thoughts on a thursday

YOUNG ME-NOW ME: Check out this link: http://colorwar2008.com/submissions/youngnow






So...................

I am frustrated with people lately.

Really frustrated.

Please can I rant a little? Forgive this. But I need to.

I posted that "young me-now me" link for fun but also because it reminds me that we were all young once. And some of us are still young---in hearts and minds. When we were young(er), we had goals, aspirations, maybe even dreams, right? So, did we achieve them? Are we still striving for them? And, if we achieved those goals, what are we going after next? If we didn't achieve them, why didn't we? And have we given up?

I've achieved a lot. I've also let a lot of (pipe) dreams go. Most of my "dreams" had something to do with delusions of grandeur anyway. Fame and the like. But, after living in LA for a few years, I realized that fame was not what I really wanted. Nor did I want to claw after it like a I'm-gay-but-acting-straight waiter at the Ivy. I just wanted a life. And so I made one for myself. And it felt pretty good. It was mine and it was simple.

Over the years, I've felt pride here and there for things I've accomplished. For making people genuinely say "Wow, that's good." Again, it's been mostly a here and there thing. Like a dog getting treats or something. That's because, for me, my work has been about feeling that I've tried my hardest, put some of my heart and personal sweat into it, so that when I go home at the end of the day I can say to myself, Jess, you tried. You didn't quit. You put effort in. You cared.

We all have our on days and our off ones. But on should be the sought-after days. And "striving to be on" should be our default setting. And so, now that I've realized that people are not all I think they are, that most are, in fact, pretty damn average, well, I try even harder. I want to stand out even more. I want my work to count. I want what I do all day long to make somebody smile or think or question something in their life. It doesn't have to change the world. Maybe someday I can do something more important. For now, I just want to be good at what I do.

It infuriates me to work with people who are so....uninspired. So....alright with having more off days than on. So...lazy. So....used to not having to try. Fact is, I've lived in fear most of my working life. So have many of my friends. Of being laid off. Fired. Replaced by the more ambitious junior person. (Actually, I've never been afraid of that last thing because if you compete with me, I will only be that much better. I have a kill instinct. Mess with it. It only makes me kill.) Actually, what I've genuinely feared is being thrown under the bus. Which has happened to me. Because I'm more concerned with doing good work than with politics. That's my weakness. Working. Politics are irritating and in my way. Unfortunately, they matter way too much sometimes.

But this isn't about politics. This is about work. This rant of mine. Work. Why are some people so seemingly allergic to it? Why are they fine with being so average?

What I really want to know is this: what does it take to make changes? What does it take to make someone do better work? I've heard that managers struggle with this question. This is one of their biggest obstacles: how do I motivate my people? Good question. I'm not a manager. If I were, I'd probably fire the dead wood and start fresh. But that's because I'd want to assemble the best possible team I could, a team that's fired up and ready to work hard, put in the time, make things better, shake things up. I'd want to just divorce myself from the no-talent bums who show up day after day doing schlock and calling it work. And going home early. I'd just send them packing. In this economy, they should be scared. But, shockingly, they're not. They're complacent. "I've been here a long time, they won't fire me." And, to boot, they complain!

Eye-opening. This life. Always so eye-opening. It never fails to surprise me the way it all really works. The way it all goes down. In my idealistic viewpoint, I've always wanted to change things. Always and forever. Make it better. Teach me to be better. Learn from me how to be better. Let's all work together and do our best. Why else do we come here every freaking day and spend most of our lives here? Why?!?!

Thanks for listening.

May you root our your young selves, unearth your lost dreamer. Be your best. Every single ever-loving day you get to breathe and eat and shit and avoid dying on this spinning ball we call earth. Get up and do something with your f****ng day!

What else are you doing people? Really, I'd love to know.

Rant over.

Signing off.

copywriter: best drunk?

Stereotypes and cliches are stereotypes and cliches for a reason. To be honest, I've been a horrible stereotype. A boring cliche. In many of my so-called unique experiences and adventures, I'd love to claim complete innovation and awe-inspiring individuality. But, no I'm just a muddied variation, yet another perfect mold made from the original. But I am, at the tender (and, ok, slightly chewy) age of 37, really alright with that.

