Thoughts from Philip Roth.

There's a short interview with the prodigious Philip Roth in today's "New York Times." You can read it here.

Roth gave up writing about five years ago and just recently, at the age of 80, he decided to re-read the 31 books he's written from 1959 to 2010 to "see whether I'd wasted my time."

Here's Roth's summation, in his own words:

“My conclusion, after I’d finished, echoes the words spoken by an American boxing hero of mine, Joe Louis. He was world heavyweight champion from the time I was 4 until I was 16. He had been born in the Deep South, an impoverished black kid with no education to speak of, and even during the glory of the undefeated 12 years, when he defended his championship an astonishing 26 times, he stood aloof from language. So when he was asked upon his retirement about his long career, Joe sweetly summed it up in just 10 words. ‘I did the best I could with what I had.’”

There's a lot of bullshit in our world, as in all worlds.

There's a lot of puffery, pomposity, bluster and bombast.

There are a lot of people who get ahead primarily because they kiss executive ass. Or they truly believe that their shit doesn't stink.

There are scores of dickwads, pretenders and outright frauds who somehow have the ability to fail upward, each failure leading to further success.

That's just the way of the world.

Sorry.

All we can do is hope for a future Karmic reckoning.

And continue to do the best we can with what we have.

Uncle Slappy and the blood pressure reading.

Uncle Slappy called this morning, early. Well, if you must know, early for me. He waited until 8AM, at which point he's been up for a good four hours.

I don't know if it's all elderly people or if Uncle Slappy is particularly extreme, but he gets up as if he were an old-time milk man charged with making his rounds before sun up. What he does during these early mornings is fairly simple. He sips at his black coffee, waits for "The New York Times" to arrive and listens to the news from the BBC on his special radio which is tuned exactly to a station that plays, I think, only the BBC and apocalyptic etudes from Gustav Mahler. It suits Uncle Slappy just fine, this radio.

"Boychick," he began without even saying hello. "Boychick, I just got home from my internist, Dr. Richard P. Cohen, from a physical."

"That's good," I answered banally.

"Not Richard T. Cohen, the podiatrist. Richard P. Cohen, the internist. There's also a Richard J. Cohen. He owns a small animal hospital outside of Cocoa Beach.

I dispensed with the triple-scoop Cohen and cut to the chase.

"What did the good doctor have to say?"

"My blood pressure was 160 over 100. A little high for his taste."

"He's right," I answered, summoning my medical nickel-knowledge gleaned from Jeopardy and the old M*A*S*H TV show.

"I told him he shouldn't worry about my blood pressure."

"Uncle Slappy," I said, assuming the stern tone I've assumed often in recent years, "Uncle Slappy, you have to do something about this."

"I am on new medication," he said to me. "But I told him this: I 86 years old. A de-frocked Rabbi. I have been married for 57 years to the same woman. And I have been forced to live in Boca in a two-bedroom with a view of the pool."

"I understand," I said, "But..."

"I told him, with all that, with all that tsurus and at my age, he should grade my blood pressure on a curve. On a curve, it's 120 over 70."

And with that he hung up the blower.

I actually found myself agreeing with him.

Be selfish.

There's a lot of crap in our industry, a lot of crap meetings, a lot of crap people, a lot of crap protocol, rules and process. Worst of all, there is a lot of crap work.

I don't think, really, our industry is unusual in its amount of crap. My guess would be that even if you're short-stop for the New York Yankees, or a power-forward for the Miami Heat, 85% of what you do is crap.

There are games you don't feel like playing, opponents who don't challenge you, plays that are so routine they become stultifying.

I think the trick in this business is the recognize that even its kingpins are hit with a lot of crap. There's a lot of crap that just sucks. I think maybe at the best agencies the crap to good ratio is 75:25; at the worst it's probably 90:10.

Every once in a while you get an assignment that isn't crap.

Protect this like you'd protect your brother if you were both in a foxhole in a Normandy trench.

Don't let anyone sully the bit of good you got.

Don't go to meetings about it.

Don't share.

Don't talk about it.

To coin a phrase, just do it.

There aren't many times I advocate complete and utter selfishness.

But this is one.

Protect yourself.

Be selfish.

Nature vs. nurture.

Just a couple hours ago I wrote a post asserting that writers are made, not born. Of course, there are two sides to every story and the 'nature vs. nurture' debate will never truly be settled.

Perhaps, writing ability, like the ability to run a four-minute-mile is somewhat in-born. Maybe if your mother listened to Mozart or Beethoven while you were in utero, maybe if you were exposed to books early, if your parents' were well-read and well-spoken, you have some natural advantages.

Who knows.

Like most things, it's probably a little bit of a combo platter.

You need the genes and you need the gusto.

One thing I will tell you, is that good writers often train themselves in the process to speak articulately and argue persuasively.

