Last night on the water.

For the last 67 years people on Martha's Vineyard, an island off the coast of Cape Cod a little more than double the size of Manhattan Island--the 58th largest island in the US and the third largest in the east, have held an annual Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby. 3,000 people are expected to participate over the five weeks of the Derby and more than 100 prizes are awarded to fishers everyday.

The Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby which began at 12:01 AM on September 9th, has been called one of the great saltwater fishing tournaments in the northeast, attracting people from all over the country, swelling the population of the island still in the midst of its recovery from the summer tourist highs.

Whiskey, my five-month old golden retriever and I couldn't make the Derby. Whiskey has dreams of ducks and rabbits to attend to and I, sadly, have the daily crush of work and responsibility. There's no time for me to pack a satchel with my clothes and a bag of Whiskey's kibble and head north to ply the chilling waters off the Cape.

Instead last evening, Whiskey and I headed down to the East River and take a long, calming walk along the short, turbulent waters. The East River is not really a river at all. It's a tidal estuary that connects the waters of the Long Island Sound to the more open waters of the New York bay and the Atlantic beyond.  By some predetermined twist of instinctual fate, some percentage of blues and stripers head south, east of Long Island, past Montauk and others, presumably in lesser numbers, head south, west of Long Island, down through the East River on their way down to Florida after a summer up north.

The stripers and blues migrate by night, spending their days feeding on anything they can get their maws on, including themselves. Blue fish in particular are fierce fish, and fiercely cannibalistic. When they are feeding, which is often, they will sometimes create a "bluefish blitz" in which thousands of them will churn up the water as they go after menhaden and other unfortunate bait fish.

Last night, down by the river, on the lower portions of the East River park which is just a yard or two at high tide above the turbid waters, the promenade was lined with burly Puerto Ricans with beaten old rods, hoping to catch the migrating fish. The Puerto Ricans usually bring out two or three rods which, once they cast their bait into the river, they bungee cord to the wrought iron lest they get a bite that hauls their untended tackle into the drink.

Then, their rods secured, they gather in small groups and smoke cigarettes and reefers or drink beer and gab animatedly through the night. There are some solitary Puerto Ricans who swim away from the larger schools. They sit on either emptied cat-litter buckets or on the wooden-slatted benches that line the sea wall.

I stopped by one of the lone fisherman and decided to have a chat if he would have me. He was a short man, Pete his name, and he was wearing an old grey sweatshirt against the early autumn night and a black baseball cap with large gold type on it which read in all caps, "Vietnam Veteran." I recognized him as one of the quiet men who live in the basement apartments in the tenement buildings on my block. He started the conversation.

"Whiskey," he said, "she has gotten big."

"She's almost 30 pounds now," I replied. "She's a good dog." I shifted gears. "Have you caught anything."

"Yes, I have gotten two little ones. But I have thrown them back. I want mas grande. Last night the big fish came in around four or five. One man caught a 14-pound fish."

"That's a big one," I responded.

"I am done for the night," he said. "I am old and cannot stay all night like the young ones."

"Me, I cannot sleep. And Whiskey likes the walk."

Pete un-bungeed his rods from the cast-iron, he broke them into sections, emptied sea-water from his cat litter bucket and we walked home together, the three of us.

When we got to the front of his building we stopped and said goodnight.

"Will you be out tomorrow night," I asked.

"Like you," he said, "I must."

He descended his steps, unbolted his door and went, I suppose, to sleep in his apartment below the street.

People for whom the deepest ring of hell is reserved.

You bust your ass doing the work.
Actually doing it.
Preparing the deck.
Presenting the work in the meeting.
Selling the work.
Selling the work again.
Selling the work again again.

They say nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing through the whole meeting.

They do nothing.
Until they get back in the office and send out a note to the "powers,"
that reads, "We did great!"

--
For whatever reason, the photo above seemed appropriate to this post.

Freelance smilers.

