Marketing 101

I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that if you are reading this blog, you are probably, like myself, a regular viewer of The Daily Show.

I wasn't on board for the early days of the show, but the broadcast has become a staple of my day, much like 7 cups of coffee, a 3/4 mile swim and the grousing about my neighbor's "god damn pit bulls."

I don't swallow everything Jon Stewart puts out there.

I love how he skewers the media and cherry picks sound bites to point out the biblical hypocrisy of the increasingly extremist right wing nutters. I don't know how any educated person can align themselves with the likes of Palin, Huckabee or Santorum.

On the other hand, I find him ceaselessly naive about the dangers of Islamism, Sharia-creep and the erosion of freedom of speech on American soil.

Similarly, I don't see how any educated person, particularly my friends on the left end of the political spectrum, cannot see the ugly, fascist, oppressive narrative that is reshaping the Middle East, Europe and California as we speak.

Last week a student at Berkeley penned a piece on why she left Islam. The student newspaper would not publish the article for fear that it might provoke violence. If I may paraphrase Groucho Marx:

I wouldn't want to be a member of any club that would have me as a member. Or threaten to kill me for not renewing my membership.

Politics aside, I think we can all agree that Jon Stewart's regular roasting of Arby's is the comedy that reaches across both sides of the aisle. Who doesn't not like these bits?

I like to speculate on the birth of this on-going effort to take down America's Number One Purveyor of Fine Grey Meats.

I'm picturing a group of Daily Show writers holed up in their office for 10 smelly hours of writing, rewriting and addressing network notes. I see one of the horse-tired writers ordering out for food. And I'm imagining bags of sloppy Arby's sandwiches, soggy french fries and wet cole slaw strewn about the writer's table. Then I'm fast forwarding another three hours or so, just as they are about to call a wrap on a long day, and suddenly there's grumbling. The kind of intestinal noise that foreshadows nothing good.

The joking, the bantering, the witty back and forth have all been replaced with the hurling, the porcelain praying and the violent hurling.

The next day, one of the writers calls the manager at the local Arby's, in a futile effort to get a refund.

In a thick accent, the foreign-born manager explains,

"So you all threw up? In my country that's like getting two meals for the price of one."

Others, impossibly more cynical than me, have suggested that the entire thing is nothing more than cleverly placed paid advertising. That the genii at Arby's decided to exploit rather than deny the negative perceptions people have of their brand. That they are doing a complete Ju-Jitsu. And gave the writer's carte blanche and instructed them to "rip us a new one."

The increased sales numbers seem to suggest that this surreptitious plan is working.

If so, we may be moving into what I think could be the golden age of advertising. With companies hiring bitter copywriters to roll up their sleeves, bend at the knees and shit all over their 100% wool, Italian-designed corporate suits.

Are you catching all this Hewlett Packard?
Nordictrac?
Time Warner Cable?

Which one of you forward thinking companies wants a big old Stanley Steamer?

Cannes Do

That happened fast.

Seems like it was just yesterday that I was taking my sharp pointy pen to the annual advertising orgy known as the Cannes Festival.

Can an entire year have passed since I sat in my home in Culver City and passed snarky judgment on the fashionistas, hipsters and makers of the world's most treasured advertising, gaudily displayed in the south of France?

How is it possible that the earth made an entire celestial orbit around the sun since we last visited the trinket collectors who have refreshed, changed and pushed the world forward with their monumental achievements in advertising and content creation?

And the panels.

Those precious prescient panels where professional prognosticators predicted the death of television, the birth of robust brand engagement and the re-birth of the banner ad.

If 365 days have come and gone since then, shouldn't we all be knee-deep in conversations with Tostitos, Crest toothpaste and Bounty Paper towels, the quicker picker-upper?

Maybe when you turn 44 years old the clock goes a little faster because it feels like the ink has barely dried on my 2014 shredding of Cannes. Not to mention 2013, 2012 and the scathing thought piece of 2011, wherein I tackled:

Stingy brim fedoras

Capri pants

Rose wine

Company yachts

Elitism

Over-promoted, under-skilled agency brass

The 5,000 mile international boundary for permissible infidelity

The Gutter Bar

V-neck T-shirts

The tone-deaf Facebook postings of rampant agency debauchery while homebound "team members" forfeit their nights and weekends to assemble pdf's of decks that will digitally transverse the ocean only to remain gleefully unzipped. 

Even though I relish the opportunity to take thinly-veiled potshots at the industry and the greedy gluttons who have so diligently earned the disdain of their colleagues, it just seems so done.

Doing another blog piece on the excesses of the festival feels tired. And repetitive. And meaningless. And wasteful. And self-important.

Wait a minute.

Could this lazy regurgitation of past work be the perfect metaphor for Cannes and the current state of advertising?

Oh jeez, he's talking about Jesus.

Confession: two weeks ago, I screwed up.

In what I thought would be an amusing bit, I penned my letter of resignation to the Catholic Church. This, following my daughters graduation from a Catholic high school.

