Nancy, 1960-2007.

It's Valentine's Day today.

For me, it's one of the saddest days of the year.

It's not the saccharin bullshit of a phony holiday that gets me.

Or the passing of a group of hoods killed by Capone and Bugs Moran.

It's because today is my sister Nancy's birthday.

She would have been 54 today.

Instead she's dead.

She died almost seven years ago in a motorcycle accident.

Nancy was always kind of a fuck up by conventional standards. She didn't excel in school, got messed up with drugs and decided she wanted to make it as a musician.

So, she lived a hand-to-mouth existence. Never sure what she wanted to do. Though I tried to help her, as did to a lesser degree, my older brother.

In any event, she had a lot of friends. And had some love and some joy in her life.

Though she probably had more depression, sadness and pain.

In any event, she's dead now.

Dead on 12th Avenue, crushed by her brand-new Ducati.

There are plenty of people who say that the death of a loved one is "something you have to come to terms with." Something "you have to get over." Something "you have to put behind you."

These people are full of shit.

They're spouters of pyscho-babble who have never experienced anything in the form of anything other than a pixel.

In real life, you don't put the death of your sister behind you. You don't get over it. It doesn't sit in a bottom drawer with your old tax statements and your kids' fourth grade reportcards.

I don't let my sister's death paralyze or debilitate me.

But I don't let it go, either.

She's my sister.

Born on Valentine's Day.

Dead.

A day after the snow.

Yesterday I walked to work in the snow.

It was a wet, heavy snow, with flakes large and slow and it was accompanied by a howling gusty wind that sped frozen rain against your face and stung. I pulled my Asktrakhan hat low over my ears and pulled up the collar of my oilskin. Not much of me was exposed to the elements, but what was exposed was taking it hard.

I bent my head down and walked through the accumulating, across the Upper East Side, across a blanketed and nearly empty Central Park.

The city was quiet, the snow kept people away in droves. I heard a faraway whistle of a train crossing over the Hells Gate four miles away. I heard another train whistle moments later from about a mile away--a Metro North train emerging from the Park Avenue Tunnel at 97th Street.

Central Park which usually bustles with runners and people like me crossing it to get to work, was very nearly empty. The dog walkers had stayed home, and of course, the school groups were missing. Either classes were cancelled or gym was being held indoors.

I saw one other walker when I was out and two runners keeping their footing and making a trail of their steps. I also saw three sleek cross-country skiers with their awkward spasticated gaits gliding across the white.

I thought about taking the day off, about not going in, because, I suspected, attendance in my office would be light. But, my Puritan side prevailed. I have miles to go.

It's good to walk across a park at least once a week and unplug. It's good to mark the change in seasons not merely by the changes of sports teams. It's good to see snow one week and the little pixels of purple crocuses the next, and then the forsythia, and then the dogwoods and then red buds, then green.

It's good to know that time is marching on and that seasons are passing. It helps you question your progress, your drive and your goals.

There were all sorts of apocalyptic predictions about the snow yesterday. People forget that snow, like trends, fads, "new" new things and the flavor of the week, is not permanent. And if New York had been covered by 14-inches as some were predicting, or if New York had been sheathed in a thick veil of ice, ok. We'd survive.

Our feet might get cold and our cheeks might burn and we might fall on our well-padded keisters, but this is life. We go on.

We put one foot in front of the other and so and so.

We get to work.

The consumer is not in control.

Next time you hear some fucktard say "the consumer is in control," please ask him to consider this: The first largest cable company and the second largest company are proposing to merge. So, now two virtual monopolies that people absolutely despise will now be able to deliver their terrible service and extortionate pricing presumably with more efficiency.

On a snowy Thursday.

Earlier this week I wrote about a small horde of people from agencies around New York who had previously only known success in their careers. It seems that all of a sudden and without notice, this small horde has had adversity visited upon them.

Maybe that summary is not entirely accurate, because, to be frank, a lot of these people seemed to be the type who have, or who have had, that near miraculous ability to fail upward. I don't know how people acquire this attribute, but some do. However last week, it seemed to finally catch up to a bunch of them. After a decade or two of upward climb, these people were shoved off a ledge.

By Grand Central Station, I sat down and cried. I cried once on the steps leading up to the running track on the reservoir. And many's the time I've wept to myself, worried about my future, worried if I'd ever be able to support my family, send my daughters to college, buy them nice things. I worried about my worth as a man, my very ability to earn a living.

I think there are a lot of people in our business who by virtue of something or other, think the path of their life will be cushioned with rose petals. They believe that all the lights will magically turn green on their way to the airport. They believe that their looks, and the health, and their whatever else will never wane or waver.

The only reason I don't feel bad about these people who have now gotten a small dose of comeuppance is that many of them, as you might have guessed, were infected with the greatest of all sins, that of Hubris. They truly believed their shit didn't stink and their sheen would never be seen through.