Just now I overheard two people talking about the state of our planet.

"What's happening in Venezuela is cray cray," won't cut it.

Nor will the response "Totes McGoats."

Not sure about the spelling of that last one.

Writing tips.

It seems odd, but against the powerful tide of our oppressively vulgar, vapid and banal cultural obsession with youth, some higher-ups in my agency are beginning to treat me as the wise old owl of advertising.

I'm not sure I completely like this role. I don't look old, feel old, act old or think old, but I do, I admit have a compendious knowledge of the history of advertising, from I think both the UK and the US, of the last 75 years or so.

Not only did I grow up in the business, having had an Uncle who rose to the top of Philadelphia's largest agency, Weightman Advertising, in just over two decades my father rose from an in-house copywriter at RCA's advertising department in Camden, New Jersey, to Chairman of the Board of Kenyon & Eckhardt, a top 20 agency later merged into Bozell, later merged into Lintas, later merged into Lowe. My father also wrote "the book" on advertising after he left the business and turned to teaching it at Northwestern University in Chicagoland. You can find the book he co-authored here.

Additionally, and I've written about this before, I have always been a denizen of dusty used bookstores, in particular The Strand. There, I picked up every D&AD, One Show and Art Directors annuals I could get my hands on, as well as dozens of Communication Arts Advertising issues. I've studied them like Rabbinic scholars study the Torah. What's more, I practically memorized every ad and every bit of copy in "Remember Those Great Vokswagen Ads?" A book that is hard today to find but well worth the investment.

So today, as I said, higher ups say to me, "George, can you teach young writers to write." They expect that writing skill can be transfused like blood.

I happen to believe writers are made, not born.

You make yourself through study, practice and patience.

I can help.

I can cross out a long word and substitute a short one. I can point out a horrid piece of jargon or a faulty instance of logic. I can excise superfluity and help hone and sharpen. I can even loan people my books.

But if you want to learn to write, there's no shortcut. This isn't Hollywood where a surgeon can perfect in minutes the lifelong work of the gods.

Read everything David Altschiller wrote and Marty Puris and Ed McCabe and Ed Butler and Bob Levenson and David Abbot and Tom Messner and Curvin O'Reilly.

Read Rich Siegel's blog. And Dave Trott's. And Bob Hoffman's.

Read "The New York Times."

Read my writing gods, Joseph Mitchell, AJ Liebling, John O'Hara. Even JD Salinger, for crisssakes.

Find someone whose writing you like, whose style suits you. And copy.

And write every day.

Every fucking day.

Don't get all persnickety about it and make every word perfect. Just write like you're a journalist and the paper's about to go to bed.

Tell a story in 55 words. (That's about the length of a :30.)

Tell a longer one in 80 words. (That seems the acceptable length of copy today.)

But try writing 1000 words on oatmeal and make it interesting.

Read.

And write.

The Old Man and the turkey burger.

I had dinner last night with my cousin, Howard. I don't know exactly how Howard and I are related, it's some complex arrangement on my father's side, but we've known each other since we were in diapers, and through the years have grown closer and closer. Blood, as they say, is thicker than water.

The bar was too crowded and too noisy, but somehow, I guess the privilege of age, we got a small table in the back. We each got a beer, the special of the night. Howard ordered a grilled chicken sandwich with extra crispy bacon and fries. I opted for a lighter repast, a turkey burger with a side salad.

Both Howard and I followed in our father's footsteps. Howard is an executive for a luggage company as was his dad and I am a copywriter, as was mine. We each have been married a long time, Howard 31 years, me, nearing 30 and we each have two kids. Howard has boys. Me, girls.

We talked, mostly, about the kids, of course. Their emergent independence and their struggles with pursuing their callings and finding a mate. All four of our kids are doing quite well (with periodic upsets of course) thank you very much.

Then, as you might expect, our conversation turned to our careers.

We talked of the increasing lack of civility at work, how it's almost a badge of honor to treat people like crap. We are expected to do more, for less money, no appreciation and with fewer amenities. I told Howard I call this era "the low-bid economy." Everyone tries to do everything as cheaply as possible, then we all bark when it turns out like shit.

We stared into our sandwiches. We traded war stories. We laughed the laughter of two men who had seen a lot.

Howard summed it up best:

I tell my kids, "Save your money."

"Don't buy $129 sneakers, $49 knit caps, and $200 sunglasses," I added.

"Save your money," he repeated. "You know what job security is? It's having money in the bank so you know you can go in in the morning and say 'fuck you and your fucking job.'" He flipped his imaginary boss the double bird.

"That's right," I agreed.

"You might never do it," he continued. "But it's nice to think you could."

Print.

