A party I went to.

The other night I went to a party.

I know that's the equivalent of Adolph Eichmann going to a B'nai-Brith fundraiser. But I was invited by a lovely friend and we figured we could use the time together to catch up and talk about my career arrears.

The party itself was organized around the launch of a book titled "Creative Block." You can find the book here. (If you're a creative person, or a human, it may be helpful to you and your loved ones.)
In it, dozens of artists talk about both their art and how they reckon with those periods of time when they feel:

1. They suck
2. They'll never do anything good
3. They're a fraud
4. Everyone knows they're a fraud
5. Everyone knows they suck
6. No one will ever return a phone call
7. They'll never get anywhere
8. Soon, they'll be eating Sheba cat-food 
9. They'll never work again
10. They suck

The artists involved at this launch were painters and sculptors and mix-media types. There were no writers present or mentioned in the book.

But the pains they talked about feeling and struggling to overcome are, I think, universal. 

Everyone, even the most self-assured, I think, has demons to deal with or sloughs of despond to struggle through.

Overcoming hardship, doubt, adversity is as the core of Western thought. Think of the story of Job. Or the Jews wandering in the desert. Or "Robinson Crusoe." Or "The African Queen." 

It's all right there.

Here's the best advice you'll ever get.

When you're up against a wall or a block or even abject stupidity, keep going.

Or as Yogi Berra might have said, "when you can't go any farther, go someplace else."

If you're a writer, just type. Just write what you're feeling and know that by sheer Sisyphusian perseverance, you'll break through.

If you're a painter, paint.

If you're a marine biologist, go to the sea.

If you're a clinical psychologist, see a patient.

The point is simple.

You are harder on yourself than anyone else. Just do what you do and you'll be ok.

Or as I say to my kids, "there are seven-billion people on the planet. Don't be one of those who is anti-you."

A nice moment.

Throughout my long years in advertising, I have been, I think, a mentor to many people. In a sense, I was born old, and even when I was in my mid-30s, two decades ago, people would turn to me. They'd talk to me about work issues, problems with partners, or just the general upsets of ambitious people in a business that doesn't always run on merit.

About seven or eight years ago a young woman reached out to me in this space. She started, as people sometimes do, by commenting. That contact grew into email communications. And from there, we would meet occasionally for lunch. My treat.

That's the way I generally do things. I am almost always busy, but I'll almost always make time for young people, especially if they are good and eager and have the stamina to chase me down. I'm not always good at follow up and need to be corralled at times, and there are people who have learned how to do this with grace. The young woman I mentioned above was one of those people.

When I first met her, she was new to New York, having just graduated from the Creative Circus in Atlanta. I helped her by introducing her to a few friends who are recruiters and to some people at Ogilvy. There, she eventually found a job as a copywriter.

Since then she's moved about a bit. Most of her moves, I suppose you could say I played a small part in. Either offering advice or connections or just a few words of guidance.

Today my friends is at another blue-chip agency working on a Fortune 50 account and her feet are getting itchy. She's getting ready to move on or at least to think about moving on.

She took me to lunch at a wonderful place to talk about her career and to talk about how I'm coping with unemployment.

We talked and laughed and laughed and talked. When the check came, my friend took it.

"I insist on paying," she said.

"I can't let you do that. It goes against every fiber of my upbringing. Boy pays for girl. Old pays for young."

"I insist," she repeated. "It would make me so happy to treat you."

She paid.

I can't remember ever feeling so flattered.

New York bus ride.

I did something this afternoon that I don't generally do. I took the bus to meet a friend for lunch.

Usually, as New Yorkers, we are so terribly busy, or so profligate, that we jump on the train or take a cab. Today being a beautiful Spring day, I took the Second Avenue Select bus to the 34th Street crosstown.

Heading downtown I took a seat next to a woman of a certain age. I took my book out of my bag, but after a few blocks of traffic, I couldn't help but remarking about the book she was reading.