The idea of resigning was not a new one. I have many friends, some of whom have graduated from esteemed Notre Dame University, who now refer to themselves as retired or resigned Catholics.

The piece was vintage R17.

I poked fun here.
I went off on little tangents.
And I tried to spread the cheekiness at those who follow the Old Testament as well as the New. My reference to a Beverly Hills proctologist might have gone over the line, particularly for those with tender sensibilities.

But my cardinal sin -- the one I should've known better about -- I mistakenly gave the name of my daughter's school. Thus looping them in to my circle of satire. Moreover, the piece got picked up in the Huffington Post, which only served to heighten my error.

Readers here, that is those familiar with my acerbic tone, and my regular roasting of all three Abrahamic religions, took the post for what it was, a good-natured ribbing at best. Stalwart Catholics reading HuffPo were not so forgiving. The comment section was chock full of rage. And at least one anti-semitic diatribe.

And so my stomach started turning, which is rare as I can pound a plate full of habanero peppers with not so much as a grumble. My worst fear was that somehow the piece would get back to the staff at the school and rub someone the wrong way.

Particularly since the school has done so much for my girls. They provided a small, safe environment with a strong emphasis on academics. They prepped both of them for college. And whether they deserve the credit or not, nurtured them through the troublesome teen years sparing my wife and I the drama that often accompanies this turbulent time.

I really am grateful.
I'm not dropping to my knees anytime soon, but thank God we found this school.

The other reason that caused stirred distress is that I have become the Jewish poster boy for recruitment. A few weeks ago the principal called me up and asked whether I would be willing to speak to a couple thinking about sending their son to the school. I unflinchingly said, "yes."

I would tell these new parents how Catholic school is like a private school education for 1/3 the price.

I would tell them how the school is open to all denominations and will go out of its way to accommodate them.

And I would tell this fellow landsman that following graduation he should think twice about writing any letters of resignation to the Catholic Church.

Back in the water

Lately Facebook has been placing old posts on my newsfeed.

It's some nostalgic marketing ploy to remind you how important they are in your lives.

They're also hawking a service that will allow you to publish all your old FaceBook posts in some fetishized narcissistic hardcover book. Apologies to anyone who has shelled out the $495 bucks.

In any case, I got a reminder of something I had posted three years ago.

To mark D-Day and the Allies landing on the beaches of Normandy. It was my symbolic cross channel swim to raise money for the Wounded Warriors Project.

I swam 21 miles in 7 days.
Together, we donated $4000 for the noblest of causes.

Another D-Day has just passed and I feel bad that I haven't continued the long fundraising swims. Work and shipping two girls off to college has been a full time occupation.

But I like to think life is more than about posting funny Kim Jung Un pictures, pimping cars and slinging funny anecdotes about advertising, parenting and shitty white trash neighbors. So for the upcoming Veterans Day in November, I will swim back the other way.

And to raise the stakes, I will attempt to amass the 21 miles in 5 days instead of 7.

This will be difficult for several reasons, the least of which being this aging 44 year old body. But also because my swimming situation has changed.

I was using the beautiful pool at my brother's condo complex in Playa Vista. I often had the entire place to myself and the water was the perfect 78 degrees and crystal clear.

Now I am across the street at a dump known by many locals as LA Fitness.The water is too warm at 81 degrees. It's dirty, because the pool guy is also one of the junior salesman. He dumps some chlorine in the water when he is not picking the pockets of unsuspecting customers.

Moreover, the pool is crowded. Disgusting men with hairy backs. Old women with their space-hogging Aquasize routines. And non-swimmers who have mistaken the gym pool for the wading lagoon at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas.

Then there's hygiene. I don't know what these people are bathing with but it's not Ivory, or Zest, or Irish Spring. It's more like a soap fashioned from potpourri, Pakistani incense candles and spoiled cilantro.

But the swim, and the money we will raise, will be worth it.

Three years ago, the Wounded Warrior people sent me a fleece blanket for the generous donation. This year, I've got my eye on the windbreaker.

Stay tuned for details.

"To concept and to serve."

That snuck up on me.

Had it not been for linkedin.com and their silly notifications, I might have missed an important milestone and easy blog topic. Turns out I've given eleven good years of service to Rich Siegel Worldwide.

Ironically, the reason I might have missed this anniversary is because this year, 2015, has been my busiest year to date. Since January 1st, I've worked non-stop including nights and time-and-a-half weekends. If my phone still had a hook it'd be ringing off it even as we speak.

To what do I attribute this unusual demand, you might ask.

Is it the growing economy?

Is it the ceaseless self-promotion?

Is it my marginal ability to put one word in front of another?

It's none of the above.

It has very little to do with what I am doing and is more about what the industry is not doing.

It's not breeding writers.

