I promised I'd never do this, but...

So I’ve been reading Upton Sinclair’s ‘The...

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 14:13:00 -0400

So I’ve been reading Upton Sinclair’s ‘The Jungle’ for the first time and feeling like my life has become a soft gooey metaphor for the drudgery and meaninglessness of existence. And I’m not ashamed, too much, to own that it’s the first time I’ve read this landmark book because at least I’m reading it, and that’s probably more than most of you can say while attached to a polygraph.

Now I’m not equating my life, my job to the wretched horrors that comprised the days and nights of immigrant meatpackers in early 1900’s Chicago but then again yes I am, a little. Because while I, like yourself, don’t run the risk of a slow painful death from a blood infection brought about by an errant flick of a filthy butcher’s blade, the larger concepts are the same, and they remain the same for the vast majority of us.

Those concepts, like the last scraps of pig carcass in a rendering vat, can be reduced to two: Expendability and immobility.

As to the first, if series creator and executive producer Dan Harmon can be unceremoniously ditched as showrunner for the critically acclaimed TV comedy ‘Community’ your position as #1 Ad Sales Performer for KQRV FM Home of the Golden Hits is by no means an iron rice bowl. And if you’re the fastest cutter on the assembly floor of the lace factory your supervisor will make a great show of presenting you with that coveted $40 Applebees coupon at the end of each month. Until the carpal tunnel sets in. Then you’re gradually but inevitably fucked because you, former hot shot, are now a hot shot not, and thus naught but a broken cog in the remorselessly grinding machine that is Big Lace.

On to the second, the immobility: It’s an ancient truism amongst working folk; when you have the money you don’t have the time, when you have the time you don’t have the money.

In Sinclair’s Jungle, the inhabitants of Packingtown know full well that a mere 5 mile walk will bring them out of their rank and pestilent purgatory and into a countryside of green hills, blossoming flowers and streams of cool, un-poisoned water, but that 5 miles might just as well be millions; that bucolic landscape somewhere on Mars.

You’re too worn out to take a walk when you have to work so hard just to work.

You need to sleep if you’re going to work so you need a bed, preferably with a roof over it and as few lice as possible. You need to eat if you’re going to work, maybe even three times a day, and that gets spendy even if you stick with the store brands and nutrient-free but oh so affordable fast food. And what about the kids? What about chairs to sit on and wood for the stove? What if someone gets hurt or sick? What about lights so you can see around the rooms you pay for because just about all of your daylight is burned…at work.

But then of course there’s The Sweet Relief in the Distance, the dangling carrot of “Vacation.”

An increasingly exotic notion, the vacation has taken a hit along with the wider economy. In the first place there has never been an American—no matter how celebrated and deserving—who has taken his full two weeks back-to-back without fearing for his livelihood, and since the poo hit the propeller in 2007 those of us that still have jobs are rather inclined to keep them. Like the residents of Packingtown, we face any work absence in dull terror that the boss may simply shrug and fill our empty slot with another, more compliant ant.

Retire? Oh yes, you’ll get to retire. No doubt to live the good life you’ve struggled for over a lifetime while you’re still hale and hearty enough to leisurely tend your combination vineyard/unicorn ranch. Count upon it!

Bitter? Moi? Perhaps, and yet I’m in pretty fair shape compared to most. By the time I was in my late 30s I had enough socked away to waste it all on useless liberal arts degrees for all three children who will, upon their graduations, be ready to vie for their own positions in Packingtown.

Personally, as their father who loves them, I kind of hope they take that 5 mile, million-mile walk instead.

witstream: SO. EXCITED.

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 10:54:30 -0400

witstream:

SO. EXCITED.

[Don Draper, age progression] Recently I was asked by an old...

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 16:55:00 -0400

[Don Draper, age progression]

Recently I was asked by an old friend to be of whatever help I could be to his daughter, who is a few weeks from becoming an Ivy League grad and has—on the strength of an internship in a respected ad agency’s account planning department—decided to pursue a career in advertising.

