Pass the Mushu Pork, Please

If I were to ever own my own ad agency, and I've threatened such a scenario for years, the scope of services would be very limited.

1. We'd make the ads.
2. We'd manage the creation, production and distribution of the ads.
3. And then we'd bill the client.

We'd operate this way, not because those are the only areas where I have some expertise, but because anything else is superfluous.

Of course, that is NOT the general direction in which most agencies are going. And I should know, I have worked in all of them.

These days the scope of services goes way beyond the making of ads. Agencies today are more than willing to tell clients, and sell clients, profound insights as to what goes into making a culture.

A few weeks ago, I was working out of the cafeteria of a company that shall remain anonymous -- "The names have been changed to protect the inefficient."

There, I had the distinct pleasure of eavesdropping in on a "business" conversation by the Planners. I believe they are now called Cultural Experiential Anthropologists.

It was all so enlightening.

Had you squinted your eyes and employed a little cognitive dissonance you would have sworn you were in the living room of the local Tri-Delt House.


"So, let's talk about emoticons."

"OMG, I hate emoticons. And the people that use them."

"Hello, 2007 called and it wants its winky face back."

"Know what's worse than emoticons? Acroynms. LOL, ROFLOL, LMFAOLOL."

"Yeah. I can't stand acronyms."

"OMG, me too!" (from one girl who was impossibly more clueless than the others)

"How many of you have instagrammed a meal before?"

"Speaking of meals, look somebody just put leftover birthday cake on the counter."


By the way, I may be a hardcore atheist but I would put my hand on a Bible/Torah/Quran, or even Darwin's The Origin of a Species, and swear that the dialogue quoted above is a true word-for-word accounting.

At the conclusion of this Insight Farming Session (OK, that I made up, but I'm sure they had some jargon-y term for what had just transpired) somebody volunteered to compile all the "findings".

I'm sure a deck was made.
An invoice was generated.
And a check was blindly written by the client to pay for this groundbreaking research.

I can't help wondering how many dohickees/whatchamacallits/thiggamajigs the client has to sell just to cover this cost of this horse hockey.

I may not possess an MBA. Or a sophisticated knowledge of human behavior and the influence of a fractured media landscape. And I lack the ability to discern the intricate differences between a 'Pragmatic Charismatic' and a 'Practical Self-Actualizer.' But this, the above tale, is what passes for marketing and business acumen in the halls of corporate America in the year 2013.

And it explains why in 50 years we're all going to be speaking Mandarin.

The cat in the hat

I'm not working today.

This is kind of rare as I like to work whenever possible. In fact, in the West Coast domain of freelancers, I'm often referred to as the "busiest freelancer in the business."

I'll be the first to admit, it has nothing to do with talent. I can name ten writers who are much better than me. But they don't need any additional ink. And I'm not going to give it to them.

Take that, Hepinstall.

I'm busy, through sheer determination and resourcefulness. I listen to industry gossip. I track down leads. I make the cold calls others are not willing to make. And I self promote. Probably to the point of humiliating myself, but I have three princesses to keep fed and clothed.

I'm also a slut.
Availing myself to anyone willing to cover my exorbitant day rate.
Though incredibly less exorbitant than my previously mentioned, hyper-talented colleagues.

If there's one thing I've learned in my decade-long tenure as a mercenary, it's that when an agency is looking for a Digital Copywriter they're not looking for me.

Part of that could be my age. I know when I walk into an agency these days there are whispers.

"Hey Tiffany, why is your grandfather here?" 

or,

"Is that Bill Bernbach?"

Doesn't bother me.

The truth is, if it came down to a fight I could probably beat up 98% of the copywriters with staff jobs. I don't know why it would come to fisticuffs, but if it did, I'd be ready.

Not to get too meta, but another reason why I'm often overlooked for digital assignments is, ironically, this blog.

I, along with many other industry pundits, often poo-poo the value of digital advertising. And we often do it right here on the Internet. It's such a target-rich environment, I'd have a hard time not making fun of digital advertising.

By the way, if you ask the average consumer to name the most successful digital advertising effort, I have no doubt many would reply, "Burger King's Subservient Chicken." That launched in 2004!

You and I may be aware of other notable Titanium-Lion worthy campaigns. But the buying public is not. Nor, I believe, are they waiting for the next one.

Finally, there's this. If you were to look at my online portfolio, you'd see I cut my teeth doing TV, radio, print and outdoor. You might fail to see that I have done quite a bit in the digital world. Fact is, I've done more than most digital copywriters. Oh and I could beat them up too.

I could take the time to list them all here. Or I could do something more effective and buy the accoutrements that would make me look the part. Cause you can't be a Digital Copywriter unless you've got the Digital Copywriter hat.

Killing us softly

The Chinese are kicking our ass.

