The Day I Almost Became a Scientologist

When I first arrived in California I thought this was a land of opportunity. Everyone was so peaceful and happy and beautiful, unlike New York.  I thought this was a place where tzuris did not exist.

Of course you can chalk it up to youthful naiveté.

That Eucalyptus-induced haze did not last long. One dead-end job led to another. I had less money for rent and food because I was spending more money on drugs and alcohol. My car broke down and I was forced to buy a used motorcycle. Did I mention this happened during the rainiest winter on record?

The Mamas and the Papas never sang about tooling down the 405 freeway on a 1969 CB 450 during a monsoon. That kind of misery almost had me on a plane back to the Big Apple.

The last straw came when I found out the girl/woman I was seeing, told me she was married.

This was not all the successful prosperous life I had been told I would be enjoying once I had a degree from prestigious Syracuse University in hand.

Then one day, just a cloudy day, I found myself on the eastern end of Sunset Blvd. A flashing marquis  caught my attention. I'd be lying if I could tell you what it said. But it was something to the effect of: Hey Siegel, your life sucks. Come in here and change it.

I parked the motorcycle and cautiously walked into the gold laced atrium/reception area. There, I was met by a clear skinned blond beauty, like the ones the promised by the Mamas and the Papas. She handed me a pamphlet and said the next orientation meeting would begin in 15 minutes.

In retrospect I can tell you that brochure was incredibly well written. It pushed all the right buttons. And rang all the right bells. There was nothing about Theta's or interplanetary travel or celebrity breakfasts, "Hey, Tom can you pass the hash browns?" They were too clever for that.

They knew, or seemed to know, all about my struggles, my personal demons, my god damned motorcycle that was missing a third gear. And they were going to personally guide me to a better path.

It all felt so right. But before they could hook me up to their patented Truthification Metric Activator, the ©TMA 9000, I got a call.

It was from my Gut.

In a distinctive NY accent, heard exclusively on Jerome Avenue between 170th street and Mt. Eden Ave. it screamed, "What the fuck are you doing here? We didn't lose 6 million Jews to the Nazis only to lose another one to a bunch of sprout-eating, alien-thumping, tooth-whitening, good-time Charlies. Get your sad sack life together and get the hell out of here."

I put the pamphlet down. Smiled at Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, and walked out, vowing to quit smoking pot, begin exercising, and get myself on some kind of meaningful career path.

I kickstarted the motorcycle and headed west towards Santa Monica.

Then it started raining.

The Dodge Maccabee?

Seen in the parking lot at the Independence Day BBQ/Spelling Bee/Three-Legged Race Celebration in Independence, CA.

A 1915 Horseless Carriage, manufactured by the up-and-coming Dodge Brothers who were determined to offer a luxurious alternative to the Model T. This shiny black model was meticulously restored. Everything about it was in mint condition. The leather on the seats smelled brand new. The tires looked they had less than 5 miles on them. And the burled wood on the steering wheel was perfectly burled. Or however you would describe wood that looked like it was fine furniture.

But what I found most interesting on this classic, nearly century old machine was right under the hood ornament.

You don't see many Jewish stars in Independence, California. And you certainly don't expect to see one on the hood of a collector car.

So what gives, you may ask.
OK, I asked.

One theory is that the Dodge Brothers, two gentile engineers from the Midwest, had no idea the 6-pointed star was also a symbol of Judaism. I'm not buying that. These good old boys from farms where the corn grows as high as an elephant's eye know all about the Tribe. So much so that Oklahoma State Senator Dennis Johnson shows us how that knowledge has entered the cultural vernacular.

Another theory states the two triangles are actually interlocking triangles, or Delta's from the Greek Alphabet, representing D's. That seems plausible.

Also, Freemasonry was very popular at the turn of the 19th century, particularly among the wealthy and powerful. There's speculation that the symbol could be an abstraction of the Freemason's T-square and compass.

Finally, some suggest the Dodge Brothers were thumbing their nose at their former business partner Henry Ford, a man who let's just say probably didn't sit in on many seder dinners at Passover time.

In an attempt to solve the mystery, I tracked down the owner of the Horseless Carriage. He might have had the best answer of all.

"Hell, I don't know. I never even noticed that. Say, aren't you the fellow who just lost the Spelling Bee?  
Mattress, M-A-T-T-R-E-S-S, mattress."

Brand Engorgement

Pretty soon we'll be celebrating the 20 year anniversary of the Internet.

Which means you (well, not my daughters because they're under 20 and they don't read "Daddy's boring blog") and I have been around for every kb of it.

Personally, I have spent a great deal of time on the Internet, probably a lot more than I should have. But as I write for a living, I'm sort of tied to my keyboard. And the keyboard is irresisitibly linked to the web.

But here's the thing, in all those twenty years, I have spent virtually none of it engaged with any brands.

None.

OK, there was one time that VW put out this racing game that could be played on the iPhone or the iPad and I did that for about 5 minutes. But the game was such a poor version of Gran Turismo I dumped it immediately.

I certainly didn't come away from the experience with any greater sense of Farfegnugen. Or any greater appreciation of VW. If anything, I was disappointed. And vowed to never get sucked into any more of this digital nonsense.

