Whither goest Weinstock?

(With spelling improved and grammar saluted by the Editor.)

3 July, 1902

I have been with Rebbe Weinstock and his Mrs. for over a month now and they treat me well. I have many chores around their apartment and often, the Rebbe or the Mrs. will give me something extra for completing this task or that. If the Rebbe for instance wants his Yid newspaper, a penny he’ll give me to run down the block to pick it up. Or if the Mrs. needs a pound of this or a loaf of that, she’ll send me out with a whack on what she calls my toochas—my ass—and welcome me back with a glass of cold milk and a biscuit or two. In all, over and above the 50-cents I make a week for the most minimal of laboring, I am picking up bits of change here and there as they seem fit to bestow it.

I have wondered, Diary, what Rebbe Weinstock does to make his ends meet. He doesn’t go to a factory like me Father, or work doing laundry like me Mater. No, he seems to sit around his comfortable home. Once a day or twice, a caller comes to the door, with a message. “Nathan Goldstein,” he’ll say, “seven pounds, three ounces. Next Friday at eleven.” He has a dozen of these callers a week and a dozen times, he rushes out of the apartment with his small leather bag dressed in his prayer robes and with his Kike prayer book.

I have asked Malka, who continues to visit with pleasing frequency, what it is that Rebbe Weinstock does, to where is he always rushing to and yon. Malka, who is usually a serious girl, only turned as red as the sweet wine the Yids drink on their Sabbath and she giggled. A very uncharacteristic deportment for her, as I said a serious girl. Now I am determined to discover what it is that is making Malka laugh, and where Rebbe Weinstock runs to with his leather bag and what his does to put, as Mrs. Rebbe likes to say, ‘kishkes on the table.’

More soon, Diary.

Doyle meets a girl.

(With mild corrections and loving touches applied by the editor.)

June 14, 1902

I have, for two weeks, been working for Rebbe Weinstock and his Mrs., a big windstorm of a woman who never has fewer than six or nine pots boiling on their stove and four or seven dishes cooking in the oven. Where all the food disappears to, I couldn't tell you. I haven't had a bite. Their food being Jewish and unsavory to my Goy mouth.

Rebbe Weinstock and his Mrs. haven't any children, though they are, I would guess, the age of Father and Mother. I suppose something is wrong in their plumbing that has rendered them barren. Because when their brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and cousin and uncles and aunts are over, they love children just like any other people, the Jews do, giving them nickels and oranges and apples and little fig bars and hard candies as treats. It is a lively time when the Rebbe and Mrs' apartment is full, the place brimming with laughter and chatter just like a good home of a normal, non Jew.

One of Rebbe's nieces is a pretty young thing, about my age, for a Jewess. Malka looks black Irish to me with deep eyes and long dark hair. Today I was alone with her in the kitchen.

"What is your name?" She asked me.

"Ned," I said taking off my cap. "Ned Doyle. I come from County Bhaile Atha Cilath just three months ago and live on Mulberry Street."

"I just asked your name," she said abruptly.

"We Irish have the Gift of Gab," I told her and she laughed.

"Better," she said, leaving the room, "to have the Gift of Quiet."

That said, Diary, I like this Malka, and truth be told, I think she likes me too. For later on she stopped me again as I was shoveling coal in the coal cellar and she brought me a cup of hot tea sweet with honey as the Rebbe and the Mrs. drink it that way, as is their manner.

I will not tell Father and Mother about Malka. Me with a Jewess, they would say, and Father would swat me across the arrrrse with a rolled up newspaper. And mother would cry and say, 'tis time it 'tis to sail back to Dublin, away from Pharisees and Jews with their habits and their loose women.

That is all, Diary, today.

More I will soon write.

Doyle meets the Weinstocks.

(With grammar slightly and spelling greatly improved by the editor.)

2 June, 1902

We are living just a few blocks from a family of Jews and I have gotten a job with them as what they call a Shabbos Goy.

