Bastille Day Memory: A repost.

On Bastille Day, 2003, I had one of the high points of both my career and my life. As a creative director on IBM at Ogilvy, I was invited to a creative conference at David Ogilvy's Chateau in Touffou, France.

It was Bastille Day, we had flown all night, then taken a train past Poitiers, then a taxi to the Chateau. The Chateau--parts of which dated to the 12th Century was guarded by a dry moat. There was a path across the moat and on either side of the entrance to the chateau there was a granite lion. A chain stretched from one lion to the other, blocking the cab. I jumped out to remove the chain, got up too quickly and had a tete-a-tete with one of the lions, smashing my forehead and nose. The lion was unharmed.

I was quickly rushed inside the Chateau where Mrs. Ogilvy (Herta) had me rest with my head on a pillow on her lap as she applied an ice pack to my wounds. Together we watched Lance Armstrong win the Tour de France.

Short of pouring molten lead on revolting peasants, I can't think of a better way to have spent Bastille Day.

My box.

When I was young and trying to get a job in the advertising business, someone suggested that I should regularly find every magazine and newspaper I could get my hands on and tear out the ads I liked. Then, at the end of the year, I should review my choices against what won recognition in "Communication Arts," "The One Show" and the "Art Directors" annuals.

This practice would accomplish three things: one) it would make me hyper-aware of advertising, two) it would help me build a boxful of ads that could help unstick me if I got stuck and three) it would help me develop a critical faculty.

My box of ads became an active part of my advertising education. Most important, it helped me recognize "good."

Further, my definition of good was made up of verities, not trends. Good was not just cool. It was intelligent, beautiful, intrusive and more. To stay in the box, there had to be something to you. Steak along with the sizzle.

I kept my box and my practice for more than two decades. It moved with me through six agencies in New York to one in San Francisco, till I left it in a dumpster in Boston. And along the way it helped me acquire something else: confidence. The confidence of knowing, at least in an advertising sense, right from wrong. Of knowing what good is.

Today, no one keeps a box. And no one has confidence in judging quality. It could hit them between the eyes and their response is always the same: let's put more teams on this. Let's second guess what the client's thinking. Let's (because we don't know) panic and do more work.

Confidence, for me, did not come easy.

Judgment and taste were the result of hard work.

More people could use a box.

Point/Counterpoint.

When they say: I have a hard stop.
You should say: I have a hard start.

When they say: I'm sorry I'm late.
You should say: I'm sorry you're here.

When they say: Let's talk next steps.
You should say: Let's talk next schtups.

When they say: It's out of scope.
You should say: It's out of Listerine.

When they say: We need to do something social.
You should say: We need to do something anti-social.

When they say: The client wants something viral.
You should say: I want something hypo-allergenic.

It's not the journey. It's the destination.

Yesterday I had another edition of one of those endless rounds of meetings where work can only be killed; it can't be approved.

Where every frame, every word can be picked at and examined, but cannot be ok'd.

Where every proposition is "testable" or researchable, but is not deemed to be definitive.

You know what I'm talking about.

That road.

That journey.

The 47 "no's" on the road to "yes."

I have written in the past about how at the elemental level--how we are paid as agencies--agencies have fucked themselves. We are paid to continue making meetings. We stop being paid when we produce work.

But there's more.

There's bloat.

There's bloat and "equality."

There's a huge layer of people in agencies at at clients, of bright and eager people, whose opinions are solicited and listened to.

Everyone has something to say.

None of whom have the ability to think like a viewer.

We're supposed to suck it up--as creative people--and nod in agreement when some starched suit says, "this project will be a journey."

Fuck journeys.

They are the domain of blowhards and cowards.
They are the province of decision-avoiders and committophobes.
They are, simply, a waste.
Of time.
Money.
Energy.
Enthusiasm.
Freshness.
Life.
Love.
Laughter.

Grow some balls.
Let's get there already.

Tombstones reflected in a 14th-story window.

Stiff-necks.

In the Bible, the original Old Testament, not the sequel, the New Testament, the Chosen People are referred to as stiff-necked.

Meaning obstinate.

Stubborn.

Bull-headed.

Virtually unmovable.

A man who was my mentor for five years at Ogilvy once described me as such.

Sometimes it's bad, stiff-neckedness.

But sometimes it's what you have to be.

Sometimes, this might surprise you, but there are people with more testosterone than sense. Who have to--for ego reasons or for reasons of penile dwarfism--impose their will on you, or try to.

And these people are wrong.

They are not dealing from experience, taste or wisdom.

They just, for whatever reason, have to prevail.

Those mother fuckers must die.

That is when you reach down. When your integrity, reputation, portfolio and connections must be summoned.

And you must say simply and clearly, NO.

Loud and often enough.

Until NO is heard.

Fear rears its head.

Today, or actually the last 24-hours, have been, in a word, hellish. Agency life is often like having some pangs of nausea, but the last day or so felt worse, like appendicitis.

I don't often hate going into my office and hate being there once I am there. But I did today.