When it comes to my writing, though, I have never claimed that booze or pot or any other substance makes me better. In fact, I know (for a fact) it makes me worse. A few Stellas with a French Onion soup at Sam Snead's or two, three (who's counting?) large hot sakes at lunch might make me a bit saucier, seemingly happier, and certainly more garrulous and amusing (if only to myself). But, in the grand scheme of things, I am not a better writer with a pint of beer, a martini or any other boozey concotion in my hand. But I've known a few who might be. I won't name names. I just know their brilliance shines through with this in their system. I don't look down upon them for this.

Au contraire.

The thing is, with the few I've known, they are hideously corny and cliched without it! So please, pour them another. And one more for good measure. Without their imbibing, well, the world of advertising is a dull, dull, (and rather cheesey) place. A place where clients nod in merriment and buy their bad work. And it's more than a sad state of affairs when this happens. As we all know (ahem, drinkability) it is the norm rather than the exception.

As for me, well, I'm just a writer. If anyone thinks being a writer (other than the lucky few Carrie on Sex & The City columnists none of us know in real life) is, at all, glamorous, think again. A real writer is a dork. A wordsmith. A little pun-ready geek. I know, I know. We must not use puns. Write it a thousand times across the chalkboard of your copywriter brain. See it living there
"I will not write puns and pretend they are headlines. I will not write puns and pretend they are headlines."
But see if you can live there. That's the copywriter's challenge.

I don't think Augusten Burroughs was the lunch-drinking copywriter who needed the booze to make him great. I think (and no, I don't know exactly what work is his, only that I respect his writing and assume he's telling the truth and all that)...I think he is probably one of the rare few (and yes, it's rare, at best) who is likely a good writer no matter what he's drinking, smoking or ingesting to alter his brain. He's just probably a rare breed. Most of us are either good when sober and not good when inebriated, or bad when sober and only good when plowed.

I'm the former. It sucks. But when I do, finally, have my drink (and that's all I have, mind you), well, I like to think I've somehow earned it.

For those who are best when hammered, well, they get to celebrate all day. Lucky bastards.

a few of my favorite things

it doesn't take a dog bite or a bee sting to make me think of these things. i think of them all the time.

an update: a few of my favorite things were mentioned, or rather, merely glossed over in my previous post about, ahem, jealousy. i've since come to terms with my savage, nearly flatulent, rabid beast. i've flogged him into submission. he likes it. he's not just resting. he's begging for more pain. so i deliver routine whippings, as needed, to silence him. and so, for now, my latest bout with jealousy is contained.

but what a lot of strength it can take to tame it. but, ah, as i well know: strength becomes me.

and so does...for lack of a better word: FASHION.

i prefer my fashion as an art form. and i believe it is one of the highest art forms we know. after all, what other art form can we not only view but touch and, most truly and completely, immerse ourselves in?

unlike so many others, when i saw "when the devil wears prada" i never viewed meryl streep's character, miranda, as a witch (as she is meant, albeit lovingly, to be portrayed). rather, i recognized the need for her fierce defense of a thing so lovely as bodily adornment. how true she was when she dissected that hideous blue j.crew knockoff sweater her assistant wore:

"You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blindly unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of a clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room.

i may have clapped out loud in the theater. thankfully, i sat next to a fashionista herself, transplanted from new york city to western massachusetts where we both worked in a small advertising shop, missing terribly our....well....our art. that need to express ourselves creatively through...for lack of a better word: fashion.

anyway, this is just a blog to blog. i'm about to head north for a vacation and i was craving sharing some of my favorite things...with the select few (whoever you are other than my mom, my cousin, and a friend or two) who actually bothers to read my various rants.

So...here are some things from the past season...and some things from earlier seasons....you know you're in a recession when Marni is on sale so quickly. sigh. sad. unfair. they should put some of that god-awful (yes this is a judgement, sue me) crap they call "art" on sale down in chelsea in new york. paintings that have no right to hang anywhere but in a filthy gas station lavatory. i mean, hold a sidewalk sale for some of that utter junk. relieve the world of its misfortune. let it die in peace and away from our viewing. but i digress.

onto happier thoughts, grander musings, and the loftiest of all inspirations. for you. for all of us. go on and adorn yourself beautifully. you owe it to yourself. and to those around you. consider what you wear a gift not just for you---but for those with whom you grace your presence. and, please, a request: for those of you who don't know the difference between fashion labels and fashion as art, please, please, please, try, at least try, to get some kind of education.

and thank you, to those that do "get it." for the rest of us, please, continue to walk tall, carry a big handbag (or not) and be proud of the art you so carefully choose to share with the world.

your body: a canvas.

your question: what masterpeice shall it be today?