Shabbos is what they call their Sabbath, only they have theirs on Saturday and spell it differently than we who have it on Sunday. And Goy is what they call people who aren't schvartzas, which is what they call Negroes, who are Christians. Of course we call them Kikes and Yids and Sheeneys, and any other assortment of names, so Goy is pretty mild in return. So that I am, I am a Shabbos Goy.

You see, do you see, on their Shabbos, they don't do any work, not light a lamp or turn on an oven or certainly go to the factory. No, they do no work. So they have hired me to be their Shabbos Goy, that is the Goy who will do their work for them. Clean their dishes, tend to their cooking in the oven and any sundry chores that need doing. It isn't much of a job, paying me just 50 cents, but being that I am just a wee lad it is about all I can do to earn some money for me father.

I should probably tell you something about Weinstock, Rebbe Weinstock as I am made to call him, Rebbe being one of their Jewish words for Teacher, a term of respect which is how I must treat him, always saying 'yes, Rebbe,' and 'no, Rebbe,' and mostly 'Right away, Rebbe.' And of course Mrs. Rebbe Weinstock, who I must call nothing but Missus and must follow her every whim and caprice.

It is just the two of them Rebbe and Missus Weinstock and they have no children. Rebbe is a bear of a man and has a bear's hair and a beard as large as any I have ever seen. He wears at all times a small cap, not like the cap Irish people wear but a little circle of cloth that shows, he said when I asked, his respect for his God. He wears all manner of accoutrements that are meant to convey respect, God being the center of everything in his life, like a Priest.

I must now turn down the candle.

Writing more tomorrow.

From the back of Doyle's closet.

When my wife and I moved into our current apartment almost twenty years ago, we had bought the place from a charming, old Irish couple, the Doyles, who--approaching the age of 90--had decided, with not-so-gentle-nudging from their children, that it was time to go into assisted living.

They left the place practically spotless, in immaculate condition. And with two young children and a puppy, my wife and I moved our stuff in in a frenzy. Even after all this time, it seems there are still paintings we haven't hung, books we haven't alphabetized, boxes we haven't unpacked.

Over the weekend, as we were preparing for our long-awaited renovation, I came upon an old corrugated box and opened it up. Inside there were dozens and dozens of hand-written letters in their envelopes.

"These aren't yours, are they?" I said to my wife.

She read one or two and shared a couple with me. It became apparent they were letters to the Doyle's from a long-lost relative. The letters didn’t interest me, but in amongst the clutter, I found a Diary, an experience of a young, Irish immigrant to America. His triumphs and travails. His hopes and dreams. And his struggle as a stranger in a strange land.

I think it’s all pretty interesting. So for the next few weeks, or however long it takes, I’ll be excerpting some of what I found in this space.

Starting, with any luck, tomorrow.

The opera.

That's James Levine in center, with the nimbus of hair.

I went to the opera last night at the Met.

Man-o-man, they can put on a show.

I've seen a lot of operas in my day. Including one at La Scala in Milan, perhaps the epicenter of the art form. I've seen opera in Rome, Verona, Paris, Aukland, Sydney and of course, New York.

Maybe someday I'll get to see Wagner in Bayreuth.

But last night I was in snowy New York seeing Offenbach's "Tales of Hoffman."

I had seen, I guess about five years ago, the Powell and Pressburger version from 1952 starring Moira Shearer. But last night was the Met in all its sparkling glory with the orchestra led by James Levine.

When I was young in the business I had a partner who was very accomplished and about 20 years older than I. We were about to shoot some spots and one night, about a week before we were to shoot, I was leaving the office in a tuxedo.

I asked him where he was going, and he told me, 'the opera.'

I guess I did what people do.

I rolled my eyes.

He noticed and said to me, 'If you want to see great production values, you go to the opera.'

I've remembered that for a long time.

Always thinking whenever I'm on set, 'How would they do it at the Met.'

I've never seen any real parallels but I think my art director was right anyway.

Like I said.

They can really put on a show.

A rat's breakfast.

