fails miserably at the one job it was intended to do: to sell stuff or services.

I keep picturing Joe Handyman putting the finishing touches on this duct tape masterpiece and handing the car keys to his girlfriend. She starts up the car, adjusts the rear mirror and turns to him...

"It's nice and all, but I can't see shit."

Blame it on the Juice

Seems everywhere I turn people are ridding their bodies of harmful, impacted fecal matter. Aren't you glad I didn't go with a photo of that?

They're juicing. Foregoing any solid food in favor of vitamin-enhanced, mineral-fortified, soupy-textured juices. I'm sure you've run into one of these evangelists or overheard one at the gym, because they can't seem to stop talking about their juice.


"I feel so much more energetic."


"It's like I'm getting in touch with my inner core."


"You should see the size and color of my poops...."


OK, slow down there Grasshopper.

Save the new-agey pep talks for someone less acquainted with the natural functions of the digestive system. You see while I agree we all have many unwanted poisons and toxins, we also happen to have kidneys and the liver, organs which effectively "detoxify" the body.

No juice concocted by some hemp-wearing, hookah-smoking hippie in Topanga Canyon is going to do a better job, in a week no less, than the human body, which has evolved over the course of millions of years.

Besides, I get enough fasting experience once a year during the oh-so-joyful holiday of Yom Kippur. I don't ingest any food or any drink for close to 26 hours with the hope that all my sins will be absolved by a giant Sky Judge that I don't even believe exists.

That's enough digestive flights of fancy for this non-believer. So I won't be juicing anytime soon. Not while there are still T-Bone steaks on the shelves at the supermarket. And pregnant burritos still being served at El Nopal.

And as far as that waste matter impacted against the sides of my intestinal walls, my feeling is, out-of-sight, out-of-mind.

You can begin now

A few weeks ago I had the very pleasant experience of working with another writer. As many of you know, this is usually not the case. Most times I am teamed up with an art director, and I count many among my friends. Or I fly solo, which I also enjoy. (Hint: that's foreshadowing.)

So while pairing writers may be common in the TV or film industry, it's not a standard practice in advertising. Though it's certainly an idea that has some merit.

In any case, if you put two writers in the room you're going to get stories. And somehow we came around to my experience with Southern California's whack shacks and our failed attempt to add a son to the Siegel family tree.

As a family of four, my wife and I were blessed with two healthy, beautiful daughters. It was, by all accounts perfect. Except I had always pictured myself raising a son. Going to ballgames, rough housing, farting, being rude and crude, and most importantly, exerting my overbearing will on every aspect of his life, not unlike the way my father had done to me.

And with a little help from modern day technology, that dream was within reach.

I had done my research and found a very credible organization in Westwood that helped young couples with previous fertility issues and provided sex selection options.

I'll spare you all the gynecological details -- mostly because my wife would kill me -- but when the time came (ovulation) I was to rush to the Westwood laboratory for a "seed collection."

I had done this before when we were initially conceiving our first child and had been privy to many various set ups on the west side of Los Angeles.

There was the swanky lab in Beverly Hills that had a VHS player and a massive collection of just- released porn. There was a dingy doctor's office off Pico Blvd that had a crappy selection of old skin magazines. And there was the hospital room turned whack shack at Cedar's Sinai with a sad handful of retro porn from 1970's, boom chicka baum baum.

On a cold Sunday morning in 2002, my wife informed me it was time to run over to Westwood. I had been looking forward to some NFL playoffs but a man had to do what a man had to to do.

I jumped in the car and made my way up Overland Ave. When I arrived, the place was empty. There was only myself and a nurse, a very attractive nurse, who smiled at me knowing exactly the purpose of my visit. She greeted me, had me fill out some paperwork and then handed me the plastic cup in which I was to deposit my potential son.

Of course I made a joke about needing a larger cup and she threw me a sympathy chuckle.
Then she led me to a room in the back and said I should lock the door, which I found a bit redundant.

There were no magazines, or VHS tapes or even DVDs, there was only a small TV monitor that came to life the minute I shut the door. Followed by a nonstop barrage of clips. It was erotica, make no mistake. But each clip ran 7-10 seconds. I thought it was trailer. So I let it run and "built" up my anticipation for the feature.

A minute passed.
Then another.
Then another.

After about ten minutes, I carefully cracked the door open and told the nurse:

"You can start the movie now."  

There was a pregnant pause.

She replied, "that is the movie."

Followed by a noticeable giggle.