In order to maximize profits, bill hours and pass the profits on to C-Suiters holed up in their NY town homes, holding companies are grabbing any warm body with a college degree and a medicine cabinet full of beard care products. Before they can get out of their rented caps and gowns, these wunderkind are enrolled in some fakakta, cleverly-named copywriting internship program:


Fresh Blood

Creative Rebels

Game Changers

WordSmithsters

Digital Warriors


Their freshly-printed business cards say they're copywriters. Their sloppy first drafts indicate otherwise.

Look, my worked sucked when I first started out in the business. But I was writing Help Wanted ads for hospitals, banks and bomb-makers. I wrote hunting ads for single-gauge shotguns and doe urine (apparently very effective at attracting bucks).

I wrote headlines for small savings and loans, with headlines like:

Our interest rates should interest you.

It was garbage time. And with any luck, my boss and I were the only ones to see it. But it was also good practice. And believe me I needed plenty of practice. I didn't touch my first national print ad until I had 5 years experience notched on my belt. And another two years, before anyone let me near a TV script.

Here's a newsflash youngsters, a script for a thirty second television commercial is like a resume. It should all fit on one page. Not three.

Make no mistake, I'm not complaining.

The more agencies hire kids that can't write, the greater the need for people who can.

It just proves the old adage that it takes 10,000 hours before you can master something. Not a T-shirt and a flat-brim trucker hat that says "I'm a Young Pirate."

Egads, I've been homaged.

Last month, blog traffic soared over 12,000 hits. Surpassing the previous record by a good 13.8%.

It wasn't because the writing was any funnier.
Or even funny.

It wasn't because I trotted out pictures of women with ample cleavage.
A trick I've used in the past.

And it certainly wasn't because I charted new ground.
I've been mining the same tired quarries for 6 years now.

It was because, hear me say it, Social Media.

You see my buddies at ADWEAK began linking posts in this blog in their daily twitter feed. Sending their substantially larger audience in the direction of Culver City, the pitbull-surrounded headquarters of RoundSeventeen, Inc.

They came in droves.

Favoriting and retweeting posts to other ad industry folks looking for a reason not to come up with ideas for a Year End Clearance Sale or a Two-For-One Taco Fiesta or a new anti-depressant from Pfizer, Shoveitall.

In appreciation, I wrote a post about ADWEAK and their expanding staff.

These anonymous folks are colleagues I've known for a long time. As evidenced by their twitter feed, they can out-think, out-write and out-art-direct 98% of anybody with a seat at the long table or the SuperDesk™.

They're also fellow freelancers who can take food off my family's diner table so I don't want to pimp them too much.

Besides, mutual admiration among ad people has a very short shelf life. Moreover, it's not a natural state of being and can often upset our collective homeostasis. More often than not, mutual admiration quickly degenerates into jabbing, ball-busting and thinly-veiled potshots.

Last week, for instance, in their newly formed Animation division, the has-been hacks at ADWEAK rolled out this little gem.

The bushy mustache, the conspicuous eyebrows, the absent hairline and the massive biceps, leave no doubt as to the identity of this "veteran" copywriter. Though I'm not fond of the Lumbersexual look and tend to shy away from plaid. But it's all good, because my skin is as thick as my inaccurately-drawn waistline.

Nevertheless, a clear shot has been fired across the bow.

So know this ADWEAK, it is on.

Meet me in the Men's Room

When you work in advertising you end up shooting the shit with your partner.

Discussions that start out on car shopping, can quickly devolve into football. Football chats can spin out of control, until the topic is ISIS, or barking dogs, or good falafel, or even condom machines.

Naturally, a topic like condom machines led to a Google search and an exhaustive examination of their colorful titilating decals.

If you've travelled cross country, or even been to the old biker's bar on Sepulveda Blvd. aptly named The Meat Market, you know there are thousand upon thousands of kitschy variations on the Jimmy Hat --all designed to lure the attention of some misguided drunk with last minute plans to seal the deal.

They're beautiful and have their own classic aesthetic. Is there a coffee table book waiting to happen here?

You bet.

Will I be the one to traverse the country, walking into men's rooms with a high priced camera in one hand and a roll of quarters in the other?

Probably not.

The mission does sound adventurous though. You ladies might not know this, but in addition to the brightly decorated condom machines, the walls and toilet stalls of the Men's Room, particularly those in bars and gas stations, are festooned with homegrown wit and knowledge, the likes of which cannot be found in libraries or the halls of academia.

And sometimes the two converge in a memorable way that I will take to my grave.

Years ago, I came across a headline that to this day sets the bar and served as a North Star for my entire copywriting career. Scratched onto the facia of a 75 year old condom machine and winner of the best Graffiti Ever Found Award:

Don't chew this gum, it's awful.

An Advertising Epiphany

I finally figured it out.

It took me long enough. Perhaps too long.

Others, smarter than me, got it much earlier in their careers. They worked it. Exploited it. And regurgitated it enough until the process was as natural as a cow chewing its cud 7 times over. And these smarter, now wealthier, folks never looked back.

Spit it out already, Siegel, or I'll turn my attention to my AgencySpy, where the design sucks but the comments are still pithy, snarky and to the point.