She sent along her resume and my reply, with appropriate name changes, is below. The reason it is below is because I thought it might just be of some use to the young job seekers among you, too:

Anna,

So much to be proud of in that resume, and justifiably so young lady! As a former manager of an ad agency office—and the person co-responsible for hiring in the creative department and consulted for hires in account planning—I do have to risk stating the obvious: when you send it to agencies, please include Position Sought prominently atop the page.

It always blew my mind how many grads would leave that part out, or worse still wax on about how they would “appreciate any opportunity to work in any capacity in any department” and suchlike. Super. Now please show me any other resume. It’s nobody’s job to decide what yours should be, so be as specific as is reasonable for a beginner. Doing so also signals passion, as opposed to panic.

You can delete the summer jobs/part time retail gigs/paper routes. Also, (and forgive me but) I would de-emphasize the athletics/leadership stuff, consider consigning it to its proper place under “skills and interests” (unless of course you’re looking for a job as a field hockey player, then disregard that suggestion). And emphasize in any way possible your stint at AGENCY. What’s their national ranking among agencies? Annual billings? What top industry awards has AGENCY won… in short, why should I be the least bit impressed that they chose you as an intern? For example:

Paunch & Fiddle is a nationally recognized, award-winning, Top-25 agency with an extensive 800M account list spanning most consumer and many B2B categories. Two-time winner of ADWEEK’s coveted Agency of the Year Award, P&F selects only three interns for its Meetings and Lunches Department each year, with the weakest performer being ritually murdered on the Summer Solstice by the agency’s founder and Chairman Emeritus, Theodore “Elvis” Paunch.

What accounts/categories did you work on? Were you engaged in work for existing business? New business pitches? Both? Did you interact with agency leadership in account management, creative and production as well as planning? Did you present to clients, facilitate or lead consumer focus groups, go on TV or print shoots, analyze and summarize quantitative as well as qualitative research? Were you trusted with responsibilities not necessarily or routinely granted interns? Now, point of order…

I am NOT suggesting you pen a novel. Break as much of above into easily digestible bullet points as possible, but highlight what experience you do have and romance it like you were trying to sell the world’s most important product in 30-seconds (because Anna, that’s exactly what you are doing, and that’s exactly as long as most potential employers are likely to spend on a resume).

If anyone worth their salt taught you what a creative brief should be, well, approach your CV the same way.

I’m putting out a few feelers on your behalf through my former colleagues, but as I’ve already told your father, almost none of the same people I started in advertising with and spent my 30-year career beside (all 50+ at this point) are still in the business. That fact should tell you plenty, too. Old Elvis gets to us all eventually, Solstice or not.

Love to you and the family and I’ll let you know if and when I hear of any job leads or at least interview opportunities.

———————-

It’s graduation season, I realized.

God help you all, every one.

…And if you’re young (and bright and talented) and living...

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 12:26:07 -0400

…And if you’re young (and bright and talented) and living anywhere else, cut that out and start packing (wherever you are in North America there are at least three buses a day aimed squarely at a bridge or a tunnel into Manhattan).

Said best and simplest by ‏@GerryDuggan “Extremely...

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:23:27 -0400

Said best and simplest by ‏@GerryDuggan “Extremely entertaining short film.”

lafix: generouscity: The Daily Show with John Stewart script...

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 12:29:37 -0400

lafix:

generouscity:

The Daily Show with John Stewart script signed by Jon Stewart. Envelope contains full 17 page script and 3 question cards for the guest astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson (Daily Show stationary note not included). Neil pointed out on the show that the globe in the Daily Show graphic was spinning the wrong way. This was donated by Daily Show writer Travon Free.

Being sold to benefit Matt (@sucittaM) and his wife Danielle’s rehabilitation from a brain injury sustained in January.

This is a great opportunity to donate to a great cause as well as own a fantastic piece of Emmy Award Winning Television memorabilia.

Jon Stewart! Neil deGrasse Tyson! Travon Free! WHICH WAY IS THE EARTH SPINNING?