They must be smart, because they spend one fifth of what we spend on military hardware and the armed services.

Their plan is not to bomb us. Or destroy our infrastructure. Or anything that would have a negative impact on the substantial investments they have made here on our mainland.

No, they are way too wily for that.

The Chinese plan, and it's quite nefarious, is to leverage our ungodly consumerism until we choke ourselves to death on their shabby goods.

We'll dig our own graves. And we'll do it with the HoleMaster KR 9000™.

The beauty of it all is we're willing participants in our demise.

Two weeks ago I purchased a new recumbent exercise bike to replace the Chinese-made NordicTrack that literally disintegrated in my garage. I did my research and decided the Diamondback 510SR would be a good choice. Had I dug a little further I would have discovered the Diamondback is also built in China.

Here's the ultimate irony.

A piece of machinery intended to add years to my life has managed to accomplish quite the opposite. Take one look at the assembly page instructions above and you will know why.

I am an unusually handy Jew.

It took me 16 hours, but I once installed a new garbage disposal under the kitchen sink. I have outfitted entire apartments in Ikea furniture. And I can change the oil and the tires on my car, though I often choose not to because I don't want the old lady across the street to ask me to do it for her.

The point is, I'm not one of those "soft" Ashkenazis. I trace my roots to Bulgaria and self-identify with the Sephardim, the one who can do for themselves.

But when it came to putting this damn recumbent bike together, I found myself in tears. Actually, I wasn't crying, my wife was. Something to the effect of, "Oh no, not again."

I don't know if you can make sense of the instructions, but somewhere between Step 23 and Step 24, I gave up. Mind you, I survived Advanced Calculus in college and know how to track shapes and figures moving in three dimensional space.

But I couldn't make heads or tails of these instructions, so I went with my gut. I connected wires that seemed to need connecting. Bolted pieces together that seemed to need bolting. And managed to put the whole damn thing together.

It doesn't look exactly like the picture on the box, but the important thing is it works.

Of course, now I have a lot of leftover pieces. Mostly washers, nuts and bolts.

I'm not laying down in this fight that crosses the Pacific. I take the extra hardware and mix it in with some coins and leave them on the table as a tip any time I go to a Chinese restaurant.

Hello darkness my old friend

I like sleeping.

Or, as Ralph Wiggum from The Simpsons says, "Oh boy, sleep! That's where I'm a viking."

But it appears the world has conspired to keep me from enjoying my beauty rest. Hence the face only a mother could love.

Whether it's the noise from the Backstage Bar, inconveniently located 1/4 mile from my house.

Or the bi-polar neighbor behind me, who feels compelled to build furniture or hit the punching bag at 3 AM.

Or, my next door neighbor with two barking, vicious pit bulls who I would most gladly pump full of lead, there's always something to keep me from my date with Morpheus.

Enter Rudolf Stefanich.

Rudolf is an Austrian industrial designer who is working on a device, that would stick on windows, and using advanced noise canceling technology, effectively silence the outside world.

You can read about it here and even see it in action with the video at the bottom of the article.

Right now the device is in the developmental stages. But I think we should we start diverting money from useless efforts like trying to cure cancer or stemming the disastrous effects of global warming, and funnel the funds directly to Rudolf.

Hell, I would gladly spend all the money I've saved for my daughter's college education to get my mitts on one, or several of these devices.

Besides, I hear they're doing good things at community colleges these days.

From the trenches

Recognize this chap?

If you work in advertising you might know the scowl, the bulbous nose and the jutting chin that begs to be punched, belongs to Tony Kaye.

Director.
Musician.
Boxer.
Kaballist Jew.
And self important ass clown.

If you haven't guessed, I'm not a fan of Mr. Kaye. In general, I'm not a fan of anyone who drinks their own Kool-Aid and believes that fame, power or some deluded notion of celebrity-ness entitles them to boorish behavior.

I mention all this because last week I came across a commercial on youtube that we had done with Tony Kaye way back when, during the dot.com craze. Our experience with him was not at all pleasant and actually came close to an exchange of fists.

I've told this story before but not with the video evidence that supports my position.

Allow me to rehash the incident.

We were filming in a warehouse near Riverside, CA. The scene involved a schlubby manager of a fictional company called tubwarehouse.com. A phone rings and the manager happily ignores it so we (the audience) could hear the message being left on the answering machine.

For some reason, Tony obstinately wanted to place the phone near the manager. We, the creative team, and the client (the people footing the bill) wanted to place the phone further away on a desk out of his reach.

A disagreement became an argument which then became an explosive display, the likes of which I have never witnessed on a set. Tony grabbed a wooden folding chair and swung it over his head smashing it on the concrete floor. Over and over again. All the while, screaming at the top of his lungs. Splintered wood filled the air, and through cloud of dust and particles of Douglas Fir, you could see the veins in his neck throbbing.