"You don't see many people reading "The Vicar of Wakefield," I said. "The Vicar of Wakefield," by Oliver Goldsmith was first published in 1766. As such it's regarded as one of our language's first novels.

She said, cautiously of course, "I haven't read it for years. I found it in a little used book store on the Upper West Side. It drives me crazy, though, that it's been underlined." She showed me the underlining and the 79-cent sticker on the beaten front cover.

She continued, "Do you know many used bookstores?"

"Well, the famous one, of course, is the Strand on 12th and Broadway. 18 miles of books is what they say and I believe them."

"Oh I never go down there," she pished.

"Well, there's something called abebooks which aggregates hundreds or thousands of used bookstores. I'm sure you could find a clean 'Vicar.'"

I showed her the book I was reading by a City University Sociology professor who decided to walk all 6,000 miles of streets in all five boroughs of New York. It's called "The New York Nobody Knows."

"Does it have a lot on Yorkville?" she asked.

I laughed. "I live there, too," I said. "I think the author, like me, thinks it's New York's most-boring neighborhood. He's barely mentioned it."

That set her off a bit. She was clearly a lover of the place. "Well there's Schaller and Weber, and Glasers, and the Old Hiedelburg," she said, thinking of an era when the term Yorkville was interchangeable with "Germantown."

"Remember 'Ideal Coffee Shop,'" I asked, my mouth watering at the thought of weisswurst and red cabbage.

"Oh, and Elk Candy Store and their marzipan." She had mentioned one of my daughter's favorite places. It too had closed.

"I had some goulash in the Old Hiedelburg the other day," she started, talking about one of Deutschland's last neighborhood stands.

"The last time I was there," I said "they had their Mexican waiters wearing Lederhosen."

At that she snorted. And we had both reached our stops. I crossed 34th Street, she continued walking west on the south side of the street. Uncharacteristically, I think, for someone in her 70s, she yelled at me from across the width of 34th.

"Mexicans in Lederhosen," she shouted. "You made my day."

Like I said, it was quite a day in New York.

A public service message.

Earlier this week in this space, I made an off-hand, somewhat dismissive reference to an ailment called Williamsburg Beard Lice (WBL.) I didn't know it at the time, but that mention of WBL ignited a firestorm of venom and acrimony. The fact is, I received more phone calls, letters, pings and emails in response to my cavalier remark about WBL than I have on any other topic I've ever written about.

So, some clarification is in order.

1. I meant no harm. In fact, if you read my original post carefully, I merely said that something was spreading through Williamsburg as rapidly as beard lice. This statement in no way minimized either the pain and suffering associated with the ailment or the ailment's gravity.
2. If you have Williamsburg Beard Lice (WBL) do NOT feel that you are alone. According to the Center for Disease Control (CDC) approximately 22% of beards in Williamsburg are afflicted with the disorder. However, most people who have it choose, for whatever reason, to suffer in silence. I urge you to seek help and to join a support group. Don't let WBL become another silent killer like PSBSE (Park Slope Baby Stroller Elbow.)
3. You do not have to shave. Though there are no reported cases of clean-shaven people contracting WBL, there are safe and effective treatments that do not necessitate the pain and hardship of shaving. Soaking your beard for 30-minutes daily in a mixture of one-part bleach to three-parts white vinegar has proven useful to some. However, be sure to "burn the burns," that is, soak your side-burns as well, a known breeding-ground for beard lice.
4. Stay away from caffeine. CDC studies have shown that when the host (you) ingests caffeine beard-lice reproductive activity increases between 8%-32%. Remember, as little as a cup-a-day could cause "the beard lice to stay."

5. Act now. As virulent and distressing as WBL is, the disease will get worse if it's not treated. Follow the steps above. See your doctor. And prevent the advent of SCWBL (Sub-Cutaneous Williamsburg Beard Lice.)

Something happened.