When I started in the advertising business, I think the greatest praise you could give a creative was to call him "a print guy." Many of the best agencies of the 60s, 70s and 80s had made their reputations via print ads. These agencies include DDB (VW and Avis) Ally & Gargano (Saab, Travelers Insurance, IBM) Scali (Volvo, Nikon, Perdue) Ammirati (BMW) Needham Harper & Steers (Xerox).

Print was prized because it is a great coalescer. There are no special effects. It's just you and your rectangle. A simple expression.

I knew from an early age that there was more money to be made if you worked primarily in TV, but the art and craft of advertising was most purely expressed (this may be snobby) via print.

Along the way, between the literally thousands of print ads I created for Montgomery Ward and Bloomingdale's, and the work I started doing when I got my first job in a traditional agency, I think I got pretty good at print.

In fact, one year when I was in my early 30s, I wrote virtually every print ad the agency produced. The TV guys couldn't be bothered and no one else was willing to stay late.

Today, of course, every one and his cousin has declared that "print is dead."

That is, however, until you're searching for the simplest way to communicate an idea.

Often I feel, as the oldest creative in my agency, like others have found myriad ways to cast me aside. They tell me I don't do the things that are so important and gain such buzz for a brand. Like...

Then, every once in a while something happens.

There's a crisis.

A client meeting and there's no formative idea, nothing that pins anything down.

That's when they call me.

Gurus.

Decades ago during the waning and pathetic demise of the once-great agency Ally & Gargano, the CEO (who knew nothing about advertising) went out and hired a new chief creative officer who was meant to help revitalize the place.

This new CCO was called Tony Fisher and he immediately rubbed me the wrong way by taking a run at the account I was running. In any event, Tony right away acquired a couple of nicknames. I dubbed him Phony Pischer (pischer is Yiddish for prick or small fry) but the nickname that stuck was "One Trick Tony." Needless to say, as a creative, Tony didn't have a lot of range.

I remember all of us were called into a conference room and the CEO introduced Tony by showing his reel. One old-timer summed it up this way, "Don't worry that his reel sucks, none of that work is his anyway."

Our worst fears about Tony all came true. In short order he revealed himself as a sham and Ally & Gargano, the once greatest agency in America, shut its doors after three decades.

I bring this up because phonyism and cronyism is still rampant in our industry.

In fact, if you grow your scruff just right and know how to artfully sprinkle banal adjectives mixed with buzzwords capped off with incomplete sentences together, it's almost a sure thing that you'll rise to the top.

I suppose just about every agency at one time or another is afflicted by Guruitis. People who, in the words of my ex-boss Chris Wall "have a titanic attitude and a minnow in the engine room."

The good agencies eventually catch on and axe these poseurs and pompous putzes.

The bad ones?

All my life's a phone tree.

Press one if you want to continue reading this post.

Para espanol la prensa numero dos.

Phone trees are one of the many banes of the modern world. If you have a complaint, a question, a return, or simply want to spend your money, you have to deal with a phone tree. And thence wait and wait and wait. And listen to banal blathering. And ultimately come away less-than-satisfied.

One thing I've noticed of late is that the modern ad agency functions in a way that resembles a phone tree.

If you have an issue, or a request, or a complaint, or even (perish the thought) a point of view, you get shuttled between people with lofty titles, none of whom can address your concern.

"I think there's too much work being shown in this pitch."

"Well, talk to Bobby."

"Bobby, I think Ron and Raoul's campaign is off strategy and shouldn't be shown."

"Well Elbert likes it and he's running this. Talk to Elbert."

"Elbert..."

"Yeah, Bobby mentioned that to me, but it's Pam's favorite. Besides the work is already in the deck."

No conclusion.

No accountability.

No satisfaction.

The same run-around is in effect no matter what your issue.

We have meted out giant titles.

But not balls.

We live in a growing chasm of irresponsibility.

Money.

Of late, there's this weird notion being propagated by "Human" Resources and Upper Management that money, in the form of salaries, bonuses, etc., is not important.

I think this started about two decades ago when we started hearing bushwa like "salaries are being frozen," or "there are no bonuses this year."

The trend accelerated when they started hiring interns at either no salary whatsoever or for minimum wage.

Almost every day you hear crap like people don't leave their jobs because of money, that other things, like compatibility with one's boss and satisfaction with one's accomplishments are more important.

In fact, the nation-wide trend against unions (which basically functioned to get their workers more money) baffles me.

I'll be blunt.

Money is fucking important.

I have kids in college and grad school.

A mortgage.

A retirement to fund.

And then there's everything else I like to do.

They all take money.

If you think you can gull me with the promise of awards and satisfying assignments to accept starvation wages, you're wrong.

You've already stripped away office amenities.

You've nixed all perks.

You seat us like veal in a pen or sardines in a can (though you're too cheap to pack us in oil.)

And now you expect us to think money doesn't matter.

Sorry.

It does to me.