It was a long ago love who first introduced me to the Whispering...

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 12:53:36 -0400

It was a long ago love who first introduced me to the Whispering Arch in Grand Central Terminal. You’ll find it just outside The Oyster Bar on a sort of purgatory landing between Upper and Lower levels. It is a place of magic.

Regardless of surrounding noise, of which as you can imagine there is usually quite a lot, you can whisper into one end of the arch and the person on the other end can hear you clearly, perfectly.

Apart from the charm (and romance) this anomaly has lent my date nights and lunch hours over the years, aside from the joy it brought my children when I first stood them in those corners, there is also a downright delightful Punk’d opportunity that is not to be missed.

Many a tourist can be seen outside the famous Oyster Bar at Grand Central (the smarter tourists, anyway. I’d about kill for one of their seafood Pan Roasts right now, hold the pasta). Occasionally these folks, technically tourists or not, are just standing there outside the restaurant waiting for someone. Standing, the way you do, in a corner.

Oh what fun that is! Oh, to see someone go from startled jump, to frantic looking around, to adopting a facial expression that makes it clear they are in the painful process of questioning their own sanity until POW, at last eye contact is made with the perp. Me. And thank goodness how the reliable laughter and relief has prevented my being beaten to a pulp. In fact nobody ever got mad. On the contrary really.

The few times I pulled that prank on the unsuspecting (because there were also a few times where the mark turned out to be well aware of the phenomenon and just calmly replied with a knowing smirk) resulted in sharing laughs with a complete stranger followed by my treating them to a brief lesson about a city landmark they may otherwise have missed. It even got me hooked up once. She was beautiful. From Texas. But that’s another story.

Point is there’s real magic to be found. Not just in mystic forests and hidden caves and not only in the work of nature. And city dwellers know well that manmade magic, given mankind’s usual limitations, may be the most magical magic of all.

But be it hill or dale, jungle deep or skyscraper high, when you find this magic make it a gift to others that they may do the same.

I’d like to think that pretty girl from Texas I knew too briefly has had lives and loves and children of her own by now. And I’d like to think she has taken those children to stand in the very same corners of the very same arch where she and I met those long years ago. I like to imagine how her heart blossomed with joy when the eyes of her little ones went impossibly wide.

And when it happened, when they laughed together in the purest of shared delight, I’d like to think, if only for the briefest of moments, she thought of me.

And if that’s not magic my friend, then I don’t know what is.

I’ve been tobacco free for six months now, and wanted to...

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 17:48:00 -0500

I’ve been tobacco free for six months now, and wanted to mark the occasion by sharing some details on my own quitting process which might, perhaps, be helpful to others. But I’ve decided to be honest about it instead.

Firstly, my putting tobacco aside after decades of use wasn’t an act of character, wasn’t the result of common sense meeting stone cold willpower. No, my quitting was a good old fashioned medical necessity, making me no more heroic than a man who rescues his own ass from a burning building. And that’s just the half of it.

Rewind to the first sentence. Anybody notice that deft writer’s dodge? The “I’ve been tobacco free” where a simpler “I quit smoking” should be? Oh I have indeed quit smoking, however what I have to quit next is something called “vaping,” i.e. inhaling the nicotine-doped water vapor produced by a battery powered e-cigarette. And what irritates me is that I never thought I’d have to quit that.

Nicotine is generally considered no better or worse than caffeine, it’s the traditional delivery system of burning leaves that’s the trouble maker. Why do you think doctors and other health professionals will give you nicotine in the form of transdermal patches and chewing gum and even inhalants but what they’ll never give you is a pack of smokes? So when I came across this e-cig semi-phenomenon it looked like the magic bullet we all wish for. Here was the loophole, or rather smoke ring, I could drive my tractor trailer full of self indulgence through.

Not quite.