It's not unusual for a ballplayer to lose a step over time. Plays he used to make, he can no longer. Shots that used to fall, clang off the rim. A pitch he used to be able to get the bat around on, eludes him.

It's that way for me this morning.

I have lost my sense of humor.

I asked my wife if she had seen it.

No luck.

I looked through my winter coat which I put away last week,
thinking I might have left it in a pocket.

It wasn't there.

I looked in my over-stuffed sock drawer. Maybe the cleaning lady had put it there. Maybe I left it in an old pair of jeans and it went through the wash.

I examined the places my puppy hides things. Maybe she had absconded with it.

But no.

It's gone.

I have lost my sense of humor.

Thoughts on one-to-one.

For months, I've been thinking about how so many people in my LinkedIn and Facebook networks could waste so much time, and I suppose, energy on asinine memes like "what's the first word you see," or "can you find the missing number."

Each of these particular games remind me of the sort of things that "Highlights" magazine published when I was a little kid. It's about the stupidest crap you'll ever run across, yet it sweeps through my network like beard-lice through Williamsburg.

Here's the thing that the people heralding the one-to-one future have missed.

People, no matter how atomized or sophisticated, want to feel like they're part of something. They want to feel they belong. They want something to talk about the next day at work. They want, in short, something to share.

I know there are legions of pundits who are still declaring mass media dead. But I think our national calendar denies this. Now, though it's April, we are, as a nation, tuned into March Madness. We're getting ready for another season of "Mad Men." We just got through the Academy Awards and the Winter Olympics.

These are national happenings.

Because we need national happenings.

As much as we value our individuality, we are social animals.

Technology will not change that.

1984, 30 years hence.

This blog is about a lot of things, I suppose. Advertising. Integrity. My Uncle Slappy. And as I say in the description below its name, "the decline of the English language."

I heard one of those instances of decline on the weekend during an interview with Senator and former Presidential candidate, John McCain. McCain, who introduced Sarah Palin to a national audience, chose a small string of words that would have Eric Arthur Blair spinning in his grave.

McCain said "we should be sending defensive weapons" to Ukraine.

Defensive weapons.

We hear these things, we nod. Depending on our politics, we may even nod our heads. My guess is that much of the anti-Obama media is parroting this notion of defensive weapons.

In boxing, I understand the notion of a counter-puncher. Someone who withstands a blow and seeing his opponent exposed sneaks a couple of punches in. I get that.

But pieces of military hardware that are defensive?

Will someone please explain? Are these weapons that fire only when fired upon?

Or if you can't explain, will you at least wake up?

A stranger in the Tempus Fugit.

A storm has settled over New York and its environs bringing an unrelenting, punishing rain. It's rained all day and all night and is expected to rain all tomorrow, too. To be clear, the rain is not all that unwelcome. We've had a harsh winter and filth sits on the city gathering in the gutters of every street. The rain is strong enough to loosen the accumulation and wash some of the less sturdy detritus away.

The rain was wicked last night, lashing against the large window in my bedroom, making noise like a Hollywood Foley. It's teeming, I said to myself, a perfect night, then, for the Tempus Fugit.

In minutes I was dressed and then I fortified myself against the storm, wearing tall rubber galoshes and my ancient oil-skin. I looked fairly like a Gloucester fisherman staring down a furious gale. I was as impervious as a rock. Whiskey, who doesn't mind the rain, meekly accepted her collar and together we made our way to our safe harbor in the storm.

"Something different tonight," the bartender said, instead of hello, as we entered the Tempus Fugit.

"I was hankering for a Pike's."

"It is too brutal out for that. Tonight you need something to warm your bones."

He turned to the back of the teak bar where bottles were standing at attention like soldiers. He moved bottles aside until he lifted one labelled "XPEHOBYXA," in Cyrillic.