It was all very surreal.
And it was all so Tony Kaye.

When the wooden chair was no more, he stormed off the set and disappeared for 15 minutes.  He came back to the set as if nothing happened and started barking commands to his cinematographer.

I also barked a command to the DP and told him to stop. I then got in Tony's face, squared him right in the eye and said, "We're not shooting another frame of film until you apologize to everyone on this set, you bloviated asshole."

OK, I'm not sure those are the exact words I used, but there was no mistaking my anger. Tony yielded and put the phone where we wanted it. Where, as you can see from the video, it made the most sense.

I hadn't seen this spot in a very long time. And from the insignia on the top right hand side it looks like it was shortlisted at Cannes. Who knows, maybe it would have won had we followed Tony's course of action.

I don't really care.
To be honest, I'd gladly trade that meaningless Gold Lion for a war story like this.

The Boss

You probably don't associate American actor Tommy Lee Jones with absurdist humor. He's stoic. Earnest. And hard-nosed. Mr. Jones has a face that could hammer nails.

But you must toss those preconceptions to the trash bin, along with yesterday's sushi.

Because last week I stumbled upon this little gem.

A compilation of Japanese commercials for Boss Coffee. It's iced coffee in a can. Generally, I don't drink canned beverages. Much less coffee, which should only be served hot. And black. But after viewing these spots, I may be a convert.

Mind you, I don't speak a word of Japanese. I'll say arigato to the sushi chefs as I leave a restaurant. And am fluent in Sapporo and Kirin Light. But that's the extent of my ability to converse with someone from The Land of the Rising Sun.

None of that stopped me from enjoying these spots. In fact, with repeated viewings I've only grown to understand them less and love them even more.

Of course, you may be considerably more linear than me. Perhaps asking yourself, "What the hell did I just see?" Well, you've taken the time to come to this blog, the least I can do is not send you away confused.

Using my Internet search engine, Google (a stock I recently I sold, just hours before it went up 130 points in one day) I discovered the story behind Boss Coffee.

Turns out Tommy Lee Jones is an alien from another planet. He was sent to Earth to learn of our ways and report back to superiors on his planet. His character, aptly named The Jones, takes on many different roles, from school principal to cab driver to Buddhist monk.

He finds humans confusing, driven by emotion and altogether irrational. Not way off the mark. But all is forgiven because The Jones also discovers the soothing, satisfying taste of Boss Coffee. Which he consumes in mass quantities.

A long time ago, my art director partner John Shirley and I set out some ground rules for ourselves. Or as my friend Ernie Schenck refers to it Creative No-Fly Zones. Our list of self imposed prohibitions was never very long, mostly because we're hacks and would do anything if it got a laugh.

At the top of that list was a promise to never do any commercials that involved aliens.

Never.

But after watching extra-terrestrial Tommy Lee Jones squeeze an undigested fish out of a pelican's throat, we might have to revisit that oath.

 

None for me, thank you.

On a recent trip to the doctor, I was told I have the body of a man 10 years younger than my actual age. In other words, I have the health of a 34 year old. Albeit, a fat 34 year old.

My strength is up.

My blood pressure and cholesterol are down.

And my resting heart beat is in the 50's. In my triathlon days, it was in the 40's.

I try not to take any of this for granted. Given a choice, I would take health over wealth in a heartbeat. Then again, if somebody had the power to offer me health or wealth, I'd ask that person or superpower why I couldn't have both?

To what do I attribute this unusual healthiness?

I believes it stems from my employment status, that is, my unemployment status. Technically, I don't have a job. I'm unemployed. Have been for close to 10 years. I'm part of that growing subculture of Americans known as freelancers.

I don't know where my next check is coming from.

I don't have an office. Or a cubicle. Or an assigned seat at the sweatshop…er, communal creative table. I don't have a paid vacation. I don't have any health insurance plans. And I won't be getting any novelty coffee mugs or unwearable Christmas socks because I don't have a Secret Santa for the upcoming holidays.

Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I see what goes on in offices, more specifically ad agency offices, and it makes my head spin. For instance, when I was a staffer, a woman from the Traffic Department would stop my desk and nag me about a status meeting at 3. Now meeting notices come via email. They come in bunches. On indecipherable Excel layouts. A diligent project manager can schedule status meetings well into the next decade. And often do.

And what about the process of coming up with creative solutions? The target used to move when I was on the corporate payroll. Today, targets are quite jittery. And move faster than a midnight cockroach. You need a daisy cutter to hit one.

Finally, the saying used to go, "There are too many cooks in the kitchen." Well, there were too many, but instead of logically thinning the herd and taking the decision-making process away from committees, agencies have gone the other direction and made the kitchen bigger. Much bigger.

Now, everybody gets a say in what goes out the door.

