Obsessed with Conformity

Twenty Bucks

So here we are settling in for lunch at a place in a strip mall. We sit down, all four of us, when our oldest daughter gets my wife's attention. She points with her eyes to a location on the floor behind where a group of older teenagers are huddled around a table grazing on Americanized Mexican food. It was a twenty dollar bill. My wife picks it up. No one notices. 

"Where did that come from?" I ask

"Next to that kid's chair." she replies, in a hushed voice. "Agatha noticed it." 

"Well, we have to ask if they lost it." I say

"How?" 

"Excuse me," I shout to the backs of the teenagers. I'm a full-grown man. I can shout to teenagers to get their attention and damn well know it. Teenagers know it too. A tall boy with no facial hair turns to us. "Did you lose some money?" I ask him. He looks at the girl next to him, who shrugs as if to say no. Meanwhile my wife crumples the bill in her fist so they can't identify the denomination. The boy shakes his head, "No" and turns back to his lunch. 

My wife smiles. My oldest daughter smiles. I'm not satisfied. "Are you sure?" I shout over to the boy again. "Because my wife just found twenty dollars on the floor behind you." My wife gives me that "Dumbass!" look. The boy stands up and starts patting his pants. The girl next to him then asks him if he still had the twenty dollars she gave him earlier. He doesn't. He says he lost the money.

My wife hands it to him, reluctantly. He mumbles thanks, then hands the bill to the girl next to him.

My wife then turns to me with a red face, "Of *course* they're going to say they lost it when you tell them the amount." 

Now at this point in the story, you have to understand that we're raising two children. A big part of raising children is to make sure they understand the difference between right and wrong. Fact - that money was *not* ours. We didn't lose it by handing it back to people who said they were the owners. We did the right thing - even if the teenagers didn't. Who's to know whether it was really theirs? Who's to judge them? Not us. 

So we turn back to our lunch and get over the opportunity to be twenty dollars richer. Only, I kept my eyes on the teens. At one point one of the girls at the table, the fat one with the curly hair, stared at me with a smirk while the girl next to her (not as fat) rolled a twenty dollar bill over in her fingers - smelling it. At that point, I was pretty sure they were lying. Still, the only other option was to confront them directly and play Perry Mason in front of everyone in the restaurant. And because I'm a man, I could have. And I would have probably gotten it back too. But I'm a dad. I did the right thing. We did the right thing. Whether those punk teenagers did or not. 

We end our lunch and leave. Though I'm pretty sure those teenagers ended up in a ditch that night after spending the twenty bucks on a bottle of booze, plus the buyer's fee, and then taking Daddy's Lexus for a spin. 

Because that's how things work. 

Posted via web from Jim's posterous

Old Dogs

I’ve never had a dog get old on me. As a kid, a couple were put down for health reasons and I left home before another one got old, but until Tucker - I’ve never had to care for a senior canine. He's nearly 13, has wicked hip issues and uses one of his rear legs like an old man uses a cane. But he’s happy. Last fall, when his hips stopped working and he lost muscle mass, I thought it was the end. The vet gave him six months. Well, it’s been more than six months now and he’s still smiling. Sure, I help him up or down the back steps, but mostly, he manages. Slowly. One step at a time. This from a dog that was once the stud of the beach. 

What struck me today about how different it is with an old canine is the way I brush him. It wasn’t very long ago that brushing him meant wrestling a strong, squirmy dog excited about getting to go in the house to lay on the sofa. These days, he’s just as excited to go in to lay on the sofa, but the brushing has taken a docile turn. Where at one point when I’d thrash his fur and feel his muscles flex underneath, now I feel bone below his coat and my strokes are as gentle as how you might brush your grandparent’s hair. 

Tucker goes for his annual exam next week. Last year I was inquiring about final arrangements. He keeps surprising me.

Posted via email from Jim's posterous

The Stepping Off

It's time. I've been putting this off forever, but it's time. 

Yesterday this tweet appeared my stream: "Fear is a clue that you're getting close to doing something important." - Seth Godin. I've never read anything by Godin, but did watch one of his TED talks. He's a smart guy, but I'm not the kind of person who follows people like that. I tend to pick up things here and there and use my own experiences to think through things. But this particular quote reminded me of something I used to hear in early sobriety, "Fear is the opposite of faith." Sure, you can chop this up into little semantic chunks to disprove the statement, but the fact is, to me - fear *is* the opposite of faith. 