You can find quite a bit about e-cigs and vaping on the web, and absolutely none of it is in any way conclusive. In a way very reminiscent of those faraway days back when Big Tobacco first came under attack, the arguments surrounding electronic cigarette use seem about evenly split. On one side we have the Spartan nay-sayers and health and fitness Church Ladies of both sexes who behave as though they’d disapprove of anything that looked like it might be fun, and on the other are hack e-cig industry mouthpieces who’d have us believe theirs is the most important product to impact world health since the discovery of penicillin.

But of course the manufacturers stop well short of making any health claims, and are even careful not to describe e-cigs as smoking cessation aides, which would land them in the FDA’s regulatory lap. All of that is left implied and stored in the gray mists of legal deniability. And without a doubt, the lawsuits are coming.

The closest thing I can find to actual research comes from the test subjects themselves. The thousands of nicotine addicts who, like me, became willing guinea pigs in this grand experiment. You can find them on discussion boards and forums devoted to the subject. Many, again like myself, had quit outright for some time before discovering e-cigs and fairly leapt at what for all appearances seemed an opportunity to enjoy coffee and cocktails again.

Once a smoker quits it doesn’t take long at all for the lungs to start feeling and being better. The smoker’s cough (more accurately a persistent throat clearing) goes away. One stops coughing up brownish gobs in the morning, too. But a lot of these electronic puffers found that after a month or so of vaping the coughs and the gobs were back. And this time God only knows what’s in those gobs, because the FDA mostly doesn’t.

Our government watchdogs did one, seemingly cursory test of e-cigarette “smoke juice”—the liquid from which the inhaled vapor is made—a couple years ago. Their findings? Inconclusive. Nothing you could claim is good, but nothing you can prove is bad. So in the fog we are and in the fog still remain.

Nobody wants these things to work more than I do, except maybe every smoker and grudgingly former smoker on the planet. And again in a way that evokes Big Tobacco’s rise on the shoulders of trend setters and style makers, e-smoking has found its adherents in Hollywood. Johnny Depp is an e-cigger, and Leonardo DiCaprio,as is Katherine Heigl who famously handed her e-cig to former smoker David Letterman who took a long drag, blew smoke rings and announced “Yes. That oughta get it done.”

I hope Dave’s right.

At the very least it’s a hugely promising technology that mimics the act of smoking without using actual smoke. Despite the hit-or-miss quality control, it’s brilliant in that way. Patches and gums, on the other hand, were clearly invented by non-smokers. Those things are useful, but they’re also like carving tofu into the shape of a turkey and expecting it to be a hit at Thanksgiving dinner.

The problem is I’m coughing a little again. I’m finding myself slightly short of breath again. I’m waking up with that yucky globby feeling in my throat again. So as much as I want to believe in magic, as much as I want this new relationship to work and even put a [smoke] ring on it, I’m getting that old too-good-to-be-true vibe.

There’s no such thing as Heroin Lite© or a little bit pregnant. And unfortunately, just maybe, the only way to quit smoking is to quit smoking.

I know a person, an elderly, rather wealthy person, whose...

Sat, 23 Feb 2013 16:16:13 -0500

I know a person, an elderly, rather wealthy person, whose landline service still delivers a busy signal if you try to call them while they’re already on the phone.

A busy signal.

I wonder of how many of you have ever heard a busy signal over the course of your entire telephoning lives. If not for this one individual’s stubborn insistence upon maintaining it (much to their local phone company’s chagrin and actual extra pole work) I’m sure it would be a good 30 years since I heard one myself.

In describing the sound, one is tempted to use the standard “beep beep beep” onomatopoeia, but that makes it seem a modern thing, like a robot, which is not accurate. It’s more like the tooting of a tiny steam-whistle, rhythmic but not rapid, measured but not musical, a warning but not an alarm. And the damnedest thing is, it seems like a luxury.

Most things that fall under the heading of Outmoded Technology and Archaic Annoyances don’t manage to pull off that luxury vibe, but this busy signal does. It says, very simply, “I’m busy.” Or if you prefer, “Maybe later” or even “Fuck off.” The interpretation of the tiny rhythmic steam-whistle is left entirely to the caller who is treated to it, as I was just moments before typing this.

