Uncle Slappy comes up for the game.

Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie surprised me this morning. Slappy called at 7AM. That's not unusual. He is an early riser and always has been.

"Schmendrick," he began "Sylvie and I thought we'd pop up, see the Super Bowl with you two and stay a few days."

My wife will be out of town most of next week and I'm not one for surprises but Uncle Slappy continued.

"We're on our way to the airport now. We're on a 9:30 flight."

"We can't wait to see you," I told the old man. "You know you're always welcome."

Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie arrived from LaGuardia just minutes ago and Slappy took the reins of what will be our very Jewish Super Bowl party. My brother-in-law is coming over with his girlfriend and my niece, and my wife's cousin Gary is in from San Francisco. The six of us will be watching the game and the commercials together.

"There will be eight of us," Slappy said, "order sandwiches for 12."

My wife, on the phone with Ben's, the deli famous for its Shiva platters, raised a single delicate eyebrow and then said into the phone, "Yes, we need sandwiches for 12."

Slappy continued running things.

"We need cole slaw, potato salad and an order of sour pickles," he instructed. "Not half sours like at Norman Weinstein's Shiva. Feh on half sours."

My wife repeated the Sage's order into the phone.

"And a schtickel of cake and some rugelach," the Old Man said.

"Why don't you just order a coronary?" Aunt Sylvie jabbed.

"If I wanted your opinion I would have given it to you," Slappy riposted.

It could very well be a long weekend.

A good tagline.

I'm always amazed that small companies like Applegate Organic and Natural Meats almost invariably have better taglines than the Fortune 500 companies who pay us millions.

Seat of the pants almost always beats seats in a boardroom.

Ed Koch and my daughter.

Ed Koch, the three-term mayor of New York City through the 70s and the 80s, died this morning at the age of 88.

New York was a crazier place back then when he was mayor. Crime and corruption and real estate moguls were all out of control. And Koch--despite his enormous presence and charisma--could do little to rein things in.

Still, most people, myself included, regard him as a successful mayor.

He had taken over from a bland technocrat named Abe Beame. Under Beame, the city's future seemed as moribund as Beame's demeanor.

Koch was different.

He was energetic.

Passionate.

Fun.

Sometimes shrill, but always boosting the city and its prospects.

He infused life into a city that was nearly bankrupt. He began the long, slow process of turning New York around.

You can read any number of obituaries about Ed Koch, but none of them will include this story.

Back in 1988 as my daughter Sarah approached her first birthday, my wife and I planned a party for her. She was both our families first kid and a wonderful kid at that, and cause for great celebration.

I sent Mayor Koch an invitation to Sarah's party.

A week later a package arrived in the mail. In it there was a hand-written note from the Mayor expressing his regrets that he couldn't make it. Also in the package was a leather folio embossed in gold with the seal of the City of New York on the cover. Inside the left hand panel was beautiful grosgrain. The right hand panel held a proclamation from the Mayor.

He declared July 31st (my daughter's birthday) now and forever "Sarah Tannenbaum Day" in New York City.

Rounds and rounds.

Years and years ago, my partner and I were assigned to create some commercials for Celestial Seasonings Teas.

We dug in.

We worked hard.

We came up with some good campaigns.

Then we got on a plane to Boulder, Colorado to present to the client.

The meeting did not go well.

We got back on the plane having sold nothing and got back to work.

The same process repeated itself.

And again we flew out to Boulder.

And again we didn't sell anything.

The project was taken from us when we returned to the agency and assigned to another team.

My partner and I were disconsolate.

We had worked together for three years and had never before struck out.

I said to him, "If we come up with eight campaigns and 'don't get it,' it's not us. There's something else going on."

Sure enough the alternate team quickly sold a campaign to the Celestial Seasonings.

It featured the client's famous girlfriend in the ads.

We had neglected to use her.

Right now I am finishing a package of six commercials.

Five are finished already and shipped.

The sixth we have shown 51 versions of and we still can't get internal approval.

It's not us.

It's something else.

The Flatiron Building.

I love the Flatiron Building.

And have ever since it was pointed out to me by my mother way back in the '60s.

I've looked at it a thousand times and it never gets old.

I'm not alone in this affection.

Steichen has shot the building. See above.

As has nearly every tourist who's ever come to New York.

Today I had a mix session at a sound place right around the Flatiron Building. I took the 5th Avenue bus downtown and got off early--at 34th Street--to have a short walk. I was early.

When I reached 26th, where Broadway crosses 5th, I saw the Flatiron in all its splendor. The light in New York this morning was like Paris in the Spring, or Santa Monica without smog.

I looked up and saw the statue I've pasted here. It's perched at the very top of the Flatiron. I had never seen it before.

I love New York.

Change and permanence.

Tonight I'm going out to dinner.

This is big news for me since I teeter, somewhat, on the brink of incipient agoraphobia.

That is, I don't go out much.

After putting myself completely into my job everyday for a good 10-12 hours, I need the restorative niche that my home provides. The tender mercies of my wife. The unconditional love of my golden retriever.

But tonight I'm going out with three people I last worked with almost two decades ago.

We were all together at Ally & Gargano. Adweek's "Agency of the Decade" for the 80s. Out of business by 1995.

Sic transit gloria mundi. Dig?

The four of us have lived through seismic changes in our industry.