My slightly older and wiser colleagues, George Tannenbaum and Bob Hoffman have written passionately on this topic. And because they are better writers than myself, they are able to provide academic proof and literary references that are far above my pay grade.

I speak anecdotally.
Mostly to accommodate my facile thinking.

And as the father of two teenage girls (who are most decidedly in the sweet spot for many of these digitally-obsessed companies) I can attest that they too are equally unimpressed by these brand engagement efforts.

I know because I asked them point blank. They cocked their heads and looked at me the same bewildered way my dog looks at me when I pour a bowl of cereal out of a box.

"Why would we spend time with any of that? That's advertising. Advertising sucks."

Completely oblivious to my line of work or the fact that advertising -- that is the making of advertising -- has paid for every gadget, every morsel of food, every remote control, every shoe and every stick of furniture in the house.

"So what, it still sucks."

If this sentiment ended here, so would this blog posting. But my daughter's friends say the same thing. And so do their friends. There are 1.5 billion videos on Youtube they'll counter, who has time for that?

Which has got me wondering.

I know there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people in ad agencies and on the client side, spending millions of dollars and countless man hours building elaborate digital brand engagement schemes. Everyday we're out there Tweeting and Vining and Instagramming and UXing and HTMLing.

Or as my pal George says, "we're making toys."

The question is, who's playing with them?

Got My Bearings Straight

Years ago, New Jersey had its day in the sun.

There were TV shows -- and I know this because I have two teenage daughters -- about the Jersey Shore, with its gumbas and the gumbettes. Shows about Jersey Bakers. And shows about Jersey Beauticians.

I'm pretty sure they were all on The Learning Channel, which could have easily renamed itself The Garden State Channel.

But now the basking glow of media attention has left Bayonne and turned north, towards the Bering Sea.

By my estimation, The Discovery Channel and the National Geographic Channel now have no less than 8 shows about Alaska. I don't watch a lot of TV, but it appears I'll watch anything about the people who make their home in Seward's Folly.

It started with Alaska State Troopers. Which is nothing more than a much colder version of the show "Cops". Only with considerably fewer Hispanics and African Americans and a lot more white trash meth-heads.

Perhaps it's because I am so familiar with the imbecile tenets of white supremacy that I find white trash so amusing. Even more so when they're drunk or high on some paint thinner-based drug.

The show I find most fascinating is Life Below Zero. It features a cast of characters that seem chiseled right out of the 19th century. Some are Eskimos. Some are married to Eskimos. And all are just out-of-their-mind crazy for living in such an inhospitable environment.

Why they choose to live here I'll never know. In fact I'm reminded of the late, great Sam Kiniston:

You see, while most of us run away from adversity, these folks run towards it. As if the unforgiving cold, the man-eating wolverines, and vast stretches of wilderness, were not enough, these resourceful trailblazers willingly choose to live on the edge of the edge of civilization.

They chop their own wood, fix their own machines and hunt, skin and cook their own caribou. If the rest of us were singed in a nuclear holocaust tomorrow, their lives would not change one iota.

My favorite, a borderline schizophrenic, Sue Aikens, lives 160 miles north of the Arctic Circle. Her closest neighbor is 350 miles away. When the camera crew isn't there, all she has for company are her Marlboro Reds and 15 wild foxes that share the compound.

Sue is perpetually convinced that a bear, or a wolverine or a raging moose is out to eat her. Indeed her revenge fantasies could fill an entire hour.

I would tell you more about Sue but the oil on my Lexus needs changing. Which demands a trip to Jiffy Lube, because I don't like to get grime on my dainty fingers.

I want my money back

Recently, the AFI put out their list of the top 100 movies ever made. Of those 100, only three were made after 1994.

Yes, it's hard to believe that the original Wolverine starring Hugh Jackman did not crack the list. I'm willing to bet that if the list were extended to 1000, poor Hugh would still be crying in his Foster's beer. Of course that's not stopping the overpaid trash-makers in Hollywood from delivering to us another installment in this can't-miss-series.

I only know this because last week my wife and I ventured down to the Culver City Multiplex for a night of cheap laughs via Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy in The Heat. But before that mildly entertaining movie could begin, we had to sit through 6 trailers.

It felt like 60.

As we walked home it occurred to us we had no interest in seeing any of them.

In retrospect, the movies were all exceptionally loud. They were all sizzle and no steak. And they all seemed suited to the taste of a fidgety 15-year old boy with the IQ of a drunken hummingbird.

The last of the 6 trailers actually started with a premise.

Five middle-aged Englishmen return to their home town determined to complete a one mile pub crawl. A feat that had somehow eluded them in their youth. It held out the promise of colorful characters, a clear narrative and charming rural English authenticity. Then witty repartee turned into shitty storytelling, with the introduction of Zombies, pyrotechnics and 21st century CGI stupidity.

A head-scratching moment to say the least.

Call me an old man, but I was fortunate to grow up when 43 of the the AFI's Top 100 were made. We had The French Connection, Dog Day Afternoon, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Apocalypse Now, Annie Hall, Taxi Driver and so many more.