This time it put a grin on my face as it conjured memories of my high school era lover’s quarrels (leaving one’s phone “off the hook” or “on busy” being the telephonic equivalent, back then, of storming out of the room). And it made me think of all the recent commercials touting new tablet computers that feature the amazing advancement of keyboards, in effect making them traditional laptops that can now be lost, stolen or damaged in not just one but in two, separate pieces.

Be it a tablet with a keyboard or a laptop with a touchscreen, it’s giant leap sideways. But a busy signal? Now that’s a throwback that could just be an advancement.

No doubt as a costly optional extra.

The Boomers have advanced entire markets with their potent group nostalgia; vacuum tube audio equipment, Golden Grahams and Ramones t-shirts, vinyl, vintage MGBs and the return (sort of) of the VW Beetle. Before it’s too late, why not the busy signal?

The Millennials are already in the nostalgia game with their own Golden Grahams, Ramones and Where’s The Beef t-shirts, vinyl and 8-Bit video games. And those who’ve never experienced something cannot be counted upon to resuscitate it.

Give me a call and we’ll discuss the concept.

If you can get through.

I’m busy.

witstream: “I have sex so infrequently I may as well get super...

Wed, 20 Feb 2013 17:58:01 -0500

witstream:

“I have sex so infrequently I may as well get super into Star Wars.”

—@TheBosha

FUCK YOU. And anything else of course.

It’s something of a challenge in this world today for a man or,...

Wed, 20 Feb 2013 12:17:33 -0500

It’s something of a challenge in this world today for a man or, as illustrated, even a woman to go forward harboring the dirty little shame that you would, given typical circumstances, prefer not to harm anyone.

The celebration of the martial has eclipsed the sexual or romantic in popular fantasy as much as student loan dept has overtaken the financial burden of home or automobile ownership. Hurting others is big. Bigger than the Beatles.

Bang bang, slice chop.

But a guy wonders, as a guy does, what these purveyors of poundings really know of the reality. A guy who grew up in a hardscrabble rust belt town where you kept your eyes down but still ended up scheduled for a fight most afternoons wonders that kind of thing.

Ever been punched in the face? The kidney? The balls? Ever been kicked in the throat?

Or sure, that’s rough enough. And I’m going to sidestep the dramatic encounters with blades and firearms I’ve enjoyed over the years because that just gets braggy-sounding even if it’s not meant to be. Rather I’ll stick with the giving end.

Blessedly few as they may be I remember with sickening clarity every time my fist has made contact with another man’s face. Another boy’s face. Placed right they go down and bleed and the fight’s called. Brevity being as close an approximation of humanity as you’ll find in that ally. Right then. Right there.

No God follows boys to their fights.

What you don’t see in the movies is that one tooth on the asphalt and how the hand of the victorious swells, usually freakishly.

Everybody gets hurt.

I swear I left part of my brain on that Maple Street sidewalk when Mark Ritter took me down with a vicious right hook to my left temple. And I’ll bet his fist was on ice longer than my head was.

Sucks all around really. But go ahead.

Play at your violence behind game consoles and in front of movie screens. I know it’s fun. And I know I ain’t no James Bond or Bruce Lee myself, that much is established. But I also know some other things.

I know that the overwhelming majority of you may not actually soil yourselves but you would collapse and cry like little bitches once confronted with what the cops call a “physical altercation.” I know that if you hit me; face, head or gut it would be a sensation I’ve incorporated previously and could cope with. Thus I’d keep on coming. You, on the other hand, wouldn’t be in a movie. You, if I was mad enough and you were small enough, would be flat fucked.

And I? I would hate myself. I would hate myself for every time my fist or foot found your body.

And I would feel that self loathing forever. The same way I feel it still for punching out then choking out Timmy O’Hara in early June of 1972.

He had it coming. But I’m the one it hurt.

So play nice. Stop making idols out of violence. Or at least try it for yourself to see what it’s really like.

