Is there hope for the world?

Much of what we see and read--about violence, intolerance, the spectre of an environmental holocaust, the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots and so much more could lead us all to conclude that the world is going to hell in a hand-basket and if we're not facing global annihilation, well then, we're pretty damn close to it.

We can also look at our own industry and see horrors. We can bemoan the lack of jobs and the lack of job security. We can rue the decline in creative quality. We can go on about the general stupidity and cupidity of our business.

We can do all that and spend a lot of time doing so.

I suppose doing so is our right and our prerogative.

But, of course, there are other ways of looking at things. Here are two for instances.

60 years ago for all intents and purposes black people couldn't vote in our country. They couldn't live where they chose and go to school where they wanted to. In many precincts they couldn't check into a hotel, eat in a restaurant, go see a movie, or use a toilet.

Today, things are by no means perfect, and there are legions of people who would like to take us back, but things have--for all the problems that still remain--undeniably improved.

40 years ago we had lead in our gasoline and tons of PCBs were being dumped into our waters. The air isn't clean today and neither is the water. But it is better. Positive people have been a positive force for positive change.

Even in advertising, an industry beset by seismic changes, people are eager, people are working hard, people are trying new things.

Tonight I am in LA on business and I took a long cab ride to see my daughter who is in college out here--in an idyllic town about an hour east of LA. My cabdriver was a 24-year-old Moroccan who was working his way through college on his way to getting a degree in computer engineering. He studies all day and drives all night.

My daughter is similarly hard-working and ambitious. And she's willing to face down all sorts of obstacles on her way to becoming a marine biologist. Or a scuba teacher. Or something.

My two cents says that the world sucks in many horrific ways.

But as long as people like tonight's cabdriver and my daughter and...you...keep trying to do something good with your life, there's hope.

Aunt Louise.

I suppose every family has at least one, a family member who, like Lenny in Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men" was kicked in the head by a horse when he or she was young. In my family, I guess it was my cousin Marc, who was a suicide about 30 years ago, slitting his wrists in a bathtub and letting his blood mix slowing, inexorably with the warm bath water.

In my wife's family, it is Aunt Louise, who lives alone in a now Puerto Rican neighborhood in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

Aunt Louise isn't a bad woman, she's harmless, actually, but now that she's pushing 80, she pretty much helpless too. Most people in the family can't take too much of Aunt Louise but my wife has a heart of gold and she had the old lady is over last night for Rosh Hashana dinner.

Mostly when Louise is over I let her talk without me saying too much. She's a woman without a great deal of intellectual resources and spends much of her time alone, so when she's out, you're bound to get a few hours of stream of consciousness. Enough to make you wish you were unconscious.

Nevertheless, regardless of how insipid and painful the evening, there are things we as humans must do for other humans. So we have Aunt Louise over. We show her pictures of the kids. We take her for a walk in the park near our apartment that overlooks the river. We even put together a care package so she has something home-cooked once in a while.

Even Uncle Slappy, who likes to be the center of attention when he is up from Boca, willingly played second fiddle last night. He's no fan of Aunt Louise, but like my wife, he's a warm, compassionate person. As important he understands that warmth and compassion make us more, not less, human.

Most people don't watch old movies like I do. And if they do, maybe they regard a great director like Frank Capra as saccharine and sentimental. I think in "The New Yorker's" review of "It's a Wonderful Life," they said the movie had a "cast-iron charm."

Nevertheless there's a bit from Capra's highly-relevant 1939 classic "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," in which Jimmy Stewart excoriates the Senate for being callous and greedy. He says, "I wouldn't give you two cents for all your fancy rules if, behind them, they didn't have a little bit of plain, ordinary, everyday kindness and a little looking out for the other fella, too."

Today, I'm sorry, we seem all about rules and nothing about kindness. And looking out for the other fella? Well, in the words of Budd Schulberg's Sammy Glick, "going through life with a conscience is like driving with your brake on."