And, now what?

How do you rally yourself?

How do you keep going?

Most important, how do you learn to be a better, kinder human being?

Here's a thought.

Spend ten minutes in a quiet room and focus, really focus on the Giorgione's painting above, "La Vecchia," "The Old Woman."

Giorgione died at just 30, so he never reached the heights of other more-famous Renaissance painters, but I love this piece. I love her face. It seems to have everything in it that happens to you over time. I see pain, and age, and maybe a little anger in it. But I also see humor, and lightness, and 'I told you so.'

Of course, this is just what I see. You might see nothing more than an old hag.

But I suggest you spend time with this painting.

You might also consider the little piece of cloth she is holding with the words "Col Tempo" written upon it. It's simple to translate.

It means "With Time."

Obituaries.

I don't know when I started reading obituaries, but I do. My practice is not motivated by the macabre or some morbid fascination with death. In fact, obituaries are more often than not celebrations of interesting lives great and small. I find there's almost always something I learn from reading them. And after checking to see that the Knicks lost once again, reading the op-eds and the advertising column, obituaries are most often the next thing I read.

I've even read a few entire books of obituaries. One, a collection from "The Times" of London. Reading Churchill's obit was an entire education. Another, a collection from "The Economist," was similarly edifying. But the best of all were from a collection called "52 McGs," crazy, quirky, thought-provoking obituaries written by "New York Times'" writer Robert McG Thomas. You can order the book here. I promise you you will enjoy it.

I bring up all this death and dying because there was a seminal obituary in yesterday's "New York Times," that of the great comedian Sid Caesar. His was a life worth admiring and worth learning from. You can read it here.

Caesar rose to dizzying heights at an early age and was hailed as a comic genius, as the American Chaplin. He kept a live TV show going every week for the better part of ten years and along the way nurtured writers and performers like Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner, Neil Simon, Larry Gelbart, Mel Tonkin and more.

Week after week he made America laugh. And laugh at things I think are funnier than a kick in the balls which seems the root of so much humor today.

I discovered Caesar for myself in 1973, when I was 15. Ten of the best skits from his 1950s TV show were assembled into a full-length theatrical release called "Ten From Your Show of Shows." I saw it twice in the span of about three days, fairly unable to stay out of the theatre. I laughed so hard at his "Uncle Goopy" episode I still have muscle memory of splitting my sides.

Caesar had a long hard fall. His dizzy heights were met by self-hate and self-doubt and he all but disappeared into drugs and drinks. The coterie of people who loved him tried to help but his bent toward self-destruction was almost too strong.

He reinvented himself in the 1980s, kicked his addictions and seemed to flourish.

Here's the part from the end of Caesar's obituary that I read to my older daughter last night. I think it has relevance to all of us workaholic strivers. Even if you're a lazy slug-a-bed, it should give you pause.

“Everybody wants to have a goal: I gotta get to that goal, I gotta get to that goal, I gotta get to that goal,” he said. “Then you get to that goal, and then you gotta get to another goal. But in between goals is a thing called life that has to be lived and enjoyed — and if you don’t, you’re a fool.”

Indians and Chiefs.

It's a product, I'm sure, of the disgustingly democratic every-one-gets-a-vote, I-don't-want-to-hurt-anyone's-feelings we live in. And it's the exact opposite of the way things used to be.

We no longer live in a world where the problem is: "too many chiefs, not enough Indians."

We live in a world where there are too many Indians and not enough chiefs.

In other words, there's no one to make a decision.

No one who kills work that needs to be killed.

No one who decisively thumbs up or thumbs down anything.

No one that anyone listens to.

No one who speaks last.

So while most meetings discussing work are attended by a chief creative officer (global), a chief creative officer (North America), a chief creative officer (New York), as well as a chief strategy officer, a chief content officer, a chief production officer, a chief something else officer, none of those chiefs make a stand.

They're chiefs but they act like Indians.

They don't embrace their power.

Say yes or no.

Commit.

The worst assignment I ever got.

Sorry if I've told you this one before. I'm nearing 4,000 posts, and I might be repeating myself. Of course, this could also be an affect of my ever-advancing age. But in any event, here goes.

Some years ago I was in a very senior position at a very large agency that was consistently doing very good work. Despite all that, I felt that the assignments I was getting weren't good enough. I wanted bigger, more important assignments. I felt I had earned them and I went to my boss to ask for them.

Before I had even arrived back in my office, my phone was ringing. It was the leading account guy on the account who was calling to give me a new assignment.

That was fast, I thought, and I ran over to his office to get briefed.

The assignment was to create a whole raft of "deliverables" for Lou Gerstner's going-away party. (Gerstner was the CEO of IBM and widely credited for the giant company's turn-around.) I had to create posters, sing-along goodbye songs, ads and videos.