I’m not a young man and I could never be described as a large man, but I’ll kick the shit out of you for $1000 plus travel expenses.

Peace.

As a father to three sons who have all dominated their high...

Sat, 16 Feb 2013 12:20:21 -0500

As a father to three sons who have all dominated their high school’s drama departments one has to expect to sacrifice the occasional Saturday night at the glittering alter of way-undergraduate theater, but the productions are invariably, even professionally impressive and the 2-hour nighttime drive a small price to pay compared to the 4AM Pee Wee Hockey practice that could have been were they born little jocks instead.

Break a leg me boyos. See you in a few hours.

Dear millennials, You’re not so very busy and important. In...

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 21:40:36 -0500

Dear millennials,

You’re not so very busy and important. In fact I’m more busy and important than you are and I’m barely busy at all and not the least bit important.

I can almost understand “nobody reads email anymore.” Almost. You have a $300 smart phone in your pocket yet you’ve not bothered syncing your email accounts to it, fine. I have learned not to waste my breath calling because calls tend to go unanswered and good GOD one dare not leave a voice mail these days. But text? A simple reply to a message as pointed as “Has the package arrived yet?” or “You guys ok in this storm?” Is that so impossible?

There is a numbness, a casual disregard for communication in these times that simply did not exist back when phones were solidly wired to the wall and mail came, handwritten and rarely, in envelopes. And with today’s technological brilliance comes a brute ignorance.

You’re not jaded, you’re fucking rude.

Of course if your parents never taught you better, well, unfortunately your parents are boomers and that holds me and mine responsible for you and yours. Yours being in large part a tone deaf, shoe-gazing generation showing the poor social graces that come of benign neglect.

Never have so many had so much with which to do so little.

So RIP, RSVP. Goodbye to Just Saying Hello. No thanks to Thank Yous and I may miss the simple “miss you” most of all.

You probably have an unanswered call, text, email or DM from a friend or sibling or parent on one or more or more or more of your devices right now. Why not hit them back for a change, asshole? Or realize you never will. Realize you just don’t want to.

Just don’t realize too late that even the strongest Wi-Fi signal can’t make it through a coffin lid.

Sincerely,

Dad

For quite some time now I’ve regarded my former career as...

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 17:31:07 -0500

For quite some time now I’ve regarded my former career as just that; my former career. It’s been a few years since I’ve bothered to look for, let alone actually apply for, any work in that field. Apart from the very occasional, cherry picked, high-ticket freelance assignment I’ve become fairly invisible where I was once pretty invincible and I’m fine with that. I’m doing just peachy without it, thank you. Less money, sure. But less anxiety, less irritation and no tossing and turning agita at 3AM, thus from a holistic, quality-of-life perspective it more than evens out.

So imagine my surprise when last week, out of a clear blue sky, I get a phone call from a prospective employer. This person followed the briefest of introductions with a withering barrage of compliments and accolades. My resume was impressive. My work was exceptional. My background faultless and my protests of modesty but glistening droplets of molten, 24 karat gold.

I may not remember, they explained, that I had written them inquiring about work “a while ago,” and they expressed total understanding and solidarity with the sentiments contained in my cover letter: specifically that despite years of executive responsibilities I sought to simplify and streamline and return to the field as a regular, journeyman writer. “I would do the very same the first chance I got!” said the caller.

That cover letter they understood only too well and which they had received “a while ago” was, it would turn out, dated December 16th, 2009. I know because I asked. And after some awkward, self-effacing jokes about taking three years to reply to me they got down to business.

We should meet. Like, pronto. They had a Non Disclosure Form for me to sign then we’d plow right into the work, and in my world signing a non disclosure always means the next thing you’ll be signing is a fat ass check. It has never not worked that way. Meeting a potential new employer who’s holding a non disclosure is the equivalent of shaking the hand of a potential new lover and finding a condom in it.

You’re in.

And the lures kept coming. They have a top-notch health insurance plan. A partially matching IRA. Employees get to work from home at the slightest hint of inclement weather etc etc. We’ll meet on Friday and get this deal done.

