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Get off my lawn. Ageism in advertising. A giant pain in my ass.

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The guy who works on my car is named Jurgen. He’s of some sort of Eastern European descent. I don’t know where exactly. He doesn’t do small talk but he’s the best mechanic in town. Which, when you live in Detroit, is a bold statement. I love dealing with him because there’s nothing he can’t fix and I know he’s not going to rip me off. In fact, he’s always trying to save me money. He’s an old guy. I don’t know how old. With Eastern Europeans it can be hard to tell. The cold war was kinder to some than others. So, I’m guessing he could be anywhere from late 50’s to early 90’s. He’s the most honest man I’ve ever met. Also, I love the way he talks. Phone rings. “Jif. Iz Yurgeen.” “Hey, Jurgen. Figure out what’s going on with that noise?” “Yiz. Iz breks. Dey wern te sheet. Moost replace whole fecking ting.”   A few years ago, I had a little medical situation going on in an extremely sensitive and personal place. I put it off for as long as I could hoping it would just go away. It did no...
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What’s the ad agency of the future? It’s the Beatles.

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Before Covid hit, the main topic of advertising discussion was: What does the ad agency of the future look like? What’s the model going to be? How’s it going to work?   I don’t think we need to ask that question anymore. I believe we’ve been living the ad agency of the future for the last 16 months. This is it. It’s Palmolive. You’re soaking in it. First of all there are no stupid buildings. Those things were expensive. And they were a pain to get to. And you had to stay inside of them all day and all night. It was really a bummer. The furniture was nice. And sometimes they had bagels. But rarely the good ones. Mostly just Einstein’s which are garbage in my opinion. Also, there’s no more Linda.   While you wait outside the SVP’s office for 45 minutes because her 2:00 went long and then she had to hop on the phone with a client, Linda would always be there with a good story to help kill the time. Usually it was about her Shih Tzu, Abraham. Oh, the adventures those two had toget...
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What happens in Brazil does not stay in Brazil. That shit comes home with you.

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I was at my first job in Detroit and I was doing well. I had gotten lucky with some work that won  a  few awards and got me a little press. The agency I was working for was part of a big global network and the work had earned me a small dose of name recognition inside the company. Which is probably why my partner, Bryce, and I got called into the managing director’s office for an “exciting assignment.” “What’s up guys? Come on in.” Bryce looks like a fucking criminal. He wears steel toed biker boots, black everything and reeks of cigarettes. His nails are filthy. His muddy Jeep with enormous knobby tires is always parked across two spaces in the very back of the lot. He’s the kind of guy who can get you anything you want. He’s fun to hang out with and he’s not a bad art director. “You guys ever been to Brazil?” I shake my head no. Bryce hesitates. It’s as if he needs to run through a mental checklist in his head before answering because it’s possible he’s been there but may ha...
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