"Take these animatics down to the 7th floor and see if Bill, the Accounts Payable clerk, thinks we're delivering on the brief. Oh, and ask him if we should hold a little longer on the pack shot."

Years ago, on the plane during my life changing move from stressful New York to less-stresful California, I heard a wiser, older man tell his son something that has stuck with me over the years.

"Good health isn't about what you eat. It's about what you let eat you."

Well, with regards to work, I stopped dining at the company commissary a long time ago and have been brown bagging it ever since.

Happily and healthfully, I might add.

Not again!

Today is Halloween.

Tonight, hundreds of costumed little kids and their over-protective parents will come knocking on my door (possibly interrupting my enjoyment of the World Series) holding out their little hands and begging for free candy.

It's an obnoxious little tradition, but it's one I happily endure, because the real hell is just around the corner.

Tomorrow it begins. The official kick-off of the Christmas season. Just writing those words makes me cringe. Why?

Because I hate Christmas.

Not the most original thought, I'll admit. Particularly coming from a Godless Jew. But nevertheless, it's one deserving of being said out loud. God, I hate Christmas.

I hate the music and the X-mas carols, most of which were ironically written by heathen Jews like myself.

I hate the decorations, including the mistletoe, which is poisonous, the wasteful lights that just make us more energy dependent on Saudi Arabia, and the moving lawn reindeer that scare the shit out of my dog.

I hate the Fox News indefensible defense of Christmas and their yearly charge that there is an open war on Christmas. There isn't an open war on Christmas.

But there ought to be.

Last year, my family and I were in London at the height of the Christmas season. There, at least, the holiday is treated with some modicum of respect.

We didn't see TV commercials of cars topped with big red bows.

We didn't see Merry Christmazzzzz Sales at the local mattress sales.

We didn't see the birth of the Almighty Lord, the Host of Hosts, The Omnipotent Master of Time and Space, reduced to a marketing ploy to sell more bath towels at the local Pic N' Save.

If there is one saving grace to the holidays, it's the Nativity scenes. I love a good a Nativity scene. Here's one I snapped near Trafalgar Square:

What I like most in this, and others, is how calm they depict Mary, Joseph, and their minions during the birthing event. I can tell you from experience, because I've been around enough Jews to know, that calm reservedness is nowhere to be found. Much less, when one human being or super human being is coming out of another.

And of course, what's a good nativity scene without a good Caganer. I've stated it before and I'll state it again, I love The Caganer.

If you don't know what it is, consider this my early X-mas gift.

The Bolshevization of Advertising

I make no secret of my disdain for the current way of doing business.

I'm not a fan of open plan seating.
Burgeoning corporate hierarchies.
Or the absurd fascination with digital marketing, to the exclusion of tried-and-true media like TV, print or outdoor boards.

But my mama didn't raise no fool.

And if I'm going to continue to put expensive organic food from Gelson's supermarket on my dinner table or send my daughter's to ridiculously overpriced universities, I've got to adopt, adapt and survive.

The latest trend in adland seems to have been ripped straight from the pages of Karl Marx. It's a new brand of collectivism.

The thinking goes like this: if having one art director and copywriter is good for solving a problem, then  having 50 art directors and 50 copywriters can only mean solving the problem 50 times faster and 50 times better.

It's similar to my approach with cough medicine. If one teaspoon is good, then 4 tablespoons of the codeine-enhanced nectar can only be better. Most the time however it results with me falling head first into my bowl of whole wheat rigatoni.

But here's the the problem with working this way -- it doesn't work.

Don't take it from me, take from this odd computer-generated voice with the ironic Russian accent:

While I'm more comfortable working alone or with an art director, particularly one who can come up with the funny, I'm more than happy to participate in this Soviet-style search for solutions. Particularly if someone is paying me a decent capitalist-style day rate.

However, I can't but feel sorry for the today's young creative trying to make a name for himself or herself. Because if you can't take ownership of the work you can't claim ownership of the rewards.

Bolshevism didn't work for Mother Russia, I doubt it's going to enjoy much success in the halls of Mother, Crispin Porter or BBDO.

50 Shades of Schadenfreud

Eight months from now, on a warm night cooled by a soothing Mediterranean breeze,  a creative team from Weiden and Kennedy's London office will hear their names announced in an auditorium populated by hipsters, fashionistas and the advertising world's creative cream of the crop.

They'll put down their flutes of locally-fermented champagne and stroll to the stage where they will receive a golden Cannes Lion that, at a later date, will be cashed in for a better office, a better title and a better seat at the 2015 Cannes Awards Show.

They will forever be recognized, at least in our small domain, as the hotshot team that did that cool Honda spot with the optical illusions.

And that glory will have a halo effect.

Because the smart London-based executives at The Honda Motor Company, the client, will also be hailed as creative visionaries who were willing to take a chance.