It's snowing like a sonofabitch in New York today, the 27th or 44th "Snowpocalypse" of the season is upon us and roughly 90% of all New Yorkers are looking for someone to sue.

I mean, someone should be sued for this weather, right?

What the fuck.

It's too much.

It's not fair.

This blows.

In any event, I took the 4. The Lexington Express train to work this morning. (Or as New Yorkers pronounce it Smorning.) And someone had dropped a dozen bagels onto the tracks. Enough to attract rat traffic all the way from 96th Street. I suppose if I conducted a survey, there might even be some Bridge and Tunnel rats enjoying the feast.

In reality, the subway ain't half bad.

It's "up" 99.999% of the time.

And it moves something like one-million people a day with only minor frustrations and lethal threats.

Until someone figures out how to Uber my ass to work for $2.50, I'll put up with a rat's breakfast.

Found copywriting, IV.

A barber shop in Raleigh, North Carolina.

To the point.

The hardest thing in the world is to create something creative, unique, memorable and motivating. It's hard. It's a crap shoot. You can't predict when it will arrive. Or where it will come from.

You couldn't say to Philip Roth or William Faulkner or Joyce Carol Oates, 'write something great,' and be sure you'd get something great.

Likewise with Picasso. Or Van Gogh.

Or Kubrick. Or Coppola.

Creativity, like I said, is a crap shoot.

So the technocrats who have taken over the industry--rather than taking on the almost impossible job of trying to sell serendipity--have created various schemes and spent years formalizing those schemes and selling them as a surefire process that this or that communication will work because it follows our trademarked process.

Or that we "engage" consumers. Or have "conversations" with them. Or bring them "experiences."

It's all so much horseshit.

You never really know what's going to move people.

There's no process that will get you there. No trademarked powerpoint. No throw-a-switch panacea.

If it were a science, everyone would do it.

The only thing that really move people is things that move people. These things take time, experimentation, regular failure and usually massive amounts of money to create. And you have to deal with creative people who are often surly, irresponsible and surly.

99% of clients and agencies would rather not deal with it.

So they bullshit instead.

Nobody asked me but...

...Does it seem to you there are more people recruiting Creatives than there are Creatives?

...I can't remember the last time I saw the print edition of Adweek or Ad Age.

...I don't want a stand-up desk, but I would like a lie-down one.

...I never gave a rat's-ass what color the dress was.

...I love the latest freeze-frame pre-roll work for Geico by the Martin Agency.

...Baseball season can't come soon enough.

...When you're exceedingly busy it's usually because you're spending more time saying how busy you are rather than working.

...I miss when agencies had pencils with their name on them.

...I think every open-plan agency should have a designated door on a hinge--because sometimes you just need to slam.

...With apologies to my cardiologist, corned-beef and pastrami should not be lean.

...Very little is grosser than three-week-old snow in New York City.

...I'd like to have a beer with Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

...And I'd like to punch Antonin Scalia.

...If Bill Bernbach were alive today, he'd wish he were dead.

...95% of agency life could be improved if briefs were better and signed by the client.

...I'm tired of manifestos.

...Pompous and manifesto are more often than not, synonymous.

...Conference calls, timesheets, open-plan offices, phone trees and hold music. These are the great monuments to our generation.

30 stars under 30.

If you read magazines as I do, you realize that absent news coverage, there's not a lot of ingenuity in their editorial content.

Just about every woman's magazine has an article every month entitled "The secret words that will get him." And "20 tummy trimmers."

The same is true for men's magazines. Pick one up, any one, and you'll find "The secret words that will get her." And "20 tummy trimmers."

When it comes to the advertising trade press, one of their fall-back types of articles is "40 stars under 40." Sometimes in a burst of creativity they'll come forth with "30 stars under 30." Or if things are crazy and the managing editor is on a bender, they might even come out with "35 stars under 35."

Whew! Holy Pulitzer Batman!

I tell you what I'd like to see: "50 people I'd like in the room two days before a pitch." "Twelve creative directors who can talk intelligently to CEOs."

And "100 cliches I'll never spout again."

Those would be worth reading.