Some words about my father.

Back in the 1960s and early 70s, my father was a big agency big deal big muckety-muck. He drank thirty-two martinis a day, smoked about a dozen toxic cigars and schtupped anything in a skirt.

Every once in a while he was also able to impart some bona-fide wisdom. Here's one instance. I think of it on the heels of getting three emails today from people in the business who have just lost their jobs.

OK, journey with me back to 1972. I am fourteen. I am in the kitchen in my parent's house. My father is in the kitchen as well. I open the avocado-colored frigidaire looking for some chemically saturated processed food. I notice a bottle of champagne.

I turn to my father and ask, "What's that for? When you win an account or get a promotion?"

"No," he answers. "That's for when I get fired."

I've been fired just once in my life but I've been around enough fired people to understand what my father meant.

Being fired is good. Though it may not seem like it when it happens, but it was time to leave, it was time to inject a little fear into your veins, time to take personal stock, time to try something you wouldn't try if you weren't forced.

That's what happens when you're fired.

I hate to sound like Deepak Chopra or something
but pop a cork, count your limbs, put your site together
and call all your friends.

It'll all be ok.