Because of my ineffable ineffableness, I was recently asked to help out a strategic-planning friend on a launch she was working on. Friendships are friendships, but money is honey, and once I got my terms, I was happy to lend all ten digits.

Maybe some of the worst freelance you can accept is when you partner with someone from a client's in-house "creative" department. Often these people are prisoners of knowing too well the tastes, proclivities, likes and dislikes of the "client."

No matter what you say or do, the work you strive for winds up looking like an in-flight video. That is, smiling people, happy faces.

Having been burned in the past, I have a couple of rules about accepting freelance.

I have high "start-up" costs. That is, I won't do something unless it can make a material difference in my life or my daughters'.

And I insist on getting half my money up-front.

Even so, it's hardly ever worth it.

Especially when everyone's smiling.

How to present.

I've told this story before but I believe it bears repeating. Because our industry is over-run by people who can't take yes for an answer.

Years ago I went to a parents' open house at my daughters' pre-school. There was a question and answer period with the head of the school presiding.

One woman got up and said words to this effect:

"Before my kid got here her art work sucked.

"After she left here, her art work sucked.

"But while she was here, her art work was great. What's your secret?"

The head of school replied sharply, "Oh, we know when to take the paper away."

The key to successful client meetings is taking the paper away. Present your work. Say your piece. Hear the response. Then fold up your bag and leave.

Nothing good will ever come from what account dweebs call "the discussion."

Shut the fuck up and take the paper away.

For the sin I have sinned.

We are moving into that time of the year when what's left of the Jewish people after two-millennia of exile and persecution takes time to reflect upon the sins they've committed over the past 12 months. Many of the 13 million Jews left in the world engage in the Holy-Day ritual of Taschlich. This involves throwing bread into a flowing body of water, a symbolic throwing away of sins.

I didn't grow up with any religious training at all, but my wife observes and I've been Taschliching with her and our kids for nearly 30 years. There is something refreshing and liberating about the ritual. I think even non-Jews can enjoy a symbolic casting off.

One of the primary prayers during the High Holy days is "Avinu Malkeinu," which means "Our Father, Our King" and is then followed by a supplication--a request for forgiveness for a sin.

I thought maybe it would make sense to create a few Avinus for our industry and ourselves. You can add to it if you like.

Our Father, Our King, for the sin we have sinned when I declared something is "dead" without evidence.

For the sin I have sinned when I said "this will change everything."

For the sin I have sinned when I scheduled a meeting rather than thinking myself.

For the sin I have sinned when I scheduled a lunch meeting without providing lunch.

For the sin I have sinned for making employees front the agency for travel and food.

For the sin I have sinned when I let HR browbeat people over timesheets and compliance videos.

For the sin I have sinned when I talked over people.

For the sin I have sinned when I rushed to judgment.

For the sin I have sinned when I let politics take precedence over work.

For the sin I have sinned when I accepted ass-kissers.

For the sin I have sinned when I fail to say thank you.

Tannenbaums I have known.

Oh, Tannenbaum.

Not the most mellifluous of last names.

And hardly as popular as Smith, Jones, Chin or Mohammed.

Yet, through the course of my life, I've run into my share of Tannenbaums, often in strange places and under odd circumstances.

The most famous, of course, was "Tick Tock" Tannenbaum, illustrated below by my friend Patrick Hamou.

Tick Tock (my older daughter has assumed his moniker) was a notorious hit man for the Mob. He was in the original cast of Murder Inc. Not what you'd call a nice guy. He was always nice to me, however. Though since he spent most of his life in "the Big House" or on the lam, I didn't have that much to do with Tick Tock. You can read about him here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Tannenbaum

Years ago, I ran into a Peter Tannenbaum, who I believe is a high-flying denizen of BBDO. I had checked into L'Ermitage in Beverly Hills and they were convinced I was not George, but their frequent guest Peter. Since I was being treated like a king, I did little to disabuse the staff of their notion.

