Sonny Listin'

I avoid lists. But if I absolutely must, I make sure not to rank what’s listed. It’s un-American. When a grocery list cannot be committed to memory, I jot down the absolutely essential items whose omission would spell refrigerated doom. However, everything’s equal in my shopping cart. Granola and chicken are not in a separate culinary caste system from avocados and almond milk. They are part of the same shopping society and as such, receive the same privileges. 

The longest list I contribute to with steady regularity is, probably like you, my laundry list. My laundry list is long and lustrous. Without a laundry list, I might forget detergent, the very clothes I’m cleaning or the quarters I’m feeding into each machine. Laundry without lists is like dancing without yelling, swimming without yelling or yelling without pausing for a moment to reflect. In the margins of dryer sheets, I write things like “nice shirt. be careful, fella. You remember what happened in ’93, don’t ya?” These reminders help me get through the process, cleanly and safely. I don't know how else I'd do it. 

The ad world, if you haven’t noticed, is addicted to making lists. And not the kind I make either. Although, the industry could benefit from a good, long scrub. Lists like 40 over 40. 30 over 50. 100 under 100. 1000 over 1000. 2 over 3. 5 under 6. But these lists are usually based on age. Which is something that’s constantly moving. Are we talking about years or minutes? It’s never made clear. Plus, the list is always centered on people. I wonder why. When everyone knows that human beings are a small, generally nominal part of any company. I think it’s valuable to laud the ones who get it, but we can’t ignore the rest of the industry simply because they lack a pulse or a vibrant sleeve tattoo.  

Where are the agency-wide lists that celebrate the finest fish tanks, smartest dogs, smoothest staplers, fastest elevators and cleanest bathrooms? They’re suppressed by greedy chieftains that want all the accolades for themselves. Afraid that if they credit a potted plant or a tasteful light fixture, somehow their own glow diminishes as a result. 

We're creative, aren't we? I sure thought so.