The commercials we made together were conceived on hand-drawn storyboards.

Rough cuts were shown to clients on 3/4-inch tape.

When we were done, we got a 1-inch master.

The business has changed completely.

The past is dead and buried.

The old ways of doing things are gone.

But friendships built on long hours, on reliability, on shared problems, and humor and conversation, they remain.

Do the best work you can.

Don't be an asshole.

Don't be so serious all the time.

Find a few friends.

And keep them.

Gravitas.

It's funny what's happening at work lately.

I've been getting asked to record scratch tracks for a variety of in-house and pitch videos.

I've been at my agency for three years and haven't been asked before.

Now I've been asked twice in one week.

I wondered why.

I don't think I have a particularly good voice.

And I'm not really good in front of a mic.
I get nervous and a bit monotoned.

Nevertheless, I'm being asked.

And I'm being lauded for doing a good job.

I think I know what's going on.

My voice is now a bit like my hair.

It's showing its age.

It has some timbre.

Some grey in it.

The word I keep hearing from the people I'm recording things for is this: gravitas.

Here's the thing:

We live in a world without gravitas.

There can be 19 wars taking place around the world,
North Korean nuclear tests, revolutions in Egypt,
and the news still ends with a story about a kitten rescuing a sea otter.

We try to make everything one big ironic joke.

We lip-sync the National Anthem.

That's life in a world without grown-ups.

Without consequences.

Without someone with the authority to be listened to.

Maybe people need that.

They don't always want some spurious "buddy" type talking to them.

Maybe they need a soupcon of maturity.

Maybe things are swinging back.

New York taxi drivers.

One of the many things I love about New York are its cab drivers. Regardless of their generalized reputation of being crazy, or at least having a loose bolt, most of the guys (and cab drivers in New York are almost exclusively men) are decent, hard working human beings with an interesting take on life.

I took a cab this morning and right-away we got off on the wrong foot. First off, there was a race between two drivers up York Avenue to answer my outstretched arm. My guy, a Ford Crown Victoria, had the inside lane and though the other guy, a Nissan Altima, hit 83rd Street first, the Crown Vic won out and my wife and I hopped in the car.

Like I said, the driver and I immediately butted heads.

"We have two stops this morning," I began.

He snorted with disdain. Two stops sucks if you're a cabbie. You miss a flip of the meter.

"42 and 3rd and 18th and 7th. Why don't you head down Second or Lex?"

"No." Cabbies are supposed to follow your instructions but he was adamant. "We'll take the Drive. Second Avenue is a parking lot."

We took the Drive instead. Also, of course at 7:30 AM, a parking lot. But in any event, we got off on 38th Street in just 10 minutes or so.

"I'd head across on 39th," I suggested.

"No. 39th is stopped up. We'll head across on 42nd."

Seconds later, we were headed down 39th, which was moving quite well. We dropped my wife on 39th and 3rd--the far corner, mind you, and then headed over to Park to head downtown.

"That is your wife, or girl friend," he asked as we were making our way south.

"My wife." I answered.

"She is a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman. You have children?"

"Yes. Two grown daughters. One's studying in Boston. The other is taking a semester in New Zealand."

"I have three. A boy 13. A boy 12. And a girl 4. We wanted a girl. Beautiful. Beautiful."

At this point we had hit 18th and 7th.

I gave him a big tip. And was ten minutes early for my 8:30 call.

I am sick.

If phlegm were money I would be Warren Buffet.

In other words, I have a cold. A deep in the chest, weak in the limbs, dizzy in the brain cold.

I took off last weekend, literally spending almost all my waking hours sleeping. I sipped soup, drank gallons of orange juice, sucked on every lozenge and swallowed every pill my saintly wife brought my way.

Still, I am in the grips of the grippe.

Still, I've been too busy to take time off from work.

Not only is my employer impecunious when it comes to sick days, the crush of work does not abate. And work, sick or not, is an animal that marches on and must be fed.

Yesterday, I wrote that sometimes we need the strength and resolve of a marathoner to get through the day. You might not look like a thing of beauty, a gazelle or an antelope, but you must continue to put one foot in front of the other. You must continue to more forward, toward your goal.

And so it goes.

And so we go.

That's work some times.

The rule of threes.

Years ago I wrote in this space that it makes sense, in my opinion, to divide the agency world in threes.

1. There are finders--those people who find new business, find great assignments, find the next big things.
2. There are minders. The people who keep things on an even keel. They mind the business and keep clients happy and accounts humming.
3. There are grinders. These are the folks who keep their heads down and do the actual work it takes to keep and account running.

For me, the ideal agency employee has elements of each of these -ers. And the ideal agency lets its employees grow by expanding their -ers. Further, if you have someone on staff who excels at none of those three, you ought to think about nixing them.

Of late, however, I've noticed a different trinity we have to deal with. This, I stole from Paul Krugman of "The Times."

1. There are makers. These are the people who create what we sell. They make the sites. The ads. They deal with the rounds of revisions.
2. There are takers. These people swirl around the makers like flies around shit. They're there to swoop in when the going is good. It was their strategy (which the makers weren't aware of) or their leadership that was the cause of the project's success.
3. Finally there's our biggest group, the fakers. These are the deck doers. The meeting callers. The people who say 'I don't have the bandwidth.' They're there to look busy, to sit in judgment, and to be 'too busy' when there's work to be done.