Just now, I got an e-card from a Steve Tannenbaum, who is a fund-raiser for my younger daughter's college. He wished me a Shana Tova and hoped my daughter was enjoying New Zealand. Which is fine. Except she's not in New Zealand.

Of course, there was the Wes Anderson movie "The Royal Tenenbaums." It was a run in with near-namesakes I enjoyed--though not enough to compensate for all the wags who called me "Royal" as if I hadn't heard that before.

 

Some times it gets me into trouble.

I've always been a hammer, not a nail.

A straight up-the-middle runner. Not one who dances the end-around.

I've always been a bulldog, not a whippet.

This gets me into trouble.

My skills lay in places other than politesse and diplomacy.

Right now I am reading the third volume of Robert Caro's four-volume masterpiece on Lyndon Johnson. I couldn't recommend books more highly. Caro's portrait is of a man of Shakespearean complexity. It is operatic in its sweep. And its sense of history is broad and magnificent.

The third volume is called "Master of the Senate" and it begins with a hundreds-of-pages-long treatment of the history and the manners of the institution. Including its ossification in the 1940s when its racist and reactionary Southern bloc made sure positive Civil Rights legislation would not pass.

Despite the calcification and institutionalized lethargy of Southern Senators (then and now) there's much someone like me (a filthy Jew) can learn from their decorum. Here's what I mean.

70 years ago, Senator Alben Barkley of Kentucky (who, as Truman's Vice President once said the Vice Presidency "isn't worth a bucket of warm piss") said this to a freshman Senator.

"If you think a colleague is stupid, refer to him as 'the able, learned and distinguished Senator,' but if you know he is stupid, refer to him as 'the very able, learned and distinguished Senator.'"

Simple and complicated.

It's a beautiful pre-Autumn night in New York, the end of one of those rare, perfect, beautiful pre-Autumn days. I got home relatively late, around nine, and immediately took my puppy out for a walk.

There, in the sky four or five miles away was what appeared to be a shaft of light shooting up to infinity. New York's annual tribute to the Twin Towers and the over 3,000 people who died on that terrible day.

There's a lot of art and creativity we run across in the course of our lives. But rarely will you see something with the stunning and meaningful simplicity of this tribute. It's mournful yet inspiring. Somber but uplifting.

When I returned home, my wife had our local PBS station on. They were running a two-hour long special on the Metropolitan Opera's most recent staging of Wagner's 16-hour "Ring Cycle." The set itself weighed in at 90,000 lbs. and was made up of 30 or so giant projection panels that could rotate 360-degrees. The complicatedness of Wagner's work and the Met's staging is something to behold.

Over the course of about six months my wife and I saw all 16 hours of the "Ring." I guarantee, it's like nothing you've ever seen. And never will see.

These are two works of art.

One utterly simple.

One enormously complex.

Both stunning and yes, awe-inspiring.

Creativity isn't any one thing.

It isn't merely simple.

Or merely complicated.

It can be anything.

It just has to take your breath away.

Fucking up.

Some time late last week, I wrote my 3,000 post on Ad Aged. Not a milestone like the four-minute mile or surviving Niagara Falls in a barrel, but to my small mind, something notable nonetheless.

Along the way over these past five years, Ad Aged has brought me a handful of friends and on average a couple hundred daily readers, give or take a few dozen. It's hardly the sort of blog that sets the world on fire. I am no Seth Godin or Perez Hilton. But I am pleased overall with my level of readership. It's way more than I ever imagined.

Also along the way, I've done some stupid things in this space. Most recently I insulted someone I admire. Not his work or his logic--that's fair game. But I insulted him personally and in a unnecessary and mean-spirited way. I've apologized and taken the offending post down, but that doesn't take away the hurt I caused. A hurt I am truly sorry for.