The reason for my antipathy is easy to put a finger on: fear. Fear is running rampant.

Here's the deal.

I have a big meeting next week with the CEO. (This is supposed to intimidate me and make me nervous. It doesn't. I act with the CEO like I act with everyone. I speak my mind and argue my points with as much grace, intelligence and humor as I can muster.)

But, like I said, I have a big meeting next week with the CEO.

Account people are running around as if the Mayan calendar were coming true.

The client is second-guessing their second guesses. I think that adds up to quadruple-guessing, but my math may be off.

Fear.

Now, here's the thing.

There are actions--positive actions all these people could take to mitigate their fear. They could write a brief, for instance. Or write a deck. Or say, here's what we need to do.

But no, they are all paralytic with fear.

Working in a fearocracy--rule of the fearful--is even more odious than working in a dunceocracy--rule of the dim-witted.

Further, it's no way to live.

It's spineless.

Senseless.

And, finally, sickening.

Like I said, hellish.

Reading.

One of the things that through the years I've grown convinced of is this: I believe about 90%- 95% of people don't know how to read.

No, I'm not being funny.

Or saying something for effect.

I truly believe that the great majority can't read.

Their brains, miniscule as they are, are so fragmented and scattered that they see letters on a page but they cannot process their shapes.

Or they are so consumed by fear and politics that words themselves lose their meaning.

Or they look at the page with such excruciating intensity that they see individual words but not the context they're in.

There's no other way you can explain the miasma of our industry. The bullshit that gets spouted that's so devoid of precision and definition that even the spoutee has no idea of what he's mouth-farting.

There's no other way you can explain the bullshit of the pontificators who proclaim marketing is dead or some such.

If it's dead, maybe it's because no one says anything and no one has the patience to read.

You cannot market to the deaf and blind.

That's what so many have become.

Some rules from an "influential" blogger.

I'm still reeling a bit having been named an "influential advertising blogger." It's not that I don't appreciate the recognition and the attention, I do. I just don't quite understand how a blog so assiduously un-read and un-popular can be influential.

This probably sounds like a modern-day Rodney Dangerfield joke, but here goes: "I have a negative Klout score."

Nevertheless, here's what I have learned about blogging (and myself) since May, 2007 when I started Ad Aged.

1.  I am a happier person when I write everyday. Being "present," that is, writing regularly, beats being profound. If you're present often enough, profundity might follow.

2.  Don't be afraid of showing the world as you see it. The worst that can happen is someone tells you to cut the crap. Or you have to take a post down. I've had to do that exactly once.

3.  Don't worry about your blog not being popular. You're writing for yourself. Not riches, celebrity or mammon. Who reads you isn't really important.

4.  You don't have to be perfect. Just consistently decent.

5.  As the "owner" of the blog, you can write whatever you want. Any topic you choose is "on topic."

6.  I personally loathe self-promotion. So I don't do it. This has probably cost me a couple readers. That's ok.

7.  If you're angry at the world, you're paying attention. It's ok to be angry. In fact, it's good.

8.  Find some "go-to" sites that seem to have interesting things you can comment upon. They're good for when you feel you have nothing to say.

9.  When you have writer's block, write through it.

10. Learn who to listen to. There is no shortage of advice in the world. Take the good, leave the bad.

11. If you're a writer, it's ok to be 99% words. Don't kill yourself looking for pictures if they aren't your thing.

That's all for now.

Lyndon Johnson and Advertising.

I am reading right now book 1 of Robert Caro's four-book biography of Lyndon Johnson, "The Path to Power." It is one of the most amazing books I have ever read. And I read a lot.

It doesn't matter if you care about Johnson or American politics. Rarely--and this includes Shakespeare--will you find a better, more fully-painted portrait of a man, an era, an area and a country than you'll find here. Caro's work is painstakingly researched--he seems to have interviewed everyone (that's not hyperbole) who ever knew Johnson.

Today I am reading about Johnson's first run for Congress as a 28-year-old outsider running outside his district. Things are looking bad for him. He is way behind.

His opponents are hammering away at his youth, his "unelectability," that is, don't vote for him because he can't be elected. Johnson had tried to get prominent local Texans to introduce him at speeches. They turned tail and ran when polls revealed he would lose by thousands.

His father, Sam Johnson, turned it around.

Embrace your youth. Harangue the your opponents' age. And have your cousin, eight-year-old Corky, "the best young cowboy in the Hill Country" introduce you with this:

It Couldn’t Be Done

BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done

      But he with a chuckle replied

That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

      Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

      On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

      That couldn’t be done, and he did it!

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

      At least no one ever has done it;”

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat

      And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

      Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

      That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

      There are thousands to prophesy failure,

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

      The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

      Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing

      That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

Johnson out-thought, out-spent and out-worked his opponents. He refused to knuckle under to conventional wisdom or pollsters.

Edgar Guest is not exactly John Donne or A.E. Housman, he's more of a Kipling sort. But there's a lot of wisdom here.