But those times are long gone.

Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.
And so does the craft of film-making.

And now a word about racism

Just past Exit 15 on the New York State Thruway, the only means of escaping The Big Apple to the bucolic Catskills, The Finger Lakes, and the rust-belt beauty of Buffalo, you'll find Hillburn, NY.

On the hill, you can still see the remnants of what once was the MOTEL ON THE MOUNTAIN. Which was unmistakably identified by a large Hollywood-sign type lettering that was visible for miles in all directions.

In the late 70's the place was sold to some entrepreneurs from NYC who decided it would make a perfect weekend gay retreat. In response, some enterprising boys from my high school trekked up the hillside and removed three important letters, so that the sign now read: MO ON THE MOUNTAIN.

Funny, but decidedly mean. (More on that in a bit.)

Years ago I saw a documentary about Hillburn, NY. It was a story I had never heard before. All the more strange because Hillburn is the next town over from Suffern, where I grew up. In fact, it dawned on me that I knew very little about this pocket of a town wedged up against the Ramapo Mountains.

It didn't bother me then. But it bothers me now.

Because all through high school we spent an inordinate time learning about local landmarks from the Revolutionary War. As well as countless hours on NY's own Iroquois Indians. I could tell you more about a log sweathouse than any straight man should ever know.

But the school district, in all their wisdom, never thought it necessary to teach us anything about the 1000 people who lived next door in Hillburn and who were direct descendants of freed African Slaves and the Lenape, a tribe of Indians from Delaware. What a missed learning opportunity.

As if that glaring omission were not enough, I have just come to learn via the interwebs, that 11 years before the historic Brown vs Board of Education ruling, future Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall argued and won a case for racial integration in the very township where I was raised.

And yet I never heard a peep about this in any Civics or History class. OK, I was stoned through the latter half of high school, so maybe they slipped in one reference. But they definitely tip toed around the issue.

Perhaps it was a case of White Guilt.
But let's not be naive, guilt knows no color lines.

The multiracial folks in Hillburn, who for years had been the victim of political, economic and educational discrimination, were not so accommodating in 1977, just thirty three years after claiming their own legal equality.

The Gay Retreat was met by angry Hillburn residents. "It's not biblical," said Paul Thompson, "It's one of the reasons why Sodom and Gomorrah was destroyed."

Another woman claimed, "I can't raise my kids around this, I want them to think a boy should go out with a girl."

In all, not a very enlightened attitude.

Clearly, we have a long way to go before the folks with the Co-Exist bumper stickers can remove them from their cars and claim, "Mission Accomplished."

But all is not bleak.

In the early 1980's, the gay motel (©"Where Gay Entertainment is at its Peak") was sold to a chain of Japanese restaurants featuring highly dexterous fry cooks. It is now known as Mt. Fuji.

The change of ownership brought no protests from the residents of Hillburn. Or the residents of Suffern. After all, who doesn't like a volcano made from sliced onions. Or a sauteed shrimp tail tossed in their sport coat pocket.

A Bitch of a Pitch

Several months ago, I had a lower wisdom tooth removed. The oral surgeon removing the dead tooth also suggested taking the upper. I agreed. But perhaps due to the Vicodin, he misunderstood my intentions and left the tooth in.

Now, because of the misalignment, food has an unfortunate tendency to get stuck back there. And I am left to ply the errant remains with a pointy, rubber-tipped golden tool that I carry with me at all times.

In many ways the whole mess reminds me of pitching new business. There's pain. There's a tortuous process. And when it's over, a little bit sticks with you like a piece of roast beef wedged between the molars.

Years ago, at an unnamed agency, I found myself leading up the pitch for the Red Roof Inn. It was during a very contentious period of my career when I felt I could do no wrong. Of course I've matured a bit and come to realize that is no longer true.

(These days I'm actually more surprised when I'm right.)

However, in the case of Red Roof Inn, my initial instincts were correct. We had no business going after this business. The truth is, most folks would rather go through an un-anesthetized bout of dental surgery than spend a night at a Red Roof Inn.

We didn't win the account but like all agency people who lose pitches, we feasted on schadenfreude when the winning agency unveiled the "new" campaign. Perhaps you remember Red, the anthropomorphic spokesperson for Red Roof Inn...

Red was not the rousing success the folks at Red Roof Inn had hoped for.

In fact, this 80kb picture of Red is the only one that exists on the entire Internet. Obscurity is hardly the hallmark of a successful advertising campaign. (Though this hardly stops many digital agencies pitching their Vines, Instagrams and other nonsense no one will ever see or remember, but I'll save that for another post.)

Like my interest in the fate of Red Roof Inn, Red did not last long.

The client hop-scotched between several other agencies. Always failing to find the winning formula. In fact, I thought the roof had caved in on this Motel 6 wannabe. Until last week when I saw they had come up with a brand new promotional scheme that has caught the eye of the national media.

If being ruthlessly skewered like that is not the kiss of death for a brand, I don't know what is.

I feel like I just enjoyed a second helping of schadenfreude for dessert. If some of it gets stuck in between my teeth, I'll just savor the flavor.