Thursday evening, having received no further contact cementing time and place for a meeting that was supposed to take place the next day, I sent this person a text saying that I could make myself available on the weekend if that worked better.

Still nothing.

Until monday. A full seven days since the original, bolt-from-the-blue contact. Not a call nor a text. An email. An email that said this person had “spent the weekend” (yeah, right) “going over my work again” (really. again. the whole weekend?) and that if they “ever needed an executive level creative” I would most certainly be “the very first person” they’d call. But at the moment they were just looking for a simple, journeyman writer.

Was this Bizzaro World? Could last week’s white really be this week’s black? Was this person, the principal and CEO of this for-all-appearances successful business out of their fucking mind?

And remember kids, THEY called ME.

I don’t know. But you do.

You know who acts like they’re showing you something nice then once you’re close enough to lean in and look they squirt you in the eye and run away?

Clowns. Clowns do.

Clowns.

That’s who.

witstream: You’re whipping up an amazing Super Bowl feast,...

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 13:49:08 -0500

witstream:

You’re whipping up an amazing Super Bowl feast, right?

Then whip up an amazing not-leaving-the-couch plan: the big game, good friends, and WitStream’s best Super Bowl Tweets on your computer or your iOS device.

I’ll only be doing the commercials, so don’t forget to bring your phone to the bathroom. ~Bosha

Sometimes, the best compliment we chance to overhear is also the...

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 01:37:02 -0500

Sometimes, the best compliment we chance to overhear is also the biggest insult. Which is the most confusing damn thing; our heart and our mind forced to pass each other awkwardly in a narrow hallway. In my case, it happened about 15 years ago and I can hear the words now as if they were just spoken.

A producer I worked with and who remains both a colleague and a friend was explaining to a new kid what it was like to work with me, a generally well liked but (I guess) somewhat fearsome creative director. The recent Ivy League grad was mystified and apparently somewhat scandalized by my habit of going off for lunch with the head of client services and other higher-ups just before important client meetings and returning, smelling more liquid than solid, only to walk out of those presentations with signed, sealed and sold multi-million dollar TV campaigns.

Standing only a few feet away, obviously unbeknownst to either of the players, I heard James, that producer, deliver the compliment/insult that, for me, continues to define that tricky genre to this day:

“Bosha? He could drink a case of beer and land the space shuttle.”

In other words, mind your judgments kid. This ain’t Kansas. Watch and learn. But, after a pause, James did add a footnote as though to sooth that delicate young soul…

“They don’t get on the martinis and shit ‘til after work.”

findthestarlight: Let’s try another contest. Go to Find the...

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 14:04:02 -0500

findthestarlight:

Let’s try another contest.

Go to Find the Starlight and follow along.

Click here to see how you can help (you do not need to offer help there to enter, but you may want to see what is there).

Repost this.

At 9:00 p.m. EST on January 15th, two of the people who do so will be selected at random to receive an Alchemy Starter Set.

I don’t enjoy these methods. But this is the future of information we have reached. And these are the roads we must travel through it.

Good luck, kittens.

-M

Had to get the trainFrom Potzdamer platzYou never knew thatThat...

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 17:52:26 -0500

The artist who creates these inspired works of musical and...

Tue, 08 Jan 2013 13:54:36 -0500

The artist who creates these inspired works of musical and sculptural beauty, Ed Potokar, is a longtime friend (although why someone so talented would suffer me remains a mystery). If you are in New York City or thereabouts this Thursday the 10th, please join us for the opening reception of Eddie’s work, 6:00-9:00pm, at John Houshmand Projects, 31 Howard Street, 2nd fl. The gallery show will continue through February 3rd.

For complete info, and to see how music meets art and has an exquisite baby, click here: Soundwall

Hope to see you there my lovelies.

I’ve never liked roller coasters and from my...

Sun, 06 Jan 2013 15:49:36 -0500

I’ve never liked roller coasters and from my perspective they are ALL designed to kill us.

At least this one’s honest.