I have no fear. Usually. My faith is knowing that as long as I'm following my heart (conscience) and being honest with people (including myself) that everything always works out the way it's supposed to. And this isn't some self-affirmation thing - I've actually lived it. And having these direct reference points helps me endure those times in life when it seems like everything's falling apart. That said, nobody's perfect. I fail at faith almost daily. Most of the time, however, I'm able to look over my shoulder to a point in life when things were worse, and get past the little pockets of fear that emerge. And things work out. 

But this is different. 

I've been writing my whole life. When I was a child I wrote stories and maintained ideas that shocked my mother into thinking I had psychological problems. I was even hospitalized at one point. They cut my hair and put small nodes into my scalp to measure my thinking. After a few days, the only thing they could tell her was that I was stressed. But what they didn't tell her was that I was stressed because of my innate ability to feel deeply about things. We lived in a Navy town during the Vietnam war and death was everywhere - on the news, in the neighborhood. Everywhere. But we were southern, and didn't talk about things that really mattered. It's best to leave the big things alone to fester in the corner of the room. But not me. In an attempt to empathize with how people around me were feeling, I used to create scenarios in my mind (and in writing) that my own family would die in various ways. These tactics would drive me to tears - and created a deep sense of empathy in me that I've carried my whole life. The doctors missed this. 

And empathy is what makes me a really good advertising copywriter. I've realized that when you can get people to feel things, they tend to pay attention - and act favorably. When Hemingway said that writing is easy, and that all you have to do is "sit in front of the typewriter and bleed" - he was right. After being fired from two agency gigs because I was either a hothead or non-social, I started my own agency. It's never become big. That's because you really have to want to be big to be big. So I've carved out a small place in the advertising world doing what comes naturally, and yes, doing something I love - moving people. Sure, I'm selling product and services for companies, but it's still work. And when you have kids, you must pay bills. But deep inside I've always wondered if there was something else I'm supposed to do with my skill. Something more than helping rich people get richer. 

I've lived a pretty colorful life. No, I've not traversed famous mountains, or hitchhiked across Europe. I left home at 16, went to five high schools and joined the Air Force. After that, I was a nomad with no home or money or friends for about 5 years until I ended up in Port Authority New York City. Then I came to. I didn't say my life was amazing - just colorful. The path less traveled and all that. Danger, stupidity, loneliness, fear, failure, faith and triumph. I've had more lovers than I can remember, and even more jobs. In the grand scheme of things, these are but small and insignificant events of a normal life. 

My personal experiences combined with an ability to feel deeply about things make me an effective communicator. And until now, I've only ever used this skill to write advertising. But this isn't the best economy to thrive in. Especially for someone who is a writer first, and businessperson second. Could I throw myself into my work and force things so that we never have to think about money again? Sure. Am I taking steps necessary to keep a roof over our heads? Yes. Am I shifting the core value proposition of my agency to keep up with how people communicate? Obviously. But I have enough personal reference points to know that every fucking thing in life happens for a reason. As Coleridge said, "Nothing is insignificant." Things are slow now for a reason. No, I don't expect to get rich from writing anything. I'm not an idiot. But I'll never know if I'm really supposed to do something different with my writing if I don't try. 

So now I'm standing at the open door of the plane, with a lifetime of training packed tightly into a bundle strapped on my back. The fear is overwhelming. It's so easy to do the safe thing and buckle back into my seat. "What's wrong Jim?" The guy with the goggles shouts above the prop noise. I pretend not to hear him. He walks over to me, "Jim - you're ready. This is it. There are no second chances." I look up at him. I'm trembling. He extends an encouraging hand. 

Either I do this, or not. It has to be acknowledged and attacked so that things can sort themselves out. Only then can I move past it. Regrets suck. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and owner of smashcommunications. He's also scared shitless about stepping off and free falling for a while. 

I Really Meant to Finish It...

Guest post by Kathleen Canavan

I’ve got my book club meeting coming up tonight. It’s the fourth time we’ll be meeting since forming the club a few months ago. It’s also the fourth time I’ve started a book for book club and not finished it. In fact, this time around, I managed to get only 64 pages into the book (Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters), making it the least-read book of them all. 

Oh, did I mention I’m the one who suggested we read this book? 

I should be frustrated with myself for not being able to finish what I start, but I’m not. I’ve been thinking a lot, though, of why I’m not committing to these books even though I have very sincere intentions of reading everything we choose. I love reading, and I’m always eager to find something new and engaging. I also love talking about books and hearing the many different things that other people got from the very same words I read. As a writer, I find it fascinating to know that what I put on a page can be processed and interpreted so many wildly divergent ways depending solely upon the eyes that see it.