Mark Harris is a little-known writer I greatly admire. His baseball novels are among the best American fiction of the late 20th Century. He closes his most famous book, "Bang the Drum Slowly," with these words--the lesson the hero of the novel, Henry Wiggen, learned. "From now on, I rag no one."

I've always known the wisdom of these words. And have tried to abide by them. But recently I slipped. And therefore fucked up.

I know better. And will try to be better in the future.

Tornado warnings.

The big news in New York and its suburbs right now is that there are tornado warnings in the area. I am 54 years old and I lived the first 45 years of my life believing that New York and its environs are not subject to tornadoes but in the era of Global Warming, we seem to get tornadoes now once or twice a summer. One has apparently touched down in Queens and there's an eerie pall over the city, the sky in some places dark as night, and in other places a luminous and foreboding grey-yellow.

Tornado warnings or not, my young dog Whiskey needs her exercise as do I, so we headed down to the water for a two-mile walk.

The first sign of life we saw was a large Department of Environmental Protection sludge boat. New York City has three of these vessels. The smallest is 280-feet long and displaces just over 1,600 tons. The larger two--built on the same plan back in 1967 and 1974 are 323-feet ten-inches long and displace 2,557 tons. These hard-working ships run up and down the rivers day and night, taking sludge from urban waters and depositing it out to sea, 4.5-miles past Ambrose Lighthouse--12-miles away from the aqua-boundary of the City.

They are hardy ships and the one we saw, the larger model, the "Newton Creek," was showing no ill-affects from the oncoming storm. It was steaming up-river through a light chop. Whiskey and I watched as it made its way away from the sea.

These ships are the biggest ships that ply the East River, though the Hudson gets ocean liners which sometimes moor as far north as the piers in the low 60s and large container ships that on occasion make their way 100-miles upriver to Albany. They are even bigger than the "General Slocum," a 235-foot steamboat built in Brooklyn in 1891 that crashed and burned above 90th Street on North Brother Island, not far from where Whiskey and I were now, killing 1,021 of the 1,342 people aboard. It was New York's greatest single day of death until September 11, 2001.

As we watched the big ship make its way home, Whiskey strained at her leash. The increasingly darkening sky was making her nervous and the leaves that were falling from the London Planes and Sycamores in nearby Carl Schurz Park were proving a distraction. Whiskey wanted to chase each one like it was a small animal.

So, too, Whiskey and I headed up-river, making fewer knots than the burly Newton Creek, but moving steadily, as well. Parents and children began streaming home now. The temperature was dropping rapidly and large beads of rain were beginning to fall. Even the black kids playing basketball called it quits and ran north to home and Harlem, their t-shirts loose and wet, their expensive basketball sneakers untied.

Whiskey and I continued our trudge, perhaps carelessly. I couldn't really believe New York could be hit by a tornado, so while everyone else was headed in, I was determined to keep walking at least until I reached my usual turn-around point, the high-masted flagpole that sits along side Gracie Mansion, the 1799 farmhouse turned "official residence" of New York's mayor.

We hit the flagpole and now most of the people still in the park were running south and west. It was time to seek cover and concrete. I too heeded the call of reason and turned tail with Whiskey, reckoning the shortest, most-scaffolding-covered route home.

The sky now, in the words of Rodgers and Hammerstein was a "bright canary yellow." And Whiskey and I made it into the clean, well-air-conditioned lobby of our building. Jimmy, the doorman, closed the door against the wind and rain.

When the skies are brighter canary yellow
I forget ev'ry cloud I've ever seen,
So they called me a cockeyed optimist
Immature and incurably green.

I have heard people rant and rave and bellow
That we're done and we might as well be dead,
But I'm only a cockeyed optimist
And I can't get it into my head.

I hear the human race
Is fallin' on its face
And hasn't very far to go,
But ev'ry whippoorwill
Is sellin' me a bill,
And tellin' me it just ain't so.
 
We had made it home.

We had beaten, for now, the storm.