It's a dry heat

Mojave, CA is 90 minutes north of Los Angeles.
But make no mistake, it is a world unto itself.

In the winter, the temperature rarely rises above 40 degrees.
And in the summer, the mercury never stays in the double digits.

These must be the ideal cooking conditions for methamphetamine. Because the town's entire populace seems to be hooked on the stuff.

If you're wondering about Spring and Fall, don't. Those seasons are too nuanced for a place like Mojave, which seems to favor extremes. The roadside Church of Heavenly Grace and Mercy is sandwiched between the Tiger Tail Adult Book Store, now featuring just released hits on VHS, and Mike's Gun Shop, where the only amendment that counts is the Second.

Apparently Mike is not a fan of the government or any nuisance that stands in the way of packing heat. Mike's motto, painted on the window, "Walk in with two arms, walk out with three."

I am inexplicably drawn to Mojave, like a moth to a flame. Its seediness, its remoteness and its general lack of dental hygiene make it feel like a land that time and the California Department of Health and Welfare forgot.

You could safely describe the town as pre-Apocalyptic.

Last week, on our trek to Northern California we made a mandatory pitstop at the Carl's Jr. in Mojave, arguably the cleanest of the "restaurants" along Route 14. I have long abandoned my taste for fast food, but it is the one time of the year I allow myself the indulgence.

Obviously the food is nothing to write home about. The same cannot be said for the diners.

Seated in the next booth was a chatty fellow in his early sixties clothed in camo from head to toe (I'm going to go out on a limb and say Viet Nam Vet). For some reason he seemed to think that my wife, my two daughters and myself were the perfect audience for his half-baked, meth-fueled political ramblings.

Or maybe he reads my blog and had me pegged for someone who is fascinated, I should say amused, by anything involving the Illuminati, Alex Jones, Freemasonry, the New World Order, The Trilateral Commission, Tin Foil, The Bilderberg Group, Mossad Plots, International Banking, and UN-enforced Fascism. He managed to work all those topics into a casual discussion that only lasted 14 minutes, roughly the time it takes to consume a grilled turkey burger and onion rings.

And it all started with an innocent question, "Say, pal, how many colors are there on the United States flag?"

Red, white and blue, I answered confidently, having graduated with a Bachelor's Degree from an accredited university.

"That's what it should be. But have you ever seen the US flag that are now sporting a gold fringe?" he replied.

I had seen those and hadn't realized those flags were part of a larger UN conspiracy, a conspiracy my new friend would have been glad to explain well into the late afternoon. That is, until my youngest daughter surreptitiously shot me a look that said in no uncertain terms...

"Dad, let's get out of here, this guy is way sketch."

Go to Hell

Ever find yourself in a dreadful, stressed out situation?

Of course, you have.

You breath oxygen. You have family. You have to work for The Man to put food on your table. What a dumb question. But the advice given by psychiatrists, therapists, life coaches or gushy optimists who write for pop teen e-zines, is even dumber.

"Go to your Happy Place", they'll say.

Go to Hell, I say.

If I'm stuck in an endless pitch meeting that has gone south or find myself in a knock down, drag out fight with my wife, why in the world would I want to imagine myself in some place better, like at the House of the Cherished Seacoast in Kauai. 

That doesn't help to ameliorate the situation. In fact, it only serves to make it worse. Because I keep thinking, "that's where I want to be, but that's not where I'm at."

My approach, the more pragmatic one, is to dwell on my most Unhappy Place.

Here's how that works.

Sure this client is telling me how these concepts are off strategy. And the spots are dull. And the writing  could have been improved upon by a third grader. But at least I'm not stuck at the Long Beach Hampton Inn with my wife and two screaming toddlers, taking turns at the toilet and the bathroom sink to expel the food poisoning that has a merciless grip on the entire Siegel clan, following the reception at my sister-in-law's wedding.

Give me your worst Mr. or Mrs. Client. Unless you want to sprinkle some Staphylococcus in with that critique, I'm impervious to your unprofessional behavior.

The fact is, I collect Unhappy Places the way some people collect baseball cards, Tiki mugs, or sculptures by Alexander Calder.

My collection is robust. And my Unhappy Places are ranked. And most importantly, they are all easily accessed with the instantaneous connection of a few memory neurons.

So go ahead world, take your best shot.
Sig Alerts on the 405, pffft.
Mechanical delays on a 737, please.
Two weeks of no freelance work and no prospects or leads, pour me another mojito.

Stress will have to work a lot harder to take me down. I once spent 54 sleepless hours in Frankfurt, Germany, fueled by an unhealthy concoction of Red Bull, Xanax and Jim Beam bourbon. Further compounded by a staggering case of jet-lag, latent Nazi-phobia and severe career buyer's remorse.

You see, I've already been to Hell.
Any thing else, is a piece of cake.

The check is NOT in the mail

You would think that after being away for 10 days, recharging my batteries and reconnecting with nature on a remarkable camping trip in the High Sierras, I would return to roundseventeen with some pleasantries and some funny, heartwarming anecdotes about friends and family.

But the truth is I don't traffic in predictability.
The other truth is, I don't do heartwarming.

