Everyone knows that it takes a thin skin to be a successful advertising creative. But how thin are we talking here? Quite thin indeed. Wispy enough that you could peer through and still make out a solar eclipse, should one be on the calendar. As diaphanous as an extremely expensive luxury scarf, the sort found in musty old closets during estate sales. Skin that’s light, delicate and translucent, like a quintessential baloney sandwich from eons ago. The kind of square snack easily stuck into your pants pocket on your way to Ebbets Field for the inevitable mid-game meal. Since the concessions were overpriced even then and even there.
Was your idea ridiculed mercilessly and then unceremoniously erased from a whiteboard? If written on a piece of paper, was it crumpled up into balls and shot into a garbage can with the gentle touch of a Bill Laimbeer? Was it covered in any fruit that was left just sitting around, waiting for the opportunity to deliver its own version of organic feedback? Good. That’s a good thing. That’s the only way you’ll learn not to internalize criticism.
Opinions are like onions, only with a couple extra letters. But there’s no reason to cry, unless you need to water the plants. Then, and only then, does it make sense to succumb to despair and turn on the tears for some overdue housekeeping.
Today is International Workers Day. That’s something you may not realize if your clock lacks a hammer and sickle as its minute and second hands. We’re told to seize the day, not the means of production. What did producers ever do to deserve our petty wrath? Morning calls, gaffer tape and an insistence on referring to clothespins as “cp-47s” has consequences it seems. But they remain the means of production, eyeballing locations and ordering enough uneaten food to fill a dozen dumpsters. Redistributing the wealth is a lot like crop dusting, it was best done 50 years ago from a small plane and with a ton of DDT. So close your eyes, mouth, ears and try not to inhale.
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