Ok, here it is, clients say they want different. They say they want disruptive. They say they want game-changing. And so we chase our tails, at least I have for far too long, in search of different, disruptive and game-changing.

But that's not what they want at all.

They want safe, copy-tested, Twitter-proof ideas that are slickly packaged with the thin veneer of different-ness. The slightest smidgen of unfamiliarity. As Jon Stewart might say, while gesturing like French chef, just a soupçon of newness.

But never enough, and this is the key, to raise the eyebrow of the public, or worse the CEO, which could trigger attention and the call to the C-Suite headhunter.

"I know she's only been here 6 months, but we need a new CMO."

The problem is, in the era of mass communication, we've been fed such a steady diet of "new and improved" it all feels old and tired. As a result we get food porn, beer commercials that are interchangeable with soda commercials, and limited time Sales Events that run 24/7/365.

Same.
Same.
Same.

Back in 1998, Bill Clinton famously answered a reporters question with…

"That depends on what your definition of is, is."

Having had this little epiphany, I now have a better idea of what different is.

The Decapitated Arthur the Rat Doll

When I hear people saying, "It's a sign from above" or "The Lord is speaking to me", my initial reaction is typically, "that cheeseburger looks good" or "did you see the Golden State Warrior game?"

I just can't listen to that stuff.

The universe is so massive in its unknowable scale it seems so egotistical to believe it has gone out of its way to tap you on the shoulder. Frankly, I'd prefer God feed hungry kids in Africa or free women from their patriarchal masters in the Mideast than to be wasting time with cryptic messages.

However, and here is the turn, last Friday I found myself gobsmacked while returning home from my hike up the Baldwin Hills Overlook.

First some context.

In three months, my youngest daughter will be shipping off to Boulder as a freshman at the University of Colorado. A week after that, my oldest daughter will be returning to the University of Washington for her second year.

My wife and I will be Empty Nesters.

Not full fledged empty nesters because the girls will still be coming home for holidays and summers. They'll bring home dirty laundry, clog up the toilets and leave their shit all around the house. I can't wait.

But I'd be lying if I didn't say the prospect of both girls being out of the house is not a source of anxiety.

Of course, I'm proud but can't help drifting into melancholic nostalgia.

When the girls were younger, much younger, they enjoyed Arthur the Rat (pictured above). We had Arthur books, Arthur VHS tapes and even Arthur CD's. My oldest Rachel, would sit for hours on end in the kitchen, glued to a laptop and reciting the alphabet along with Arthur.

By 18 months she was identifying the magnetic letters stuck on our old white refrigerator.

Arthur the Rat means as much to me as it does to the girls.

Well, you can imagine how I felt when, after notching 17,000 steps on my Jawbone and ascending the Baldwin Hills Stairs four times, I came across this by the park pavillion:

A decapitated Arthur the Rat doll with a reindeer headband.

It's as if the Cosmos was telling me, "your children are not children anymore. They're on their own now. Time to move on to the next stage of your life. It's time to let go."

Then again, that cheeseburger does look good.

When Hate is Good.

How do I know an idea is good?

I know it, when someone hates it.

Last week I was driving to the Sport Chalet in Marina del Rey. On the way home, on picturesque Alla Drive, there is a Focus Group facility. The same facility I used to attend with great regularity, when I was a staffer. The same facility, where thanks to my big, unfiltered mouth, I cavalierly blew $25,000 worth of BBDO research money.

We were conducting two groups and testing some concepts we were going to pitch in a heavily contested battle for LA Cellular, a large and now defunct telecom.

The first group was a disaster. Of Hindenburgian proportion.

Before the second group commenced, I went to get some much needed coffee. As I was refilling my cup, I turned to the moderator and blurted:

"Send in the next bunch of losers."

Unaware, perhaps, that the next bunch of losers were sitting in the adjacent room. The room with the open door. The room that was filled with people who could hear the cap being torn off the little creamer and poured into my awaiting cup. Yeah, those losers.

The night didn't end well.
Our ideas for the pitch didn't go well.
And my short stint at BBDO grew even shorter.

You might assume from this little anecdote that I have no love for Focus Groups. And I don't. But in hindsight I know the problem isn't about research. It's about how clients interpret research.

Let's say Concept A is shown to a group of folks who have nothing better to do on a Tuesday night than to sit with a bunch of demographically similar people and judge prospective TV commercials which they will dutifully fast forward through on their DVRs. And let's say 90% of the group likes Concept A. And 10% of the group doesn't like it.

Let's also say that these same people, who seem very content with crappy lasagna and free M&M's are shown Concept B.

The response here is more visceral. 60% of the group hates it and would, if they could, throat punch the creators of the Concept B until they begged for mercy. The other 40% of the group love the idea and might even consider tweeting about it.

Well, marketing executives are like Doomsday Preppers. They will do anything to insure their survival.

So when it comes time to decide, they're going with their mortgages, their private school tuitions and their $299 a month lease payments on their new Lexus GS; they're going with Concept A.