Prior to leaving on my 'vacation' (I'm not sure camping can be called vacation) I was freelancing at an agency in Orange County. It was a great gig. I got to reconnect with old friends. And bask in the warmth of bitter, cynical colleagues who willingly shared their treasure trove of advertising war stories.

It was during one of these collaborative venting sessions that one former freelance copywriter, now gone staff, asked if I had ever been stiffed?

I went through the Accounts Receivable Ledger in my mind and was happy to tell him that it had only happened twice.

Once with a small agency in Santa Monica. They were having financial difficulties and were completely transparent with me. Also, they provided me with a lot of work during the financial meltdown of 2008 and were people I genuinely liked. So we came to an agreement and I wrote the incident off to the cost of doing business.

The other financial transgression I'm not so willing to forget. Even though it happened 7 years ago.

I received a call from a freelance art director in Florida. He had found my credentials on linkedin.com  and wanted to know if I would partner up with him for a job he was contracted to do for McCann Erikson in NY. He said we could do it all over the phone, with emails and the occasional Skype. We agreed to a price and got to the business of doing business.

But things got sticky right away.

He ignored every idea I put on the the table. Not most. Or virtually all. Every, as in 100%. He was only interested in developing his "concepts", if one were generous to call them that.

Now, I knew where my grits were being gravied. And since he called me, I obliged and did my best to make a silk purse from his sow's ear. By the way, I'm intentionally using a tired cliche because it seems like an appropriate way to describe this man's contrivances.

Example: 

Him: "What if we did something with the Fun Police?"
Me: That sounds great. (thinking, I wish the Fun Police would shoot me)

Long story, mercifully shorter.

I sent him the invoice and got a check back about a month later. But it was only for 50% of what we had agreed. Then the ugliness ensued. Nasty emails. Heated phone calls. And threats of litigation.

I was never all that clear about words like "libel" and "slander", and though I had the truth on my side, I didn't want to risk going to court over a pittance. So I dropped the matter and tore up the column I had written for Adweek.

But I'm a self-admitted grudge-holder. I don't take kindly to being screwed over. So over the years I have made it a point to check in on this guy's linkedin profile. Just so that when he sees my name he starts wondering, "Why the hell is Siegel looking at my profile?"

And now I'm just about ready to put the matter to rest.
So last week I sent him an email...

Dear Tim,

Invoice #273 is now 7 years overdue. With a remaining balance of $2,000. I was going to ask you when I could expect a check? 

But here's the thing. 

I've retold this story about how you conduct business so many times and with so many advertising colleagues, including many high level Creative Directors that I've more than gotten $2,000 worth of laughs at your expense. 

In fact, this tale has proven so timeless, I feel like now I owe you money.

I'm more than happy to get out my checkbook. What is your current address? 

Best,

Rich Siegel

Good morning campers

It's good to be back. With my hands on the keyboard and a tankful of tales to be told.

Though where I had been sitting for the past 6 days, at a beautiful campsite, 7000 feet above sea level in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains was not so bad either.

Take the photo above, for example.

I snapped it from our camping table.

This young fawn/doe/deer/buck/moose (I couldn't tell you the difference if I had a zoological picture book parked in front of me) strolled right into our campsite. It happened shortly after sunrise, while I was enjoying a concoction my wife had whipped up, a slice of propane-toasted bread, topped with pepperjack cheese, several salami nuggets and a fried egg.

Its mother, lurking to the left and out of frame, watched carefully to make sure I posed no threat. As long as he/she/it didn't come anywhere near my salami, we were good.

Many people still find it hard to believe that I pack up my gear, and willingly sleep on the ground, take showers from a plastic bag, and do all my personal business without the aid of running water -- hot, cold, or even grey.

The truth is these people just don't know me that well. And as my wife will attest, they're better off that way.

The fact is, camping -- the act of abandoning civilization and subjecting my mind and body to physical and mental discomfort -- is part of my nature.

Years ago, my father schlepped my brother and I, on a 7 day backpacking Death March through the backside of the Grand Tetons. We had 80 lbs. packs, enough freeze dried beef stroganoff to survive a nuclear holocaust, and a slew of meaningless topographic maps that we used to start illegal campfires.

Each night we had to hoist our packs, and anything that smelled remotely like food, over a high tree limb so as not to attract bears. And not just any bears, grizzlies.

Had we not made it out of there alive, I'm convinced the headline in the local Wyoming paper would have read, "Three NY Jews Complete Suicide Pact in Yellowstone Park."

One of these days I will sort through the plastic bins in my garage and fish out the photos from that near-fatal trip. And in an act of self-flagellation post pictures of myself sporting nothing but short shorts, rainbow suspenders, and $200 Asolo Hiking boots fashioned from the hard leather of a Nepalese Mountain Yak.

That post will go up the day after I can no longer find cynical things to write about the advertising business.

You're on your own

Will resume posting 7/8/13.

Outdoor Advertising, RIP 2013.

It’s only a little ironic that lately I find myself commuting on the 405 freeway from my house in Culver City to a freelance gig in Costa Mesa. Ironic, because it was exactly 9 years ago this week that I quit my job as a Group Creative Director, running the Jaguar account, at Y&R/Irvine.