Morale II.

I've been steadily employed in the advertising business since the early years of the Reagan administration and since that time have worked, not counting freelance, at a dozen agencies. Over the years I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about what makes some agencies successful and other agencies simply suc.

Some anonymous dickweed posted a comment on my post yesterday entitled "Morale." He seems to think that the only alternative to being treated like shit at an agency is--his words-- to "quit."

This notion--which affects all of America, not just the advertising industry is rampant today. It's the idea that little things that show people they matter are not cost-effective. That showing people consideration for the hard-work they do is somehow a sign of corporate weakness. That treating people with dignity and respect is anti-competitive.

Experience tells me the opposite is true. Agencies that call someone personally when they're instrumental in winning a piece of business tend to be agencies that produce great work and retain great people. Agencies that show that they care, which can be reflected in hundreds of different ways, are often agencies that do the best work.

In short, penny-pinching is costly.

Most agencies and the holding companies that rule them with an iron spreadsheet, don't realize this truest of truisms.

They think you can bludgeon people into some sort of anesthetized morale.

They think morale is when everyone believes "they're just lucky to have a job."

Morale.

I've been at or near the top of enough agencies to have been made to sit in countless meetings where stuffed shirts of various sorts (and the creatives they summon to their side, especially when they themselves don't have a clue) discuss things like agency culture, morale and retention rates.

I've heard all sorts of proposals to accomplish said tasks, but all I've ever said in response to such ideas is this: you're pissing into the wind. What you're proposing, beer on Thursdays, comp-time for weekend work, etc. doesn't amount to a hill of beans. They might make you feel better. You can report to whomever you report to that you've put together a 10-point plan. But in the real world of despairing agency morale, they'll work as well as a Senegalese state internet provider.

Here's the thing. Simple and to the point.

If you want to improve morale in your agency, it costs some money.

You don't put senior creative people in "economy" seats on the red-eye and expect them to go to client meetings within hours of the time they land.

If you want to squeeze everything out of them like a Polish washerwoman wringing the water out of a hand-towel, all your "morale" initiatives aren't worth a bucket of warm piss.

If you want me to work at near coronary levels, at least have the decency to pony up a couple hundred bucks and put me in business class.

As you would if you really gave a rat's sphincter about morale.

Uncle Slappy goes across town.

Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie are up for the High Holy Days. They arrived yesterday from Boca and won't be leaving until the day after Yom Kippur, so in total they'll be with us for a dozen days. I won't complain, after all, there's never a dull moment when they are here.

Tonight for the celebratory meal for once my wife didn't cook. Her brother had invited us over to his apartment on the west side and he and his girlfriend handled the culinary chores. As Yogi Berra may or may not have said, we should have stood in bed.

Uncle Slappy was polite throughout the meal, but once we got into the cab to go home, he was non-stop.

He started as he usually does with a loaded question.

"They have some ordinance on the west side against serving food hot?" he began. "And the brisket looked like it was cut with a hatchet, not a knife."

I tried to temper the old man's anger. "They tried, Uncle Slappy."

Slappy returned my attempt with the fury of a Serena Williams forehand.

"Try, try. The food tasted like what they serve in the basement of a synagogue. When the schvartzes cook for the entire congregation."

I admitted it left something to be desired.

"You remember the Galloping Gourmet?" Slappy asked. "Well they have something in common with him. The food tasted like it was made by a horse."

At this point the cab was nearing my apartment. I looked over to Slappy and thought I saw a tear, an actual tear in his eye.

"A piece of cake, they could have served. I diet all year so I can have a piece of cake on Rosh Hashanah. Strawberries, feh."

We entered my apartment. I immediately brewed Slappy and Sylvie coffee the way they like it, strong like Turkish coffee.

"We have some cake, Uncle Slappy. Seven-layer or cinnamon babka."

Again I thought I saw a tear.

I gave the old man a small schtickel of each. And then seconds.

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.