Which, if you hadn't already guessed, increased the mission's degree of difficulty exponentially.

I closed the door and resumed the hand-to-gland combat. And left the lab with some serious egg on my face. Unfortunately, the repeated expensive trips to the seed collection room did not produce a son.

But it did produce a very funny story. Which I'm sure that nurse has told over and over again.

From Mad Men to Sad Men

I've got be careful not to date myself here.
I referenced Mad Men in the title but I did not work in advertising on Madison Avenue in the 1960's. I'm much younger than that.

I did catch the tail end of a different golden era of the industry, when excess ruled the day and nothing was too good for the folks in the Creative Department. (In my Homer Simpson voice: "Mmmmmm, agency-issued credit cards.")

For instance, on my first day as a real copywriter at a real ad agency I was escorted by a woman from the Human Resources Department to my very first office. This was not an office I was sharing with an art director, she had her own office. This was my office.

And it was magnificent.

Located on the 18th floor of a Century City high rise, the office had floor-to-ceiling windows with an incredible view of the Santa Monica Bay, provided it wasn't smoggy or there was no June Gloom. It sported a long leather couch, I won't even speculate. And even had a small round table for kibitzing. The desk had its own credenza, a word I immediately had to look up in the dictionary.

It was, by today's standards, palatial.

In fact, you could cram the entire staff of a digital boutique agency into the square footage of that office. And still have room for a couple of dinosaurs, you know old school brand guys like myself, to crank out the TV campaigns or any print ads that actually required writing.

It was a far cry from what I find today.

Where instead of offices, creative people are assigned seats at a long communal work table. And are expected to deliver breakthrough ideas -- faster and cheaper -- while working within spitting distance of other creatives who seem to nourish themselves on nothing but curry-based meals, morning, noon and night.

Have I painted a not-so-pretty picture?
Well, the indignity does not end there.

Because at this long communal work table, there's always the guy with the $500 portable speakers that can plug into a laptop and fill the room with the always-pleasant, easy-listening sound of house music or hip-hop.

Unhhhh. Unhhhhh.

My understanding is that in order to avoid being tortured with this kind of "music", prisoners at Guantanamo Bay have opted for the less odious waterboarding.

That's not the only audio assault. You see, despite wearing the most expensive sound canceling headphones manufactured by Bose, the over-the-ear QC 15's, there's no drowning out the non-stop zealous chorus of youthful corporate camaraderie:

"That's dope, bro!" 

Heard, not five or ten times in the course of a day, but somewhere in the neighborhood of 138.

Ironically, it's a sentiment I'd like echoed to the agency brass who believe this is the best environment for billion dollar brand stewardship.

"That's dope!", I'd say straight faced without any hint of the hipster connotation, "really dope."

Blondie Revisited

This is the way the world works.

In 1997, I travel to Atlanta to give a speech to up-and-coming ad students. That night, my first ever in the Peach State, I'm escorted to an unofficial city landmark called the Clermont Lounge, where I am treated to an unusual cocktail of kitschy humor and bad erotica.

15 years later, I am reminded of that bacchanalia by an email from one of the students, who generously penned me a detail account of a night I thought I had lost to Jack Daniels.

Two months ago, I shared this tale in a posting here on roundseventeen, entitled Blondie Fondly.

And last week, as if by providence, I caught the last half of Anthony Bourdain's Layover, in which he visits all the best that Atlanta has to offer. Naturally, including his eventful stop at the Clermont.

With this posting I've already violated the unofficial man code that states, "Thou shalt not recount any activities that might occur on a visit to a strip club."

Though one could legitimately argue the Clermont Lounge is hardly a strip club.

But it is safe to say I will not be writing about gentlemen's clubs anytime soon. Not because I'm worried about tarnishing my reputation, such as it is. But  because I stopped frequenting these establishments a long, long time ago.

Frankly, they feel like stationary bikes. You get all worked up and in the end, you haven't gone anywhere.

Before and Afghanistan

I don't belong to many groups on Facebook.

In general, I'm not a group person. If a bunch of people are doing something or collectively liking something, my tendency is not to do it and definitely not to like it.

I don't even know how I got roped into any groups on FB. But I do receive updates from something called the Global Secular Humanist Movement. And again, I'm not big on movements, unless they are my own.

Last week, they caught my attention with the photo you see above.

A pretty stark, if not overly simplistic (my favorite kind of simplistic), depiction of the country in which we have invested billions of dollars and more importantly, lost hundreds of US soldiers.