And why did I quit that job, you may ask.

Because the drive, the exact same drive, was killing me.

It’s not more pleasant than it was then. But it is considerably less stressful.

I don’t worry about making meetings. Or navigating the awkward politics. Or dreading the awful employee performance reviews. Awful, because even if someone was doing a stellar job in 2004, when the economy was doing well, there was never any money from the holding company that I had the liberty to dispense.

For 99% of ad agency people, raises/bonuses have not been seen since 1997. Regardless of how the economy was doing.

Of course, now I’m a mercenary and have nothing to complain about, right? Well, if I lacked the ability to manufacture a legitimate gripe, roundseventeen would have been over a long, long time ago.

You see, on the long drive down to beyond the Orange Curtain I noticed something had disappeared from the freeways – Outdoor Advertising. Oh there are plenty of billboards, hundreds of them in fact, but none them are memorable. At least not for the right reasons.

I saw one for a luxury automobile, with the obligatory beauty shot of the car, accompanied by the three of the most uninspired words I’ve ever seen, “Upgrade your commute.”

Really, that’s the best you got? 

I don’t want to go all Gran Turino on you, but in my day, in my time, a line like that would get you demoted from Senior Copywriter to Unemployed Senior Copywriter. (Not to toot my own horn, but I dug out the very first outdoor board I worked on for Public Storage. I think it stills holds up today.)

Billboards have a unique ability to make you think, to stir some emotion, and to leave some kind of lasting impression. Perhaps I should say had. Because what I'm seeing on the road today doesn't do any of the above. In fact the best writing I’ve seen doesn’t originate from any of the major ad agencies, it comes from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

That made me laugh out loud. 

Like doing 65 mph is even possible on the 405.

Spurn the other Cheek

I know after reading this post, many of you husbands will want to send me Thank You cards.

In fact, if I'm reading the recently-discovered Beginner's Packet published by the Christian Domestic Discipline Movement, many of you wives and girlfriends will also want to shower me with appreciation.

Or something else.

First a primer.

Christian Domestic Discipline is the practice between two consenting life partners in which the Head of the Household (that'd be me) takes the necessary measures to achieve a healthy relationship dynamic; the necessary measure to create a healthy home environment and the necessary measures to punish unwanted and detrimental behaviors for the greater good of the family.

If you hadn't guessed this involves loss of privileges, time outs and spanking. Lots of spanking.

I've given the Beginner's Packet a cursory glance and pulled some nuggets in case you and your partner wanted to make this magical journey, my words, not theirs.

For instance, here's how they suggest you broach the topic of domestic disciplining...

"Hey Sweetheart. I just wanted to talk to you about something. I know it might sound strange and I certainly understand that. But, I think it could really help our relationship, especially with ___________________ (you are to fill in your own issues). I'd like to try it because I love you a lot and I want our relationship to be the strongest it can be."

You might want to transcribe those words on index cards and commit them to memory before talking to her over breakfast. Also make sure there are no iron skillets nearby.

They also suggest going slow.

"Take things slow. Establish the foundation. Don't be in a hurry to catch up. Begin to add on from there as the weeks, months and years go by."

That certainly seems to make sense to me. But I'd certainly like to know which couples I need to catch up to.

It's easy to scoff at all this but as the Huffington Post makes clear many women report...

"...feeling extremely calm and relaxed after being disciplined, and believe it is an expression of their husband caring about them and their relationship enough to help them modify their behavior."

The booklet even details the proper methods for spanking.

"For beginners it's recommended either a hairbrush, a wooden spoon, or a wooden paddle be used. The recommended number of strikes is 15. But 20 may be necessary for the desired result."

I wonder how many strokes it will take before my wife agrees to make me a sandwich. With cheese. And toasted bread.

It's just a soda

Last week I saw a truly amazing piece of advertising.

I don't say that too often.

Partially because a lot of what passes for amazing, isn't. And partially because it goes against my nature to lay too much praise on other people's work.

It's not my most becoming attribute, but shouldn't I get some points for honesty?

Anyway, the piece I'm referring to came from Weiden & Kennedy. As I've said many times before, I'm a huge fan of their work. They are one of the few remaining ad agencies that will not dumb it down. Or treat their audience with disrespect.

See for yourself:

Go ahead, get some tissue paper and dry your eyes.

But before you start thinking, "Thank God Coca Cola stepped up to the plate and put that potential armegeddon to rest", let's back the truck up a bit.

A few dozen Indians and Pakistanis put their hands on a vending machine to get a free can of of soda. That's a great way to sell more sugar water. It's fun. It's smart. And it's entertaining. But let's not delude ourselves and mistake this clever marketing ploy for diplomacy. Or nuclear disarmament. Or anything close to settling 66 years of death match animosity.

The film may be titled, Bringing India and Pakistan together, but if you have even most fundamental understanding of geo-politics you know that is a bit of an over-statement.

I know this is my cynicism showing but we ad people are fond of making overpromises. We're even fonder of self-delusion. And the silly, egocentric notion that what we do, can make the world a better place.

I could argue just the opposite.