So what’s the problem, right? This should be a no-brainer. But when it gets right down to it, I think the reason I don’t worry too much about finishing a book for book club is because the meetings really aren’t about literature to me. Book club is about the social interaction it provides. We talk about the books, for sure. But it’s squeezed in between a lot of other non-literary discussion. The other women and I discuss the normal sorts of things: home life, kids, work, boyfriends, husbands, etc. And it gives me a sense of wellbeing to know other women out there struggle with the same challenges day-in and day-out that I do. This sort of real life human connection is something I think is becoming a little bit of an anomaly when so much interaction nowadays is via social networking media, to which I wholeheartedly admit being a slave. In fact, it’s all thanks to Twitter that this post even appears here. But there’s something really comforting about being in the company of other people and seeing their reactions and hearing their laughter and touching their hands. I have no intention of abandoning my Twitter, Facebook, Google Wave, Blip, or Formspring accounts anytime soon, but I’m going to remember I can’t get a hug from any of them.

Meanwhile, someone has already suggested Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman for our next book club selection, and I swear, this time, I’m going to finish it come hell or high water. Probably. 

Kathleen Canavan is executive editor of the Notre Dame Review. Before moving to the Mid-West, she worked as a medical journalist in Washington, DC, for six years. She lives in South Bend, IN, with her daughter, husband and dog.

Taking a Swing at Perspective on Haiti

(click image for larger view)

So last week I was looking at some photojournalism on Haiti via Boston.com, and came across this picture. In an instant, the appeal appeared. No, this isn't a real ad for the Red Cross. It's the result of a two frustrated humans who wish they could do more. But even though it isn't an official ad, if you're so moved, we encourage that you consider giving generously to support the human disaster in Haiti by clicking here. Because the Red Cross doesn't yet have a simple web page for their Haiti campaign - as of now it's http://arc3.convio.net/site/PageServerpagename=ntld_main&s_src=RSG000000000&s_subsrc=RCO_FrontPagePanel

Fake RedCross/Haiti ad created by Jim Mitchem and Jeff Sutthoff.

The photo is from the Boston Globe's Big Picture section. No, we didn't ask to use it for this speculative piece. Remember, this is fake. The situation is real. 

 

Lying Like a Rug - Don't Read This Post

We have this living room rug that needs replacing. We bought it about 5 years ago, and I’m not sure what the shelf-life is for area rugs, but this one’s done. Toast. So the hunt begins for a repla.....

Wait a minute - What are you doing? Um, this is a post about a man’s rug - and you’re actually reading it. There’s something wrong with that. Anyway, get back to whatever it was you were doing before you clicked on this link. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

...

Ok, back to what I was saying, we’ve used the hell out of this rug. It’s experienced everything from dog vomit to two kids trampling it to death - most often without taking off their muddy shoes (even though I've said it a million times....). But alas, it’s time for change...

Hold one...you’re still here? Ok, this is getting a little weird. I’m here mindlessly rambling about a dander-filled foot path, and you’re still reading? Don’t you have another blog to read? This is just drivel. Go on, you can leave. I won’t feel bad. 

....

Anyway...the rug. The rug of dreams, as we once called it. It’s now a shell of its former self. Literally. You see, it’s thinning in several spots. No doubt the Christmas Wii has expedited its demise b/c now it looks like outfield grass in September after the right fielder has dug in for six months. Goodbye rug of dreams. 

....

If you’re still reading, you’re either really into rugs, or you’re a stalker. Or maybe you just want dibs on this one when we get our replacement. Anyway, please don't RT, Digg or comment this post. It's just silly and other people will think less of you if you do. Thanks for letting me share. Now go do something more important. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of the virtual ad agency smashcommunications, llc. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv. 

The Little Girl Who Leaves Notes on Her Pillow

Being a parent is hard. Children are time consuming, money consuming, food consuming and emotionally draining. And people fill novels with the trials and triumphs of parenthood. But frankly, I didn't even like kids before we had one of our own. It was so cool, however, that we had two. 

And you want to know what I love most about being a parent? Being a lion. The note here is an example of one that our youngest daughter Cozette (6) writes and leaves on her pillow every night. No matter how tired she is from the day's events (or her bones stretching below her skin) she stays up with her reading light on long enough to carve out this critical correspondence. On Hanna Montana paper. Always along with one other note that says, "Please do not wake me up." 