There was also a link to a larger article from the Denver Post, a photojournalistic exploration of Afghanistan from the 1960's by Dr. William Podlich, a professor who began a stint with UNESCO based in Kabul.

You can visit the article, but I've taken the liberty of pulling some of the more interesting pictures that show us an Afghanistan before the destructive forces of Islamic extremism.

Of course you can't paint an accurate picture of a country with a just a few photographs, But Dr. Podlich shows us a country of natural beauty. And of a people who seem to be on the road to progress.

I can't help contrasting these images with those of grown men throwing acid in the faces of little girls going to school. Of corrupt Afghani war lords taking our hard earned money and funneling it to the Taliban. Of fathers beating and killing their daughters in the name of some Neanderfuck definition of "honor."

Frankly, it makes me sick.

As you might have guessed this post isn't going to end with a typical funny quip.

However it did occur to me that maybe religious people, all religious people, have it backwards. If the Almighty Being they worship so fervently, allows this kind evil to prevail, and flourish, and destroy everything good in its path, maybe their God isn't the God of Light but actually the Prince of Darkness.

Maybe the religious zealots on this planet are the real Satanists.

Finger Lickin' Bad

It's been a while since I've done a post about some odd thing I've photographed. But it appears I've done way too much pontificating about advertising, politics, Jews and the joys of parenthood, that it's long overdue.

I spotted this van in the parking lot at Bristol Farms in Westchester.

I go there for lunch almost everyday following my daily almost-mile swim. My wife calls me an annoying creature of habit. I like to think of it as a demonstration of persistence and discipline.

In any case, that's where I spotted this minivan advertising the services of the Sauce Goddess, who flies under the banner, "if you don't lick your fingers, someone else will."

Not the most appetizing imagery.

I'm pretty sure I won't taking the sauce goddess up on her promise. You see when it comes to sauces, BBQ, salsa, and sundry condiments, I prefer they not be made in someone's jerry-rigged kitchen or low rent garage.

In fact, I like my foodstuff's the way I like my prescription grade narcotic medicines, made in a factory, under the watchful eye of the FDA.

Besides, no tomato sauce could ever be so good that my wife, or my daughters, or any of my friends would willingly jam my hand into their pie-hole any time soon.

After all, they know where those fingers have been.

What the f*#K is going on around here?

There's something disturbing going on in the world of advertising.

No, I'm not talking about the major holding companies who put out glowing shareholder financial reports with the hopes of generating additional investors and then, in the same breath, tell the employees there's no money for raises. Or bonuses. Or any of that soft one-ply toilet paper for the rest rooms.

No, I'm not referring to the 40-foot long communal workspace tables. "With all of us working at the same table there will be a greater, open exchange of ideas and greater creativity."

And no, I'm not pointing the finger at the human resources folks who have come to believe that professional writers are a frivolous luxury that a well-run ad agency can do without.

I'm talking about a certain zeitgeist that has infiltrated our industry and has reared its ugly head on multi media platforms: the euphemising of the word fucking.

Am I out of my fucking mind you ask?

Exhibit A. Take a look at this commercial for booking.com from the very talented people at Weiden & Kennedy. They singled out and captured that moment of vacation anxiety that we have all experienced with stunning accuracy. But then they rolled out the cheap expletives, or the expletive substitutes. And my appreciation for the spot went out the window. The window facing the air conditioning units and the parking lot. Not the one facing the turquoise blue ocean.

Of course, one example a zeitgeist does not make.

Exhibit B. Here's a screen grab from a Del Taco website.

I've never eaten at Del Taco, but I'll bet it's Unfreshingbelievable.

Exhibit C. This one comes to us compliments of the folks at Philips who have designed and manufactured an electric razor so revolutionary it will have me looking in the mirror and think: I'd do me. Or something to that effect.

It also occurs to me that if you're a guy investing your time on a website about portable shavers, I seriously doubt anyone will want to FAQ you, FIQ you, FEQ you, or otherwise.

How pervasive is this new low-brow trend?

Well, a signed NDA prevents me from disclosing the ad, but two weeks ago I found myself writing outdoor board lines and I succumbed to this phenomena, cleverly using a fucking euphemism to describe a competitor's product.

There are many other examples, but the roundseventeen research budget has been cut in half so the proceeds could be sent upstairs to the holding company to pay for a new company yacht. So if you're still interested you'll have to find them for your own fucking self.