After all, 90% of the people polled liked it. You can't argue with that. If my phone were 90% charged or my daughter got a 90% on a history test or my brake pads still had 90%, I'd be thrilled.

But in the arena of mass communication, of breaking through the clutter, of intentionally polarizing people in order to get a reaction or influence behavior, a tepid 90% is 100% wrong.

If it were up to me, and for a thousand good reasons it never is, I'd go with Concept B. Or, to misquote John Lennon, "Hate is all we need."

Never Go Half Ass

In light of mergers, acquisitions and unholy alliances with unholy holding companies, Jay Chiat presciently asked, "How big can we get before we get bad?"

I left Chiat/Day in 2002, when that question was starting to be answered.

Painfully.

I landed a job at Young & Rubicam in Irvine, California. At the time I thought (perhaps snobbishly) I had left the Big Show and was being sent down to the minors. This was not so much a reflection on Y&R as it was on my alma mater. After all, at the time, Chiat/Day was filled with rock stars.

Actually, I never refer to anyone in the business as a rock star, that is way too pretentious (see also: affectation, summer scarves, nose rings, gauged ears, tattooed sleeves, riding boots and handlebar mustaches).

Colleagues of mine who call themselves, or anyone else in the industry, rock stars need to recognize they simply create advertising that people hate less than other advertising.

In any case, I found myself behind the Orange Curtain with a bunch of young creatives, who had talent, but not necessarily the work ethic needed to make a name for themselves. The most difficult part of my job, other than the 110 mile daily commute, was to import some of that famed Chiat/Day culture and kick some ass.

I must have had some success.

Because 10 years later I ran into one of the kids who worked for me.

"Rich, I owe you a debt of gratitude. You once called me lazy. You said I never followed thru, didn't push myself and sleep-walked thru my job. At the time I cursed you under my breath. But years later I started understanding what you were getting at. Then, I started getting it. Then I started winning awards and getting promoted. I just wanted to say thank you."

Holy shit, I thought,  at least I did one thing right. This kid is now a big time Group Creative Director. Maybe if he spots this blatant pandering he'll bring me in for a gig.

All of which is a longwinded way of getting to a pleasant experience that happened not too long ago.

My partner and I were asked to supervise some juniors working on a project. At the very last minute, and because of some fluid logistics, we had to ask a young woman to step in and knock out some headlines and body copy. In the time it takes me to drive to the gym, slip into my Speedo, swim a mile, shower and race back to work, she had risen to the task. And done so with grace.

No drama.
No trauma.
She just knocked that shit out.

I won't embarrass her by sharing her name publicly, but sometime in the future you will know the name. In fact, if her drive and professionalism are any indication, it'll be painted on the door of her own agency.

I'm a Comment Creator

Metrics Don't lie

Years ago, ADWEAK broke on the scene.

Each week it would take potshots at the industry and skewer the nonsense that takes place in agencies from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon.

It was an instant hit. Mostly because in the days before AgencySpy, it gave voice to the incredible frustration and discontent of those of us toiling for the man.

Naturally, because the picture of the Editor was a burly, hairy man in front of a swimming pool, I fielded a lot of calls assuming I was behind the sedition.

I was not.
And I am not.

The guy in the picture has 100 lbs. on me.
And I've seen better mustaches on women.

However, I am friends with the guys who started ADWEAK and I know this was not an accident. Nevertheless I enjoyed their antics then. And I enjoy them now.

The website hasn't been active for about ten years. Instead, the ADWEAK gents ply their wares on Twitter.

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but the new format has allowed them to be even funnier. Because now they can move at the speed of sound. They can spit out the funny faster than a project manager can arrange a week's worth of creative check-ins.

Last week, my ADWEAK buddies ran a little experiment and wanted to see if adding a link to this blog could produce additional web traffic.

It did. On both ends.

I had a noticeable jump.
And they had measurable increases in engagement, views and click-thrus. Of course we're just a bunch of freelance copywriters and have no idea what to make of the any of that. But visuals of fast-rising unexpected vertical spikes (insert Cialis joke here) make us happy:

All of which brings to a point that Bob Hoffman often makes on his blog, the Adcontrarian  -- and by the way, if you're not currently enjoying Bob's unique brand of curmudgeonly goodness, you ought to be.

The people who are making the most of the new digital platforms, the ones telling stories, making things, and commanding attention in the new emerging arena, are not the ones using artisanal beard wax or sporting man-buns or $1000 stingy-brim fedoras.

We're the people pundits will tell you have lost touch with the business and can't keep up with the social media dominated world.

The ones that need to move on.

You might know us by a different name -- the Dinosaurs.

The Lawnmower Man

It's been argued, by people a lot smarter than me (7 billion plus), that everything that happens to us, every little detail, every meal, every shower, every employee review, every passed kidney stone, has been faithfully recorded on the hard drive that is our brain.