And this, my friends, is what makes procreation worth it. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter, lion and founder of the virtual advertising agency smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter at @smashadv. 

 Cozette

 

The Last Santa

Our oldest daughter (above left) is eight years old and entering the twilight of her innocence when it comes to Santa Claus. She still believes, but you can see logic starting to creep in. I blame fractions. She's known as the fraction queen in 3rd grade. Math - it's like hemlock to fruitful imaginations. 

I'm sure some of you will say - 'But Jim, mathematicians have to think creatively to solve complex science problems, design architecture or create new fragrances for DKNY.' Indeed they do. But science is not the dark Christmas Eve sky that she stares up into hoping to spot a red blinking light. 

When she was born I was on the fence about whether to let Santa be a part of our lives. I was equally concerned with deceiving her as subjecting her to the idea of Santa as a replacement for the true meaning of the holiday. And of course there's the commercialism. However, my wife is an ardent traditionalist and so I was only on the fence for like 10 minutes. Eight years later, I'm ok with Santa. Even now - at the end of the innocence. 

So we'll drink in all the lights again this year. We'll sprinkle oats on the front porch for the reindeer on Christmas eve. And we'll tease the kids by making them wait in the kitchen on Christmas morning while my wife and I check out the living room to see if Santa really came. He will have, of course. And we'll deal with what happens next - next. 

Everything changes. Everything ends. And if we're lucky, we get to relive the good things more than once. 

Merry Christmas. And if for some reason you can't muster the imagination necessary to enjoy Christmas through the eyes of a child - try squinting. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of the virtual ad agency smashcommunications  You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

What Iron Maiden Taught Me About Life

My mother is in town for Thanksgiving. I was fully prepared to wax nostalgic here about how she influenced my childhood and how my own children are forming memories with her now. But that's a bit cliche. And I hate that. 

So in seeing my mom today for the first time in a year, I got to thinking about how it was at the end of my time with her as a teenager and how I had other influences that helped shape the man I am today. Most of these came from music, history, the movies and literature. And yes, Playboy too - but mostly music. And mostly British metal bands. Sure, I liked the Aussies (AC/DC) and tolerated the Americans (Van Halen), but nothing compared to the Brits. 

I first saw Iron Maiden as an opening act for Judas Priest in Houston in 1981. I was 16. I saw them a few more times over the years and eventually moved away from metal toward grunge in the 90s. However, I recently saw part of an amazing documentary called Flight 666 that got me thinking about how Iron Maiden (the band and the brand) had its claws deep in my psyche as a young man. And while at the time it seemed like pure folly that I listened so intently to their music, a few of the things I learned from this little ol' band from England that I still apply in my life today include the following: 

1) Story Matters - Aces High, Revelations, Flight of Icarus, Run to the Hills, Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner (and so on) proves that Iron Maiden clearly understands the sticking power of solid storytelling in terms of developing concepts for their music. I first heard Churchill's speech via Maiden and still get chill bumps every time I hear it. 

2) Brand Matters - Another Englishman once said, "To thy own self be true." Over the years, Maiden's had a few different players but one thing that's remained consistent has been their sci-fi horror aesthetic (particularly Eddie) along with a tight, trigger-quick baseline. This loyalty to their brand over the past 20-something years is one of the main reasons they still pack soccer stadiums around the world with an army of brand loyalists. 

3) Passion Matters (aka Bring It) - Looking back I can say now that I am grateful for Maiden providing me with a place to put my teen angst. But more than anything I'm grateful for the passion that explodes through their music. In seeing the song below played live on Palladia the other night, I realized that the hammer they threw down on me as a teenager is still pounding away inside me today through different channels. 

4) Earplugs Matter (a gentle reminder, courtesy of @apollosfyre)

Up the irons! 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter, founder of the virtual ad agency smashcommunications, and a recovering metalhead. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

The Halloween Miracle

I've hung this sign above our candy bowl on the front porch every Halloween since we were able to take our daughters trick-or-treating. And even though the bowl is usually empty when we return home, this year something different happened.  

Just like most years, tonight we were out in the hood for about an hour and a half. We made the final turn home, and our street looked like a parking lot. No way we had enough candy. As we approached our house, a few male teenagers with hoodies were huddled around our candy bowl. They left as we walked up. Amazingly - there was candy in the bowl. Only, it wasn't the same candy we put in the bowl earlier. 