"Hrenovuha," he said, "Wren-O-Voo-Ha. It has no English translation. It's vodka from Tsar Peter's time. It's made from horse radish. The Tsar decreed that every farmstead must produce vodka. Hrenovuha was the result."

"Horse radish?"

"Would you prefer a Menshevik this evening or a Bolshevik? A Menshevik is a Hrenovuha with a slice of beet. A Bolshevik is a Hrenovuha with a few drops of Tabasco."

"I've never been a fan of beets," I answered. "Hit me with a Bolshevik."

He poured me a shot and shook in four drops of hot sauce.

"Твоё здоровье!"

"Back atcha," I answered.

I took a tentative sip. My tongue liked what it found and I shot down the rest. I tapped hard the glass on the bar and he filled me again.

"Твоё здоровье!" I said.

As I finished my second, the bartender did the same.

"That ain't bad," I said. "I'll admit I was expecting less from horse radish vodka."

"We mustn't," he said "let the dominant complacency interfere with our unbiased perceptions."

Again I said, "Твоё здоровье!"

He filled me a third time and began polishing the already polished bar with his damp white terry. 

"About 50 years ago, I was right here in this spot, and a small be-hatted, bespectacled and wispy-bearded old man entered the Tempus Fugit. He had under his arm the bottle of Hrenovuha that we drank from. He was a strange, bird-like old man. He handed over the bottle and then asked if he could come behind the bar and stand with me."

"'I am Lev Davidovich Bronshtein, comrade.'

"Lev Davidovich Bronshtein," I repeated. "You're Leon Trotsky.

"'The People's Commissar for Foreign Affairs, Chairman of the Supreme Military Council, President of the Petrograd Soviet,  Full member of the 8th, 9th, 10, 11th, 12th, 13th and 14th Politburos.  Founder of the Fourth Internationale. Exile. And lover of Frida Kahlo. It is I." And he clicked the heels of his well-polished brogues.'

"But you were killed, assassinated. Struck down by the GPU with an ice pick.

"'An ice-axe,' he corrected. 'And yes, I said Stalin has finally accomplished the task he attempted unsuccessfully before. But that was all a ruse. I was merely wounded. Stalin did not prevail.'

"Trotsky took the Hrenovuha he carried with him and opened it on the bar. He removed four shot glasses from underneath the teak and filled them. Two of the glasses he adorned with small slices of beet he had removed from a small square of waxed paper. 'Menshevik.' he said, and we drank. The other two he garnished with drops of tabasco from a small bottle. 'Bolshevik.' He said as we drank.

"'And this is for you,' he said handing me the bottle of Hrenovuha. 'Let each who drinks from it be a lover of freedom and a fighter for the rights of man. Let the struggle of the working class burn as hot as the coals in the People's furnace.'

"With that short speech, Trotsky shook my hand and left the Tempus Fugit."

"But all reports had him dying in Mexico City," I said, "almost 75 years ago."

He put the vodka away in its place behind the bar.

"Твоё здоровье!"

"Твоё здоровье!" I replied.

I slid two twenties his way. "Your health," I said.

"To Trotsky," he answered.

And Whiskey and I walked home, slightly tipsy, in the rain.

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Brand Association.

If you're a student of advertising, as I am, you can play a game I call Brand Association. It's like word association, only played with brands and agencies.

For instance, if you said "Wendy's," I'd say "Dancer Fitzgerald Sample."
If you said "VW," I'd respond "Doyle Dane."
"Volvo," "Scali."
"Absolut," "TBWA."
"Nike," "Wieden."
"Apple," "Chiat."
"IBM," "Ogilvy."
"MCI," "Messner."
"AT&T," "Ayer."

Today, I think this game is harder to play. I think in part because accounts move more often than they used to.

I think accounts move because agencies no longer care as much about building brands as they do about winning awards. More effort is put into silly side-shows than the main event--mass media that can define a brand, give it purpose and make it likeable.

Become famous for making brands famous.

That should be our aim.