All we have to do is figure out how to connect the synapses in the right manner in order to access these long forgotten memories.

I think there's something to this.

Last week, for instance, my partner Robert Prins and I were working on an assignment. Somehow we started talking about riding lawn mowers. And then, somehow again, I began thinking of my newspaper delivery days back in Suffern, NY.

Having a newspaper delivery route is like having a special set of X-ray glasses with which to see the neighborhood in ways few people will ever know.

In bedroom communities, neighbors might have passing conversations with the folks to their immediate left and right. And perhaps, because of the kids playing softball at the nearby school, parents might get together for the occasional BBQ or X-mas party.

But as a teenage newspaper delivery boy I had close, sometimes too intimate, contact with not one, two or even five of the neighborhood families, I had a special peak into the lives of 47 Suffernites.

Suffernians?

Suffragettes?

There were rumored Mafia families on my route.

There was closeted homosexuals on my route.

There was even the family of an ex-NFL football player. They had a pair of boys, 7 and 9 years old, who were to destruction what Islamic terrorists are to intolerance. They had a penchant for fire, sledgehammers and circular saws, and would break shit up just for the sake of breaking shit up.

If YouTube had been around back then, I have no doubt these two would be Internet stars.

And then there was one house occupied by a family, whose name I shall not speak.

The mom and dad were in their 50's and they had a son in his late teens. These were not people who did much socializing. It was rumored that the father collected Nazi memorabilia. The fact that they kept two vicious, and often snarling, German Shepherds did little to dissuade me of that belief.

I never relished collection days and the times I would have to interact with these neighborhood fascists. More often than not, I was greeted at the door by their son, who in many ways resembled Private Lawrence from Full Metal Jacket. A big hulking man, who was never quite all there.

Mind you, this was long before the hipster era, but at 19 tender years of age, he was fond of wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat. Also, he smoked a pipe. He also never obtained a driver's license. That however, was never going to stop him.

Because on days when the need for speed kicked in, my Private Lawrence would fire up the Sears 17.5 horsepower riding lawn mower, tool up and down the street at full throttle, and look about as happy as a pipe-smoking, Sherlock Holmes cap-wearing, son of a Naziphile could ever possibly look.

I have no idea where this young man is these days, but I'd like to thank him for that searing memory.

If I ever get another newspaper route, I will gladly offer up the first three weeks for free.

Made Men

Today I will be conspicuously silent when it comes to office chatter. Because today, everybody is talking about last night's big finale of Mad Men.

It seems like every one of my colleagues is a devotee of the show.

I am not.

In fact, I haven't watched it at all and have no opinion as to the demise or the rise of Don Draper.

I should correct myself, I watched the very first episode. But only because I had to. I was hired to work on promos for the launch of the show, which I was sure wouldn't make it past the first season. In my line of work, I've seen so many pilot episodes of shows that never went anywhere.


Top Plumber -- who will be America's supreme poopie cleaner-upper.

Ventriloquist Island -- 10 puppet masters land on the isle, only one will remain.

Breakfast Nation -- we'll sit down with real Americans, who have real problems, who like real pop tarts.


In any case, I never jumped on the Mad Men train. I have a buddy who worked on the show as an advertising consultant, so I'm not going to trash it, but it seemed all about the clothing, the personal angst and the comical up and down romances.

I have a wife and two daughters, I don't need any more of that.

Besides, I like my shows about advertising the way I like my sushi: raw and adventurous, with the potential for violent hurling.

To me at least, Mad Men had little to do with the realities of the ad world, which as the title of this piece as well as previous posts indicates, has become more and more like the Mafia. A ruthless money-making enterprise designed to line the pockets of greedy white men.

If I'm going to watch a show about the industry I've seen commoditized, digitized and declawed to the point where shitty work is celebrated and jargon-slinging posers are worshipped as prophets, I'll turn to one of the premium pay per view networks like Showtime.

Where the language is unrestricted.
Where death, suffering and the meaningless of life are explored.
And where true insight comes bursting from the television in delightful, and oh-so-true, fits of rage.

Here, for example, is a snippet from last week's Happy-ish, and Rob Reiner discussing an upcoming shoot with the Keebler Elves, the cookie baking Keebler Elves. This sums up the current state of our business in a way 1200+ posts on this blog never could:

Cutting All The Wrong Corners

Years ago, I did a TV shoot in Coral Cables, Florida. My art director partner wanted a pinkish dusk sky with big bulbous booming clouds in the background. This was before Photoshop or CGI, so the only buttons we could push were the ones on the telephone.

To call the travel agent.

We were there for a week. At one of Miami's swankiest hotels. We ate at Joe's Stone Crab. And after a hectic morning of tech scouting, we often lazed around on a yacht that sailed us by Key Largo.

Those lavish days are long gone.

Now every production (at every ad agency) comes under the scrutiny of hard-nosed cost control consultants who nickel and dime every line item until they've separated the boon from the doogle.