If we did less of what we do -- made fewer commercials, made fewer banner ads, and stopped defacing every seatback, every handrail and every urinal cake we could get a press check on -- the world would actually be a better place.

The Boss

Since I started this blog, almost 5 years ago, many celebrities have left this world for the next.

Oh, who am I kidding? There is no next world. When you die you're done. Lights out. Matter returns to energy. To believe otherwise is to put stock in the Tooth Fairy, The Seventh Imam of Medina or Diapernese, the Greek God of Poop.

But I digress.

As I said, many stars of the big screen, the little screen and pop culture in general have passed away. To the best of my recollection I have never indulged in any sappy RIP's.

I won't start now.

However the news of James Gandolfini's passing did hit me like a .45 caliber bullet to the side of the head. Fact is, I saw Gandolfini not more than 3 months ago. I was at my doctor's office at the Century City Medical Center to check on the condition of Hurty, the bone spur that has grown on my heel bone after 25 years of running. As I was waiting for my car to be brought around by the valet parker, I was joined by a large, hulking man on my left. He looked very familiar. He smiled at me and muttered, "Heyhowyoudoin?"

It was the cordial greeting one stranger passes with another.

He looked familiar. And for a second thought maybe I know this guy from high school or another ad agency. Then it dawned on me that I was standing next to Tony Soprano.

I was, and still am, a huge fan of the show. But Los Angeles Celebrity Ettiquette required me to respect his privacy and move on without any gushing. And so I did.

But the connection goes much deeper. You see I grew up in Suffern, NY, which as you can tell from the accompanying map is Mafia-adjacent to North Jersey, where the Soprano family ruled the roost.

The famed Bada Bing strip club is an actual strip club. And to the best of my uh, personal recollection, has been there for ages, under a variety of names like Satin Dolls, Candy Lane, Whispers, Velvet Room, and Jersey Whore. Don't take my word on the last one.

Some of the recent obituaries noted how Gandolfini was so remarkably believable as Tony Soprano. I believe this is somewhat attributable to geography.

He grew up in Northern Jersey. He knew the best booths at the best diners. He knew the surprisingly beautiful backroads of Upper Saddle River. He knew the gas stations on Route 17, where you are not allowed to pump your own gas and an attendant will still clean your windshield.

In fact, my buddy Bob remembers working with a very young James Gandolfini when he was a waiter at the T.G.I.F. in Hackensack, NJ.

His passing is very sad. But he left us a great body of work. And in case my wife is reading this, a complete boxed set of The Soprano's DVDs would make an excellent gift for next year's Father's Day.

They're Coming Back

Next week is no time to be working at an ad agency. And thankfully, I won't be.

I'll be gleefully employed by a client and working directly for their in-house department.

So what bullet will have I dodged?

Well Monday the Adverati, that is the elite royalty of our business who have long ago given up flying in economy class or ridden in anything but a Lincoln Town Car, will be returning from their debauched soiree in Cannes.

They'll be bringing back more than swollen livers, deviated septums and gut-busting stories about how they almost fell off the company yacht as it hit rough waters rounding the Cap d'Antibes.

They'll be coming back, dare I say it, Inspired.

And of course if an agency is going to lavish $50,000 on every one of their top-rung creative people,  an agency is going to want a return on that money. That can only mean one thing -- inspirational speeches.

There will be the "We've got work harder" speech.
This despite the 60-hour work weeks, followed by the mandatory/voluntary Saturday and Sunday office appearances.

There will be the "We've got to work smarter" speech.
This despite the contracted timelines, the fluid strategies and the growing bureaucracies found on the client side of the table.

And finally, there will be the "We need to win more awards" speech.
Of all the speeches, this is the most critical. Because as any Francophile can tell you, the only thing more important than going to Cannes, is going back to Cannes.

Thankfully, I will be spared all the Rose Koolaid, the Ra-Ra-ing and ear-bending. And it's just as well, because I don't have the time for that fire-in-the-belly nonsense.

These banner ads are not going to write themselves.

Lessons from Culver Blvd.

Assuming there's no wind, you could, with a strong 4 iron, hit a golf ball from the Culver Motel and land it in the #6 lane of the 405, the most hated freeway on the planet.

I picture the guests at this fine establishment leaving their windows open at night to let the white noise of the passing traffic, which almost sounds like the ocean, lull them into a deep slumber. That, and the rotgut whiskey and stolen bennies.

I've driven past the Culver Motel for more than 20 years and never took the time to notice its Kerouacian charm.

You can, for instance, secure a modest room at the Culver for less than fifty dollars. That same fifty bucks will not even cover the cost a of room service breakfast at the SoHo Grand. I know, because I had to go a few rounds with the finance people to get reimbursed.

Of course the big draw at the Culver Motel is the C O L O R TV.

And not just any color tv. RCA, my friends. Because when you situate a hotel in Culver City -- The Heart of Screenland, guests expect the finest reproduction of motion pictures, talkies and non-talkies.

It's hard to believe but at one time the RCA name had a certain cache. Those times are long gone.