The kids were replacing the candy in our bowl with candy from their stash so that the next kid had some. Sure, they took the best of what was left, but they also left some. I was fucking blown away. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications.  You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

On Football, Ice Cream, and the Blessings of Faith

I recently read and interesting article about the rising numbers of women who watch football.  I found it interesting that they’re only now catching on.  Me -- I had an early introduction to football.  The youngest of four kids, I grew up in a busy family of sports enthusiasts. When I was 3, my brother Paul played football at W.T. Woodson High School in Fairfax, Virginia. On fall weekends you could count on two things: teen-agers disappearing from the house and the Redskins appearing on television. 

Older brothers are mythical creatures to 3-year-olds, and mine was a source of infinite wonder.  Every time the Redskins were on TV, it seemed that Paul was nowhere to be found. His conspicuous, Superman-like absence could only mean one thing -- that he played football for the Redskins. This idea was confirmed by the fact that we owned a set of maroon and gold vinyl seat cushions, which my parents would tote to my brother’s games. 

“My brother plays for the Redskins,” I’d tell people. Frequently.

You can imagine the disappointment when I learned the truth.  My brother’s cape was Woodson Cavaliers Red, not Washington Redskins maroon.

Fast-forward eight years. I’m about 10 or 11 years old, standing in line at a Baskin Robbins ice cream store at Tyson’s Corner shopping center, just outside of Washington, D.C.  I hear a slight ruckus behind me (stop me if you’ve heard this before). I turn around, and -- lo and behold -- Joe Theismann’s standing there in a suit and tie. 

I was well-schooled in football by that age, and I knew a Redskins quarterback when I saw one.  I also knew that something was wrong -- very, very wrong. The only discernible colors on Joe Theismann’s suit were Cowboys blue and silver. 

I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. 

Meanwhile, in the cavernous recesses of my mind, a group of brain cells huddled and reviewed the play. They lined up in formation and passed an urgent message: Don’t let this moment pass without saying something.

I didn’t have much confidence at the age of 10. My parents were divorced by then, and I was separated from my siblings, two of whom were in their 20s. The joy of my first 6 years of life had been replaced by sadness and isolation. Oddly enough, one of the few remaining constants was watching football. Every weekend of every season, I could count on somebody watching a game on TV, and it was a welcome escape. 

Back at the ice cream store, Joe Theismann looked at me. Don’t let this moment pass without saying something.  I summoned all the courage that a child could muster and asked, “Where’s your maroon, Mr. Theismann?”

I’ve written about this moment before -- in a column that I wrote when I was news editor for a small chain of newspapers in Southern California.  “Theismann beamed down at the child like Zeus would in that moment before delivering a bolt of lightning to the pagans below,” I wrote. 

Theismann himself was about to deliver a bolt out of the blue, because tucked inside that blue suit was a bolt of maroon fabric on his tie.  I don’t remember a word passing between us. He pulled the tie from his suit jacket and presented a perfectly perfect maroon stripe to my disbelieving eyes, and in doing so he scored one of the greatest goals a man can achieve: He gave a child faith. 

Joe Theismann gave me a reason to believe in people at a time when I had many reasons not to. I’ve held on to that sacred moment ever since.  I was a Redskins fan before that encounter, but I was a Redskins fanatic after it - even after my quarterback’s career-ending injury. That team could do no wrong in my book.

More than a decade later I was sitting around a newsroom shooting the breeze with a couple of Sports guys. It was the early 90s and the Redskins were headed for the Super Bowl. Our conversation turned to football.  

One of the Sports writers, a confirmed cynic, made the mistake of using the words “Joe Theismann” and “a-hole” in the same sentence. It’s not nice for girl editors to hit boy reporters in the newsroom, so I slapped him with my first-hand account of Joe Theismann instead. I tossed in some details about the man’s post-football life and career for good measure and chastised the reporter for his unsubstantiated allegations. 

“All football players are a-holes,” he said, clearly unmoved. “Who cares anyway! As long as they play like they’re supposed to and win games, what difference does it make what they do off the field?”

“It made all the difference in the world to me,” I said. 

A few minutes later the Sports editor walked up and said that if I wrote a column about Joe Theismann, he’d run it on his sports page. So I did. It ran under the headline, “One maroon stripe can give a cynic faith.”