"Oh you want two 10K lighting packages? I think you can do it with one"

"That director would be nice, but this fellow is cheaper. Did you see the campaign he did for Sizzler?"

"We can't afford the Sheraton, unless the agency creatives share rooms. There's a Red Roof Inn just down the road. They have ice machines."

But all this rigorous penny pinching ignores the larger issue at hand.

It's as if the crew of the Titanic called all hands on deck to fix an overflowing toilet while the hull of the ship was being torn apart by a razor-sharp iceberg the size of Delaware.

The best time to save money isn't when a key grip is taking the lens cap off a 35mm camera. The best time to save money is when a planner cracks open a new marker pen to discuss the strategy.

This is the elephantine money pit in the room.

If I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. The lower level marketing team, the ones hoping to become higher level marketing execs, decide the strategy should be one way:

"The car is more innovative…"
"The beer has fewer calories…"
"The flick flacks have better confabulation…"

And then the agency will dutifully chase that direction, pouring thousands of man hours into the effort. Including weekends, late nights and forgotten wedding anniversaries that will send many a teetering couple directly into the greedy hands of a divorce lawyer.

When the decks are printed, tweaked and reprinted, about 100 times, they will be presented to the next level up. Where, higher level marketing executives, also eager to climb the corporate ladder, will exert their power, pee all over the work and declare:

"The car is more fuel efficient…"
"The beer tastes better…"
"The flicks flacks are plated with titanium for better confibulation…"

Sending the ad agency and their marketing partners back to the drawing board to do it all over again.
And again.
And again.

Sure you can eliminate the craft service smoothie drinks or stick your employees at the back of the plane across the aisle from the broken potty that has spitting blue water into the air since takeoff in Detroit.

But the people wasting the most money are not the worker bees. The folks frittering away the greenbacks like some coked-up Pentagon Purchasing agents are the ones at the top of the org. charts. And their indecision, mis-management and myopic fear is costing billions of dollars, not millions.

Of course that's just the wasted money we can easily identify.

What about the incalculable costs generated by the children of overworked and under-reimbursed art directors and copywriters who, in the very near future, will be sitting with high-priced therapists and wondering why their mommies and daddies are not in any of the birthday party pictures.

It's Prom Night

I wasn't going to post pictures of my daughter and her date from last week's prom, as I like to keep the private part of my life private, but as is often the case, she goaded me into it.

"Put it on the blog, Dad. I'll bet you get 5 readers."

As you might have guessed, this apple didn't fall from the tree. She's sassy, wickedly funny and a cynic through and through. Thankfully she didn't inherit my looks.

It's hard to believe I found myself at the Burton Chase Park in Marina Del Rey shooting pictures of my little girl, who in years past could never spend enough time with me. Now, like Harry Chapin's, The Cat's in the Cradle song, she is rarely in the same room with me.

It's also hard to believe that three weeks from now she'll be graduating from Saint Monica's Catholic High School, where my little Jewish atheist daughter will receive the personal and spiritual blessings of the Monsignor.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, Our Savior, Our Father, I bless you and pray that Jesus will continue to bless you. Amen."

Out of respect she will accept his convocation, smile and walk away from the podium without a hint of snickering.

And three months from now, my wife and I will be escorting her to Boulder for her first semester at CU. She will snark her way through the whole process and never let on how nervous she is or how the anxiety has kept her from eating in a week.

But I know as soon as the doors close on our returning flight to Los Angeles and before all the seats and table are in the upright position, my wife will receive a text. Or worse, a phone call, to the effect of…

"Mom, I'm freaking out! What do I do now?"

It's at that time that we will remind Abby to step back and find the levity of the situation. And to call upon her innate sense of humor to muscle through the temporary anxious nature of the moment.

Just as she did on the night of the prom when she insisted that she and her friend pose next the garbage can.

"But he's not a digital copywriter…."

Being inside an ad agency gives me great joy.

On occasion.

For instance, I love going to work at a place of business with people dressed for the business of slacking off. The number of Oxford shirts and well-pressed pants in my closet is dwarfed by the number of T-Shirts, cargo shorts and well-worn flip flops.

I love the freedom of an ad agency.

There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not summoned to a desk or cubicle to see the latest video that's eating up the Internet -- yes, I want to see a snake swallow a porcupine. Hell, I'll wait around to see what happens at the other end.

And of course, I love the free food.

It's literally a cavalcade of bagels, donuts and chocolate chip scones, brought in by fawning reps hoping to secure some business for their photographers, music composers and illustrators.

I like to look at the food but never sample it.

I also like watching the young people scarf it down, oblivious to the fact that their slowing metabolisms will soon change their swipe-ability on Tinder.

But there is nothing that makes me happier than coming up with a solve, particularly a digital solve.

Last week for instance, and without revealing any agency or client details, my partner and I were asked to jump in on a digital assignment. We are both painfully aware that we are considered creative department dinosaurs. And that younger creatives are drooling with anticipation, waiting for the old dudes to lay something on the table that has with something to do with Morse Code or old wooden butter churners.