Though I was surprised to see that the company is still in business. In fact, RCA still makes televisions that are sold at the big box stores. For a good giggle, walk into your local best buy and ask the woman in the blue polo shirt to show you the state of the art RCA's, like the 42 inch LCD with "mega dynamic contrast."

RCA is even on the interwebs.

I'm not sure what the pensive, strong-jawed man about to get jizzed with some mystery green fluid has to do with TV's, or technology, or anything. But the folks in the RCA marketing department could use a few pointers about clarity and no nonsense communication.

Maybe they should speak to the owners of the Culver Motel?

Find new thinking

Uh, hello?
Anybody see something wrong here?

You have two different car companies trying to establish two different branding positions using two different taglines that, well, don't seem well...very different.

I'm not about to pass judgment on the work itself. Mostly, because I don't want to bite the hands that occasionally feeds me.

However I do find it interesting that Chevrolet, find new roads, Mitsubishi, find your own lane, stem from the same thought.

And I have a pretty good idea where that thought came from -- you.

Not you, my cynical, jaded industry colleagues who hate advertising one day and post Facebook pictures of the strawberry tart served at the Georgio Baldi wrap party the very next day.

I'm talking about the more general you, as in the larger public. The ones who 'volunteer' for a marketing focus group and gladly give up an evening at home for fifty bucks, a tuna sandwich and a bowl of previously-pawed M&M's.

You sit there with your laminated name tags, and your pleated khaki pants and your boring stories about boy scout camping trips. And then, given an opportunity to pontificate, you snatch up the role of Focus Group Captain and steer the discussion about how you'd like to discover the world. Or blaze new trails. Or travel the road less travelled. Or about a hundred other cliches that quickly get transcribed on index cards and pinned in a war room, passing for something the planners, with their masters and doctoral degrees, call "insight."

The sad truth is, banality like Find your own lane or Find new roads or (insert automotive tagline here) does not merit much discussion.

Taglines today have little bearing on car purchasing behavior. And they're even less effective when it comes to positioning a carmaker. Particularly when the taglines feel like they've been clipped from the back of a Tony Robbins Motivational Tape.

Activate your life.

Be one with the journey.

Feel the drive.

Let it move you.

Go everywhere.

I could do this all day.
Oh wait, I do do this all day.

Sad face.

On the links

Last week, Tiger Woods added to his incredible list of super-human accomplishments.

He played in the U.S. Open at the Merion Golf Club in Haverford Township, Pennslvania.

And at the very same time, he made an appearance at the Executive 9-Hole Course at Penmar by The Sea, also known as Landfill by the Pacific, or The Santa Monica Squirrel Preserve.

Obviously he didn't transcend the law of physics and make an actual appearance, but he was there in spirit, in the body of a hard charging Tiger wannabe who had joined our foursome on the first tee box with...

 "OK, boys, let's show this bitch who is in charge."

Then Tiger, I believe his name was Chris, proceeded to fist bump the four strangers with whom he would thoroughly embarrass himself with for the next 3 hours.

In fact when this Tiger Pretender with the extremely high testosterone-count wasn't cursing at the grounds crew for leaving the sprinklers on or complaining about the length of the tree branches -- which he hit with great regularity -- he was constantly fistbumping. Which seemed to be his primary mode of communication.

Every action taken on the course that day required a fist bump.

"Nice sand save brother, put it here."

"Excellent 4 foot putt, give me some."

"I like the way you tee'd that ball up, show me some love."

If you hadn't guessed, I'm not given to excessive exuberance. Particularly during a game of amateur golf by a bunch of unemployed weekday duffers on a rag-tag Muni course. But Chris/Tiger didn't see it that way. In his head Johnny Miller, Nick Faldo and Jim Nance were watching his every move.

Why else would he be taking ten practice swings? Or gauging the distance to the hole with his $300 Scoutmaster KL 9000? Or pronouncing that his goal was to land all his approach shots below the hole so he would have easier uphill putts? At Penmar, which is flatter than a ping pong table?

But what made all his prepping and preening and posturing so delightfully delicious was that fact that this blowhard sucked. Big Time.

There wasn't a tree he didn't hit. A green he didn't four putt. A shot he didn't turn into a Tin Cup disaster. If anything, he was the Anti-Tiger. I could have watched him "play" all day long. It was that entertaining.

The best specific example I could cite happened on the second, one of the longer holes on the course that faces into the ocean and the ocean breeze.

Before tee-ing off, Anti-Tiger, reached down and pulled a thatchet of grass from the lawn. And then, as if sporting a PGA card in his back pocket, proceeded to toss the loose grass into the air to getter a better read about how the wind was swirling above the treetops. He watched carefully as the fallen grass was swept to his left. Ideally, he would counter the wind with a low stinging draw that would stay low and leave him a make-able approach shot.

Instead, he pulled out his big black square headed Titanium driver, held his breath, over swung, and with a mighty grunt, topped the ball, sending a worm burner  50 yards through the deep grass until it stopped on the backside of a tree.

That was followed by a loud outburst of cursing and screaming.

As he thundered away to his ball, I turned to my buddy, and we exchanged some laughter borne of schadenfreud as well as a small surreptitious fist bump -- the only one that was merited for that day.