They will order duplicate golden Lions and proudly peacock them on the shelves of their cubicle. And they'll take that Lion with them, when they get promoted and moved out of the cubicle farm and into a prized window office of their own.

They will get more money.
And a better title.
And soon they will be at cocktail parties proudly introducing themselves as the "guys who did that Honda spot with the optical illusions."

Where's this all going you may ask.

Well, about three years ago my art director partner and I pitched the exact same idea.

 The same Aames Room. The same optical illusion. It was even for the same company, Honda.

The difference?
We pitched it here in America and could not sell the idea.
They pitched it in Europe and did.

Naturally, this leaves me with a little pit in my stomach. But I'm no stranger to envy, cynicism or professional bitterness. I've learned to embrace that negative energy. Let's face it, people given to excessive sanguinity don't write close to 1000 war stories for a daily blog.

But all is not lost.

I take great solace in the fact that sometime in the near future, there will be a memo or even an article published in the global Honda newsletter. And the brave executives at the London office will be trotted out as the type of risk-taking executives that will "go far in this company."

And that memo or article will be read by an American counterpart who will be thinking to him or herself, "Damnit, some team presented that same idea to me three years ago and I didn't buy it. Shitsticks!!!"

And for me, that's worth all the gold in the south of France.

Rich Siegel is a Douchebag

I'm just like you.

I've Googled my own name, Rich Siegel.

And just like you, what I've found isn't always pleasing.

For one thing my name is not as singular as I'd like. For another, one of the bozos sporting my moniker is a Grade A, self-hating Jew who happened to grow up in Spring Valley, NY. That's where I spent a great deal of my youth working at the local Jack in the Box.

His name is Rich Siegel and he's a self described social activist. He's also a "musician". I've taken the liberty of embedding one of his most popular hits:

Not exactly a toe tapper, but I don't think that's what he was going after.

I'd be lying if I said I did know what was going on in the mind of Rich Siegel. I didn't go that far down the rabbit hole.

Frankly, I've got better things to do in my life than to obsess with the misguided opinions and twisted half truths as stated by some clown named Rich Siegel.

I think we all do.

Rich Siegel has committed an enormous amount of time and energy to paint the State of Israel as a military aggressor and as an apartheid nation of war criminals. As if to suggest that the problems of the Middle East could be solved if Israel would just act rationally and sit down with their peace-loving Arab and Islamic neighbors.

I think you can see where I am going with this.

I will concede that Israel has, on occasion, committed some defenseless acts, and what nation entangled in 5 wars hasn't? However it should be noted that by and large those "acts" have been in the service of self-defense. Rich Siegel --the other one-- conveniently ignores the brutal, murderous and cowardly behavior of the neighboring countries that have sworn "to push the Jews into the sea."

One need look no further than today's headlines.

Isn't that lovely?

In the last three years, the Syrian regime of Bashir al Assad has butchered more than 100,000 innocent Syrians. That includes tens of thousands of children. And that death count is way higher than the number of soldiers lost in ALL of the Middle Eastern wars between Israel and the surrounding countries.

Why doesn't Rich Siegel tickle the ivories about that?

In nearby Egypt, thousands have died in two bloody revolutions and left the country split, teetering on a Somalia-like state of failure. Women were literally rounded up and subjected to virginity tests.

That's got to be good for a few songs, right Rich Siegel?

The fact is you could throw a rock anywhere from Northern Africa to the eastern-most tip of Malaysia and hit a bulls-eye of brutality, hate and Neanderthal inhumanity. Just make sure you save enough stones left over to punish the adulterers, homosexuals and blasphemers.

With regards to this conflict, the moral high ground has been ceded a long time ago. It was given up by the Arabs and the independent Palestinian state they were offered and rejected in 1948.

So spare us the ill-informed indignation, Rich Siegel. One day I hope you get around to Googling your name and finding this blog. Cause I'd like nothing more to say to your face...

"Rich Siegel, you're a douchebag."

Hello Jessica

I just received a Facebook Friend Request from Jessica Nevills.

I don't know Jessica, though apparently we have some mutual friends.

I'm trying to figure out how she came across my profile. More specifically, why she would want to be my Facebook friend.

Perhaps she stumbled onto Round Seventeen and took a shine to my business insights or my not so unbiased ramblings regarding the Middle East.

Maybe she's a fan of political satire and enjoys my occasional taunting of Kim Jung Un at http://kimjungfun.tumblr.com.

Or maybe, she just has a Daddy fetish and digs bald, fat Jewish guys who like to go swimming.

Yeah, that's what my wife thinks.

Mad Stacks, Yo

Want to make a ton of cash and be the darling of the corporate world?

Write a book or an article about why employees don't want anything tangible, money for instance, and would prefer soft compensation, like greater freedom or room for personal "growth".