About five years later I was living in Texas when a letter arrived in the mail.  It was postmarked from Hawaii, and the return address said Joe Theismann.  Inside was a hand-written letter from him, thanking me for the kind words I’d written about him in my column. Apparently someone read it and sent him a copy.  At the bottom of his letter he wrote, “P.S. -- I’ll have you know, I still like my ice cream.”

Well, Joe, it’s been 30 years since that day in the ice cream store, but I’ll have you know I still love my Redskins. And every weekend of every football season, I sit down with my husband and 4-year-old son and cheer for that team.  

When people ask me how I can live in Texas and love the Redskins, I tell them my Joe Theismann story. 

Charlie Fern (aka @misscharlie) is a former White House speechwriter who runs a full-scale communications consulting firm called Charlie Fern Ink, llc.  She spends most of her time in Southern California and Central Texas with her husband and 4-year-old son.  When she's not watching football, she serves as a volunteer chair for the Texas Book Festival, a fund-raiser for Texas public libraries (this year on October 31-November 1, 2009).

Them.

This is a post about those people. You know who they are. They're the people in Social Media who pretend to be your friend, but who really aren't. Rather, they hang around long enough to suck the sincerity out of you to feed their own desire to harbor spite and resentment. 

Sure, it could be said that because so many of us don't know each other IRL, that none of us are 'really' friends. And maybe that's what's wrong. You see, I believe that over the past year I've actually gotten to know people here. Despite it being just words and pictures and pixels and fairy dust. Just. 

I've met people, talked to people on the phone and have shared my life with people here who I may never meet in person. And for the most part, the people I pay attention to here are genuine, compassionate and good. No, I don't go looking to follow or engage people who fit into neat buckets. Nor do I look to follow people who can only benefit me commercially. I look for one thing - sincerity. To me, this equals humanity. By engaging here in Social Media, I feel like I've opened up my own life by sharing it with others. And it's good. 

For the most part. 

You see, there are snakes in this Garden of Eden too. And both you know and they know who they are. And it's uncomfortable. The people I'm talking about don't want to know that good things happen to you. They relish in seeing you fail, because that makes them feel better about themselves. It's a self esteem thing, but it's also pretty normal. Take any 100 people on the planet, put them in a room and see if they get along together. Right. Then throw a little competition into the mix, like we do when we follow or surround ourselves with like minded people here, and you've got Survivor via Social Media. Turn 100 into 2000, and the insincerity quotient increases proportionately. 

It's a fact - people aren't always going to like you. Even when they follow you. Some only follow for political reasons (because it would be socially awkward not to.) Other people only follow you because you're just a number and it's not a 'real' relationship anyway. And still others only follow you to (gasp!) steal your ideas. So what do you do? Unfollow them? Block them? Accept that things aren't going to be perfect? What? 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications.  You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

Did you ever imagine Shakespeare as a child? Me either.

I think I'm going to move to TED and live there the rest of my life. (thanks to @pgha for the heads up on this amazing lecture)

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

WTF Am I Doing Here?

I've kept a personal journal for over 20 years - before some people on Twitter could even hold a crayon. Before computers, I wrote by hand. When I could finally afford it, I bought a typewriter. There are stacks of notebooks in the attic filled with fading ink on yellowing paper - and I've never once looked back to read any of it. I've always used writing as a cathartic tool -  to get my feelings out, and let them go. In fact, I fear going back to see how stupid I was about things. And how poorly I wrote. And to actually revisit some of the most emotional places in my life. But the one thing I can't escape is that I'm a writer. And I'll probably die broke because of it. 

When I was about ten, I wrote a neighborhood newspaper. During the week I'd gather interesting stories from around the hood, and on the weekends I'd hand-scribe about a dozen double-sided loose leaf pages (with the exact same information.) Then I'd roll them into tubes, snap a rubber band around them and deliver them to my neighbors. This ended after my mother received cease and desist requests from other moms. It turned out I was a bit too candid with my reporting. But journalism was never my bag anyway. I was just bored - and needed the writing practice.  

As an advertising copywriter, I now make a living by twisting ideas for companies that pay me to get people to think differently about things. Between the tedious administrative duties of an entrepreneur and learning the intricacies of Social Media as a marketing device - I've become pretty frustrated lately. I write a lot less and manage a lot more. Yes, I still keep a journal, but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm doing the right thing with my talent. I'm a writer, not an account executive or Social Media guru. My blog gets about 250 visits a day. Yes, I could turn this into ad revenue, but then I'd be no different than 95% of copycat bloggers who post nothing but regurgitated bullshit to satisfy advertisers and egos. 