You're kidding me, I thought. An assignment really can't get any lower than this. Choreographing and decorating a party.

Except the CEO of the agency regarded it as important.

As did my boss and the head account guy.

As did the CMO at the client.

And just about everyone else that mattered at my agency.

And when all the bullshit work was done, and done well I might add, all those people were impressed.

Because I had taken something really lousy and come through.

I got nothing for my book.

I produced a lot of work I could never use.

But I had done things--taken the assignment seriously--that mattered to people.

And after it all was over, I started getting better assignments.

Which just goes to show you. Take every assignment, no matter how trivial and dumb, and take it seriously. Approach it like you mean it.

Because the worst assignments can lead to the best.

Investment advice.

There's some old investing wisdom I think about now and again primarily because it is pertinent to our industry. The fact is, I guess it's germane to any industry.

The investment wisdom says this: "It's not timing the market, it's time in the market."

I take this to mean the following.

Don't try to get rich quick.

Don't try to work the angles.

Don't try to make a killing.

Don't try to conquer the world.

Instead, work.

Do you work.

Thoroughly, carefully, considerately.

Be in it for the long-haul.

And be in it every day.

Work hard every day.

Don't take shortcuts.

Do things the right way.

It's a more arduous path--time in the market.

And there are times when you'll look with jealousy at those who have been able to time the market. Who have made it big while you're plodding along. But stick to your guns.

Work hard on the assignments you get and do good work. Win clients over. Produce. Produce a lot. A lot of good work. And always give your assignments, your clients and your bosses more than they expect.

In short, be steady.

It's how you last.

Shirley Temple, 1928-2014.

Years ago, or rather decades, I worked for a mid-sized agency that had some small portions of Coca-Cola business.

They didn't have any of the big brands, rather we labored endlessly on tiny sodas that Coke wanted to test to see if they had national or even international viability. Working on such sodas meant that day in and day out we churned out storyboard after storyboard, literally hundreds of boards in the hopes that one would make it to the client, make it through focus groups and somehow get produced.

I think it was my partner Craig who had the idea originally.

He came in one morning into the small office we worked in and he threw down the gauntlet.

"Shirley Temple in a can," he said.

"Explain," I said laconically.

"Everyone loves a Shirley Temple. That Sprite, orange-juice and grenadine concoction. Coke should can it and sell it."

In two shakes of a lamb's tail we were on the blower to Ghana where Ms. Shirley Temple Black was ambassador. We ran the idea by the Honorable.

Needless to say, the old girl loved it.

Quickly we drew up a storyboard. Through the magic of computer generated art, we would have the child Shirley Temple tap-dancing up a flight of steps not with Bill "Bojangles" Robinson, but with a can of "Shirley!" This sort of computer-generation animation was just coming into vogue. It was the right technique at the right time.

We ran the board down the hall to our Creative Director. Next thing we knew we were on a private jet to Atlanta to present to Coke's brass.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Shirley! became the soft-drink industry's biggest hit of 1984. Demand hugely outstripped supply. But before long, its popularity began to plummet. It seemed Shirley! was just too sweet for an adult palate and people stayed away in droves.

For Shirley!, Craig and I, it was back to the drawing board.

I'll miss ya, keed.

I'll miss ya.

A comeuppance.

Being 56 at an agency these days, it's as if you were born in the Pleistocene epoch. Not only do you know things that other people simply don't, you've been through things, as well, that they haven't yet experienced.

Foremost among those things are the inevitable career setbacks you've reckoned with during your 30+ year career.

Of late, a horde of 40 somethings I know who have had good, steady upward climbs have suddenly been shit-canned. Tossed to the curb. Axed. They've been crumpled up like an old sheet of paper and tossed into the ashcan.

In other words, they've gotten their comeuppance. They've been riding high in their careers, haven't faced real setbacks and now, all of a sudden, they're on the beach.

Over the last decade or so--and it's been a decade since I left Ogilvy--I've been through a lot career-wise. I've been brought in to help try to resuscitate a dying agency. I've been brought in to try to help make an agency more creative. And I've been brought in to try to help stabilize an account.

Along the way, of course, I too have earned my comeuppance.

People used to hang on my every word.

I used to be treated well.

Praised.

Bonused.

No more.

It's tough when it happens to you. Because until it does happen you never think it will.

You walk around thinking your career is a bowl of cherries.

Comeuppancing is damn hard. It's no fun dealing with the slights, over-sights, put downs and more that you have to accept. There's a lot of shit that all of a sudden you're forced to eat. And there's nothing, really, you can do about it.

Except this.

You can show up every day. Be yourself. Double down on what made you successful in the first place. Work hard. Try harder.

You might still have a lot of shit to eat.

But at least you're trying, fighting, and working toward something better.