Last week, Inc. magazine published a piece by corporate apologist Geoffrey James entitled "10 Things Employees Want More Than A Raise." I'm sure the article was clipped by HR professionals throughout the land.

Mr. James is a standing member of the Society of American Business Editors and has had work published in the NY Times, so I don't want to be disrespectful.

But, FUCK YOU, Geoffrey James.

You could have used a good editor before Inc. ran your recent article.

Because, let's be honest, there aren't 10 Things Employees Want More Than A Raise.
There aren't 5 Things.
There aren't 3 Things.
In fact, and I'm speaking anecdotally and on behalf of ALL labor, there isn't ANY thing employees want more than a raise.

What he, and corporate anthropologists of his ilk, fail to understand is we go to work to get paid.

We don't put on starched clothing, sit on the 405 and give up 10 hours of our daily 24 because we want to. We do it for the money. So that we have food, clothing and shelter. And with a little luck, enough entertainment to make us forget all the mismanagement, office politics and corporate bullshit we're forced to endure.

We're not interested in company pride. Or free bagels. Or false camaraderie or respect. We want money. And we want more of it.

How do I know this is true?
Put the wingtip shoe on the other foot.

Imagine a C-suite executive coming up for his or her performance review and being told, "We're not giving out raises or bonuses this year. But we can offer you a wide selection of morale-building T-shirts. Or, if you'd like to take some adult education classes at the Learning Annex, the company will be happy to pay for it."

Here's the other thing. Companies and HR people who buy into this line of horse hockey aren't doing themselves any favors.

You see, in the real world, the world of free market practices, companies that pay well, attract better talent. Better talent makes a better product or delivers a better service. Companies that put out better quality, make better profits.

I may not have an MBA or even a sophisticated knowledge of management, but you show me a company that doesn't give out raises and I'll show you a labor pool of disgruntled employees feverishly working the linkedin connections.

And going home with as many post-it notes and moleskin notepads they can stuff in their backpacks.

Check out my balls

Writers are odd people.

At least the ones I know, and I know quite a few.

Like athletes, writers have little ticks, habits and routines, that must be accommodated before they can get down to the business of turning thoughts into words.

Some smoke.
Some drink.
My buddy Matty, always has to have two number two pencils in his hands. He twirls them. He taps them. He dexterously winds them through his fingers like some cheap Las Vegas magician.

And to the probable dismay of his art director partner,  he'll never write without them.

For me, it's baseballs.
I like to have one nearby.
And in between sentences, paragraphs or pages, I'll pound one from hand to hand. Or put some topspin on one as I toss it overhead. Hopefully not hitting the ceiling fan in my office.

It's not like I'm a crazed baseball fan. I'm not. Though I thoroughly enjoy this time of the year and devour baseball strategy as if it were a bottomless bowl of fried calamari.

I even like listening to Joe Buck and Tim McCarver.

But it's more about the feel of a baseball in my hand. The leather. The embossed stitching. Even the aroma of a baseball is pleasing.

At one time, the ball on the left (my favorite) was brand new. And it was signed. By Tommy LaSorda and Erik Karros.

I met both of them on one of the first TV commercials I ever wrote.

It was for the Nissan dealers and the premise was very simple.

Eric Karros was a rookie. He was the lowest paid baseball player in the National League, making a measly $109,000/year. He wasn't getting the kind of free agent money his teammates were, so every penny counted. That's why he was so excited that the Nissan Dealers were having a clearance sale.

It gave him a legit reason to pound the sheet metal, talk about deals and in a not-so-subtle way make fun of big leaguers who were making millions of dollars for chewing tobacco and playing a little boy's game.

For the life of me I can't remember why Tommy LaSorda was on the set. He was media savvy, so he could have been there to coach young Eric through the experience.

Or, and this is probably closer to the truth, he might have been there for the craft service food.

Meet the Larpers

As mentioned in recent posts, last weekend I took my two daughters on the Great Northwest College Tour.

Or, as I like to refer to it, The Let's-Find-An-Institution-That-Will-Drain-Daddy's-Bank-Account-And-Put-Him-In-A-Dirty-Nursing-Home Tour.

We started in Spokane (vehemently pronounced Spo-can) and saw Gonzaga University. It's a Jesuit University. We knew that going in, but within 5 minutes my daughter --who already attends Catholic High School -- said she had seen enough crucifixes.

For this lifetime. And the imaginary one that follows.

I don't blame her. Religion goes with college like chocolate goes with plumbing glue.

From there, we traversed the state of Washington, which reminded me of upstate NY and is truly beautiful and came down the back side of the Cascade Mountains into Seattle.

My daughters loved Seattle. And my youngest described it perfectly when she said, "It's just like San Francisco. But with wetter homeless people."