I'm a writer. An observer. And despite throwing myself into Social Media, I'm still something of a recluse. And yet I've managed to make a living with words. However meager. But when I start worrying about how to get people to come to my blog so I can turn those eyeballs into revenue and establish my status as a "thought leader" (in advertising or social media) - and I'm pulling my fucking hair out. I don't care about tips and tricks to get people to blogs so others can gain credibility and ad revenue. I don't. Really. 

Sorry for rambling. I'm just not sure where I'm going with this post. I may take a long break from blogging, or maybe I'll parlay off of this chaos to ramp it up a notch. There's no telling. I just know that I'm a copywriter because I have a family to support, and I'm pretty good at it. And yes, I started writing ads when I ran my own newspaper at ten. But one day, I'm going to have to face my fears and tear open the past to figure out why the hell I'm really here. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

My Daughter's First Blog Post

My name is Agatha. I am in 3rd grade at Chantilly Montessori school. My favorite part about school is lunch. My favorite book in school is Each Little Bird That Sings. My favorite color is purple. In my family there are 4 dogs, 2 kids and 3 grown-ups. Two things that make me happy are my family and dogs. My favorite food is Mexican. One more thing. I am athletic and fun. That's who I am. 

By Agatha. 

My daughter (8, pictured) wrote and selected the image for this post.

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

Remembering. Overcome.

The hate of 9/11 pales next to the unity of 9/12 and beyond. Eight years have passed. A nation has changed. But we must never forget the most amazing and tragic moment of our lifetimes.

A Conversation with 'That Guy'

We attended a party last night. It was a kids party, so there were a lot of little people along with their taller kinfolk. Most of the adults congregated around chairs and tables sipping alcoholic beverages and talking about adult things while the kids raucously played in the pool. I don't usually do well at these things because most adult conversation bores me since it always turns to work. And almost no one knows what I do for a living when I tell them. 

Last night was no exception. Near the end of the party I got sucked into one of those 'what I do for a living is very, very important' conversations with the father of three of the children. This particular guy was a scientist who works in the environmental field. He spent a good twenty minutes talking about the finer details of his job before he asked what I did. In his defense, I was asking him some pretty good questions - so it wasn't like he was a narcissist. Anyway, I said, "I'm a copywriter." His initial response was typical, "So you're a lawyer then?" I explained what it meant to be a copywriter and he didn't get it right away. For some reason he continued to associate copywriting with trademarking. I then told him, "I'm in advertising. I run a virtual advertising agency. I just happen to be a copywriter. I write and execute communications concepts." 

Then he said, "Oh, that's cool. I always thought that if I wasn't in science, I'd be in advertising. In fact, I have great ideas all the time." I smiled, nodded and said something cynical which he didn't pick up on (thankfully.) Then, his wife told him to round up the kids. I found out that all of their children had the same three initials - reinforcing his status as a 'high concept' guy. Then he said it - "Look, if you ever get stumped on your advertising stuff, I'd be more than happy to help you out over a couple of beers." I smiled with clenched teeth. He continued, "Hell, I wouldn't even charge you for the advice!" Then he and his wife left with their little clones. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

Sober

On August 3, 1991, I heard the voice of God. I was hung over from the night before and was about to load up on more booze, but for some reason on this day the package store (that I frequented often) decided to ask me for an ID. For a six-pack of beer. Three days before my 27th birthday. I didn’t have a valid ID however, as I’d pretty much succumbed to a nomadic lifestyle at that point – living in NJ with no family, no friends, no money and no proper ID to buy beer. I stormed out cursing the manager, and when I stepped into the sunlight - I was blinded. Literally. I fell to my knees and heard The Voice. It said, “My son – you have another chance.” And for the record, it sounded a lot like God’s voice in the Ten Commandments (in case you were wondering.) 

I don’t know how long I was on my knees in front of that package store, but I know I was crying. The ultimate surrender, as it turned out. It was early afternoon, and I went back to my room and slept for a day and a half. 

I’ll spare you the gory details of my life before that point, but I can sum it up this way – from the time I was 17 until three days before my 27th birthday, I drank alcoholically and suffered the consequences. I honestly believed I’d be dead by the time I was 30, and had even explored early check out once. 