But that didn't happen.

In less than 36 hours -- the new time allotment given on any ad agency project -- we turned around a number of noteworthy solves. No sooner did they pass from our hands to the Creative Director, who excitedly looped in the Chief Creative Officer, who singled out one of our ideas, and declared the concept, "fucking great."

Not bad for a couple of old farts who can correctly identify Howard Gossage, Bill Bernbach and Jay Chiat.

Time will tell whether the idea moves forward or comes to fruition. To be honest, none of that matters.

To me, the fun part of the business is doing what many people assume I can no longer do. I'm not all up in your face with HTML coding, pushing content up the revenue stream or designing an engagement unit that holistically leverages the core brand essence across various static and mobile consumer touch points.

But if you need an idea, a real idea, and not a PBR-drinking, empty headed poser in a knit cap and Capri pants, you know where to reach me.

Hello Ladies

The best news last week didn't come from Washington, DC where the unemployment rate has dropped to 5.4%.

It didn't come from Wall Street, where the Dow hit new highs and the NASDAQ soared above 5000 again.

The best news came from Century City, or more accurately, a Public Relations firm in Century City, who have officially heralded us into the age of the "Dad Bod."

I'm sure you have all heard about this. The Dad Bod is clever spin. Spun to cover up the deteriorating physiques of aging Hollywood heartthrobs, like Leonardo de Caprio (pictured above).

Apparently, and the PR firm didn't provide much in the way of evidence, women are yearning for a pear-shaped man with flabby biceps and one pack abs. A man who feels less at home with kale and protein shakes and more at home at Baskin & Robbins. Or Dave & Busters. Or at Pizza Hut or Taco Bell.

Or even better, at the Pizza Hut/Taco Bell Combination store -- yes, that's a real thing.

In any case, I'm glad this phenomena is finally coming around. But I hope Dad Bod seeking women will be more discerning.

Sure, you could go for one of these Dad Bod Newcomers who isn't quite comfortable in his newly stretched skin or relaxed fit jeans.

Or, you can opt for a man who's been rocking the Dad Bod since the day he was born, 44 years ago.

Mind you, it hasn't been continuous.

There was a short obsessive compulsive period when I was somewhat blubber-free. When the completion of one Olympic-length triathlon rolled right into the immediate preparation for the next. A time when my pantry was stocked with nothing but protein, protein shakes and ill-conceived protein supplements, like Ornithine, Creatine, and Lysine. It was during those misguided years when I flirted with a BMI in the low 20's and barely tipped the scales at 172, wet.

But those days of 31 inch waists and body-clinging ribbed T-shirts are long gone.

I'm not back to full Dad Bod form. Yet. But I am confident if I return to carbohydrates, triple my beer intake, and ease up on the swimming, hiking, elliptical stepping and biking, I can get myself in tip top Dad Bod shape.

But the news for you ladies gets even better. Because after 23 years of marriage, my wife has given me permission to "go off the reservation." I think it might have been an early Father's Day Gift.

"Hey if you can convince one of those young women in their mid twenties at the office or the gym to go for this (pointing at my almost-completed Dad Bod), you have yourself a jolly good time."

My wife might have been speaking in Sarcasm, the native language at the Siegel household.

But if she wasn't, I can only hope this publicly-broadcast open invitation does not crash the Internet.

From the Department of Suggestive Photos

I don't usually participate in Internet memes'.

Never did the Ice Bucket Challenge, the list of influential books, or the more recent Sibling Day. I certainly don't take part in Facebook's Throwback Thursday, mostly because I have a face for radio.

But today I am indulging.

Out of curiosity I did a Google search on some of the Directors I had worked with in the past. Sadly, I had discovered that one of my favorites, Henry Sandbank, had passed away. Henry was distinctively old school.

He started as a still photographer in the Mad Men days and graduated to film, making some of the more classic spots of the 80's and 90's. We were honored to get him to shoot a demonstration spot for the Nissan Altima.

This was one of my first shoots and because of its destructive nature, one of my favorites. Mind you this was before CGI and many of the special effects we see today.

Henry rigged up a special 25,000 frame per second camera that would capture all the live action on film. And there was plenty of live action. We rented a warehouse out in Riverside and had the client supply us with TEN brand new Nissan Altimas. We hooked the Altimas up to a cable, not unlike the cables used to launch planes off aircraft carriers.

And then we let em fly.

It was an orgy of smashed metal, flying glass and ripped leather. I believe we captured what we needed on film by the fourth wrecked car, but since we had them on set, decided to pummel them all. You know, as a safety.

Sadly the client wouldn't let us show all the glass shards, twisted metal and splintered wood, which made us all wonder why they green lighted the spot in the first place. Nevertheless it came out ok, better than most of what passes for advertising today.

You see, car companies don't make commercials like this anymore.

Clients are happy to shoot a car on a winding road, slap on a popular song, surround it with a cacophony of digital nonsense and call it a day.

You're not missing much, Henry, not much at all.