Of course, in all my logistical genius, we scheduled our tour of the University of Washington, UDub, the same day they were hosting a nationally televised football game against Oregon, their arch rivals. The campus was awash in drunken fans, from both universities.

We arrived in time to take the official UDub tour with other visiting parents hoping to achieve instant poverty.

In the very casual meet-and-greet that preceded the tour, we were treated to an hour long question and answer period with a campus rep. That's when the group had the opportunity to meet a mom from Sacramento and her precocious teenage daughter. I'm sorry, honors program teenage daughter.

You see, this inquisitive little girl asked the campus representative a gaggle of questions. And she was quite intent to let everyone around her know she was an honors program student.


"If you're in the honors program, is there a different dormitory you can stay in?"

"If you're in the honors program, do you get special meal plans?"

"If you're in the honors program, is there a reflective yellow vest you can wear around campus to let everyone know of your superior IQ?"


Yeah, we get it Einstein, you're a gifted scholar. But if you were really smart you'd keep your mouth shut so that some wise ass blogger wouldn't go home and publicly shame you before millions of people. OK, maybe not millions, but you get the point.

Our last stop on the tour was the aforementioned University of Oregon. The school is in Eugene, where by chance, a friend from Suffern High School happens to reside. Because our names are so close alphabetically, we used to sit next to each other in many, many classes.

We met for coffee and caught up on our vastly different lives. It was very casual and 180 degrees from the artifice of a staged high school reunion. We both remarked how fast life goes and how hard it was to believe that we were already 44 years old.

Later, we walked around the very sleepy campus and came across the LARPERS (pictured above), who my daughter explained are Live Action Role Players. I was astounded that students would literally spend their free time, dressing up as medieval characters and donning nerf swords and shields.

I thought college was about getting drunk, stoned or laid. Ideally, any combination of the three.

We still have one more trip planned. We're going Back East to check out Boston University, Boston College, Georgetown and my alma mater, Syracuse.

Before you know it, my daughter will be writing thesis papers on the Rise of 18th Century Nihilism and The Birth of the Dada Movement. And I'll be writing 5 digit tuition checks.

Hello dirty nursing home, I can already feel your soiled linens and taste your pureed peas.

The Year of the Cock

I have copped to this before.
And I will cop to it again.
I am easily amused.

It doesn't take much to get me cackling and laughing up a storm that has others in the immediate vicinity wondering, "what the hell is going on over there?"

Of course, I'm not sure this was always the case. Particularly when I was a boss and had to judge creative work submitted by younger teams. Then, the laughs were few and far between.

But those days are long gone.

However, lately I've been teamed up with my old partner John Shirley and we are working near our old stomping grounds. To commemorate that, we stopped in for lunch at a local Szechuan restaurant. I would tell you the name of the restaurant but I'm not even sure the place has one. It simply says Szechuan Restaurant on the awning.

And that's always been good enough for us.

The Szechuan Restaurant's marketing prowess is only superseded by their not-so-high standards of hygiene. For years, the place sported a huge C from the Dept. of Health.

That never stopped us. Not because the food is that great. It's not. But, to borrow from from Woody Allen, the portions are enormous.

And though it has been many years, the Kung Pao Chicken hasn't changed a bit. But the placemats at Szechuan Restaurants have.

Naturally, as I have not matured past the age of 14, I was inclined to take a picture (see above). You know, between the chortling and guffawing.

But, as the restaurant is surrounded on all sides by ad agencies and their incumbent sophomoric staff, I'm probably not the only one to have whipped out the iPhone to snap a picture of the table cock.

I'm sure the art directors framed it better.
And paid more attention to the lighting.

Mmmmm, doughnuts

If you're a Simpson's aficionado, as I am, you know this is a picture of Jebidiah Springfield, founding father of Springfield, ??.

There was a time in my life when I knew the storyline to every Simpson's episode. It is such a monumental achievement and will go down as one of the top 5 shows ever put on television.

But for me it was more than just a laugh riot.

It was graduate school. I learned so many new tricks and techniques in storytelling. And of course, when I say "learned", I mean I stole liberally.

You can imagine how excited I was last week, when, on the Great Northwest College Tour of 2013 -- more on this adventure later -- I discovered the original statue that inspired the great Jebidiah.

We found him on the campus of the University of Oregon. Not far from Portland, where Simpson's creator Matt Groehning grew up.

Later that day, we came across more Simpson's inspirational points of interest, including streets in downtown Portland named Flanders and Quimby. Not to mention Montgomery Park and Burnside Street.

My daughters, naturally, were bored with my Simpson's fascination, so I took them to world famous Voodoo Doughnuts. That seemed to do the trick. And no wonder either.

Because as Homer is fond of saying, "doughnuts, is there anything they can't do?"

Winning Sucks

Last week I received some very depressing news.