I know I’m losing some of you here because of this post. I assure you though, that I’m perfectly fine with not drinking. I drank enough over ten years to satisfy most people for their lifetime.  For anyone thinking “He can’t hold his liquor” – that’s just silly. I could hold my liquor. A lot of it. More than you. And that was the problem. As for anyone who thinks I fear alcohol – that too is silly. My wife drinks. Hell, I encourage that she drinks. She doesn’t have DNA that turns her into a self-absorbed monster when she drinks.  I don’t fear alcohol, I respect it. And as for anyone who thinks I’m a religious nut because I heard the voice of God in my head – I don’t even go to church. Yes, I spend time on my knees every day giving thanks for a new chance in life, but I don’t push any agenda on anyone. I’m just a guy who was extremely lucky. By the grace of God, I have been delivered from the bondage of alcoholism for a life that I couldn’t even imagine back when I was drinking.

18 years ago today God said to me, “My son - you have another chance.” Boy, was He right. I’ve since learned that God’s no dummy. And as much as I think I know about how things should be in my life, my knowledge about life amounts to something like a pimple on God’s ass. I trust God today. And by His grace, I don’t drink. That’s it. I'm no angel. 

I’m not writing this post to somehow boost my ego or gain a bunch of new followers, I’m writing it because 18 years ago today my life changed forever in a way that needs to be celebrated - by me. As a writer, this is my platform. As a advertising copywriter, it's just damn ironic that I don't drink (but one helluva competitive advantage, if you ask me.)

So I started this day off the way I’ve started every day for the past 18 years, by rolling from my bed onto my knees to say a simple prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference

Another of the many lessons I've learned since turning my will over to God is that there are no coincidences. Which makes this fact even more amazing – the serenity prayer (above) is exactly 140 characters. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv. Contact him for a coffee anytime. 

Deep Down

The reason I love Twitter is not for its massive commercial appeal, nor for its professional networking potential. It's for the people.

As a copywriter, being curious about people is part of the gig. And it's something you can't really fake. You’re either curious, or you're not. Copywriters who are curious about how people think about things are the ones who stand to make sincere connections with an audience. Thus, engaging in Twitter is like part of my job. 

Before you start laughing, I’m not justifying here. You see, I've had conversations with people who live only in my head for as long as I can remember. I've honed this skill over time so that it’s become a professional asset. Because as a copywriter, you've got to be able to share empathy with people to connect with them. The more people you can empathize with, the more valuable you become. Until now, all these people lived in my head. So having a portal like Twitter around is utterly fascinating to me. Now, rather than imagining dialogue between people I invent, all I have to do is fire up Tweetdeck and watch the human drama unfold in 140 character sound bites. Just like in my head. 

From how people spread information, to folks who have public conversations with people who live only in their heads, I use Twitter and other Social Media to observe and engage people as a way to satisfy my curiosity and become a better copywriter. Because deep down - I’m really only trying to get a leg up on the other guy so that I can continue to pay the mortgage.

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv

Getting Out of the Way

Unless you're a Yogi, or you're smoking some righteous shrub, chances are - you can't get quiet enough to get out of your own way in life.

As human beings, we're at the top of the brain chain. But with great power comes an innate desire to control, well, everything. We buy TiVo to skip the commercials. We plan our vacations years in advance. We use fertilizer to have children. The list is endless. And it carries over into business when we hire focus groups to tell us which messages might yield the most favorable results. Or when we pore over which new hire will have the most impact on our bottom line. Or when determining which kinds of clientele will best sustain our growth plans.

Attempts at control are a natural occurrence for human beings. And it's perfectly fine. That is, until it gets the best of you. 

I am lucky enough to have had multiple personal reference points to know damn well that we don't control as much as we like to think we do. I sometimes joke that I don't even control what I'm having for dinner, much less where I'll be in 5 years. 

This is not to say that we shouldn't set and pursue goals. On the contrary, goals are absolutely essential for any kind of success in life. When you have realistic goals and take the steps necessary to reach them - then at some point you must let go and let things play out. The trick is to know that some goals aren’t meant to be reached. When this happens, it’s time to reassess – not force things.

Here's what I've learned - there's strength, peace and happiness in letting go and letting things take their course. In getting quiet and getting out of my own way. In accepting that there’s a universal truth at play that makes order out of all the chaos.

Be honest with yourself and others, do the best you can and then get the hell out of the way. Amazingly, the cards always fall the way they're supposed to. Even when it ‘appears’ they don’t – they still do. Like it or not.

So how do you deal with trying to control things in your life? We're curious to know. 

Jim is a father, husband, copywriter and founder of smashcommunications.com. You can find him on Twitter @smashadv