As some of you might know I have been engaged in a mortal combat with the Nordictrack Fitness Equipment Company. I purchased one of their stationary bikes months ago and the thing literally had a meltdown.

It couldn't be fixed. And wouldn't be fixed. As I ran into a complete stonewalling by the customer service representatives in their Logan, Utah headquarters.

So, I did what any angry white man with not enough problems would do, I filed the papers for an appearance in Small Claims Court.

I wrote about this recently and received many emails from roundseventeen readers urging me to 'fight the good fight."

Suffice to say, I was ready to tilt that windmill and slay the Nordictrack monster with my dazzling rhetoric before an awestruck crowd of 23 people in an Inglewood courtroom.

Sadly, that is not going to happen.

Yesterday, I found out that the smiley Mormons in Utah shit their khaki pants and caved in.

A credit, in the amount of $870.91, covering the cost of the machine plus shipping and handling, had been issued to my account.

No one, and I mean no one, is more disappointed.

It's as if I had been sucker punched in the gut by Iron Mike Tyson. The wind has been knocked out of me. And even my new fortified cough medicine Hydrocod, now with 47% more codeine, fails to produce any euphoria.

I'm a beaten man.
Even though I won and prevailed in the grand scheme of fair trade.
I so wanted my day in court.

Never has being on the receiving end of $900 felt so crappy.

But there is a glimmer of hope.

We just purchased a new toaster oven with an infra-red broiler. And frankly it's taking a little too long for the cheese to melt on my tuna sandwich. The folks at Black & Decker better pray this thing rights itself.

The Cradle of Civilization

When someone says Egypt a lot of things come to mind.

For instance, Egypt is unstable.

They've had three regime changes in the past 5 years. There was Mubarak. And then, Morsi. And now some general named, Sisi -- which may not be the best moniker in a culture of homophobic religious zealots. If there's a new election, there will be another new head guy. They're like the San Diego Chargers of the Middle East.

When I think of Egypt, I also think of state-sanctioned misogyny. This is where the army literally rounded up women to conduct virginity checks. And it's where 60 Minutes reporter Lara Logan was sexually assaulted. Egypt is Sunni, which is marginally better than Shia (Iran), and they haven't gone full burka, yet. But they are sexually repressed.

And still, or perhaps why, batshit crazy.

Let's not forget that earlier this year, the Egyptians arrested a stork and accused the bird of being a spy for the very crafty Mossad, the Israeli intelligence department.

The point is, when you say Egypt you don't think of funny. Unless you know my buddy and stand up comic Tamar Kattan, who is extremely funny. He's also pretty smart. And rational. So he is definitely the exception to the rule.

But broad generalizations and preconceived notions are like Nordictrack fitness machines, they have no place in this world.

Years ago I came across this advertising campaign for Panda cheese. Like the pyramids, it was made in Egypt. For sheer brilliance, great acting and superb timing, the campaign too should be considered one of the Great Wonders of the World.

Here are 5 of the spots strung together:

"Mayd dela heshla."

I worked on the Nike Campaign

I am asked on many occasion, how I stay so busy? 

How do I get jobs or even find out about jobs when everybody else seems to be sitting by the phone or playing miniature golf at the local Dave & Busters? 

How do I turn the Freelance Gravy Train from a Local into a non-stop Express of fat checks and cherry assignments? 

What's the Get Rich Quick Secret, Rich?

There is no secret. 

I make it my job to know which agencies are busy, where there is turmoil, and who to pounce on for the next gig. It's simple elbow grease. I plant my elbows on my Herman Miller chair and my mouse on linked in.com and get down to the business of knowing the business. 

You know, when I'm not picking fights with Jillian Michaels or harpooning Dear Leader Kim Jung Un.

Last week while sniffing around linkedin, I decided to research some of the characters I had seen on AMC's The Pitch, a show about minor league agencies competing for advertising assignments from Fortune 5000 companies.

One of the advertising wunderkind had written on his resume that "he had worked on the Nike campaign." 

This wasn't a throwaway tucked at the bottom of the page, as in 'other achievements.' This was at the top. In big bold helvetica. And it was unadorned with any further explanation. Leaving the uninformed reader to believe that "Just Do It" was something he had just done.

Of course this rascal is only 26 years old. Which means he must have sprung the campaign on Phil Knight while he was still in junior high school. Maybe between Chemistry class and Early 19th Century History.

The truth is he probably worked on a banner ad for Nike Girls Volleyball shoes. And he might have won a Northern Nebraska Silver Addy for Best Work in the 68 X 143 format. 

And so yes, he did work on the Nike Campaign. 

Yeah, and years ago I walked on the moon and unraveled the mysteries of space, because I had a Jonny Quest secret decoder ring.

I guess that's the beauty of getting older. I don't have to spend precious time inflating my resume. In fact, as Round Seventeen often demonstrates, I have a lot more fun deflating it.