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It May Still Be Hurting . . . Somewhere

A man who is unconscious of himself acts in a blind, instinctive way and is in addition fooled by all the illusions that arise when he sees everything that he is not conscious of in himself coming to meet him from outside as projections upon his neighbour.

— Carl Gustav Jung "The Philosophical Tree" (1945). 

The range of what we think and do is limited by what we fail to notice. And because we fail to notice that we fail to notice, there is little we can do to change; until we notice how failing to notice shapes our thoughts and deeds.

— R. D. Laing

I divorced. It was probably the worst thing that ever happened to me. And, perhaps, the best. 

Up until then I was living the scripted dream. Be a good boy, study hard, get good grades, finish school, start a career, start a family, see the kids off well on their own, retire, savor the golden years and a wonderful store of memories. Then, die. The last part doesn't usually get on the list until it's staring you in the face. Then it could be too late if you have waited for the house to be on fire before digging the well. 

Sometimes love don't feel like it should. Maybe she loved me enough to kick me out. Not to say that was my bride's motive; but the universe's, I'm quite sure. I had some lessons to learn. And, when your karma comes knocking, you will open the door. Or, have it opened for you. But, open nonetheless.

I was an ignoramus. Self-deceived, and full of it. Was?! (There are other opinions. Perhaps a consensus) The irony from my perspective is that just as I was waking up to the reality that I had it wrong in so many ways, the die was cast, and the momentum toward that break up was well under way. It was indeed a tragedy in any event. Not just for the loss and the broken hearts. But, the very idea of separation. Is there really any separation? In the Christian marriage vows it is traditionally asserted, "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder". The Church may apply it to marriage in an attempt to put some weight on people to hang in there to make things work. In the total scheme of things, however, God has indeed joined all things together in his vast Creation. Separation is in the realm of appearances only. In Reality, it is an illusion. Funny, I got that from the Buddhists. And, you know what they think about God? Short answer; they don't.

I should also mention what with the divorce rate at 50% or so in this still early part of the 21st Century that it doesn't help marriage much in terms of keeping it together to be surrounded by a culture which promotes the pleasure of the moment, where every individual is free to see things in whatever relative way may suit them, and where romantic love is still promoted; the latter which only makes it inevitable when the bloom of passion fades, then why wouldn't anyone go looking for the next new thing. Or, when some new thing shows up, why not follow that. Hey! we're in love.

We can rationalize our own histories. I have my story. If anyone cared to ask, I would put it this way. At a moment of grace I realized that I was one lost sheep.* The divorce — and, by the way, also the simultaneous ending of a long career in business — was part of the Universe's message to me to wake the heck up (!). I saw the inevitability and necessity even then. In retrospect, it had to be. Existentially, how else could it have been.

I also saw into the myth we call "Family" from how people, even so called loved one's, behaved. If you want to know who your friends are, trying divorcing. Sides tend to be drawn. The impersonators show themselves unashamedly. Alas, the children too, may think they have to take sides. Someone is right, someone is wrong. On me, the prize of the latter designation has been bestowed. Of course, there's also the possibility that your children will wrongly assume it is their fault. It's an easy trap for their inexperienced minds to fall for.

It is of fundamental importance not to make the positivist mistake of assuming that because a group’s members are in formation this means that they’re necessarily on course.

— R. D. Laing 

But, Family. Family is a game. A very nice game. One I subscribe to like everyone else. But, that game, like any other, has rules. In order to stay in the game you have to play by the rules. One participates in Family with the implicit promise and expectation that the rules will be observed, stated or no. Indeed, many of those rules are in fact unstated. At its worst it is a mutual collusion with the unspoken agreement to maintain the same fictions. Sort of like, hey, it's a shit pile. But, it's our shit pile. And we all agree on how it smells. And we all agree to like it that way. 

At its best, it gives all members enough loving space to express themselves freely, without judgment or fear of reprisal. In the dysfunctional family — I've heard it someplace that the definition of family is . . . dysfunctional — we don't call each other on our games, or our prejudices. Say something we don't like or don't agree with, and risk censure or ostracization. [Like some of the things I'm writing in this piece. But hey, I got nothing to lose. I'm already on the outs. Minds are made up.]

And, we have our favorites. And, hierarchies. I know of one who will be unnamed paterfamilias who, even now departed, occupies the role of sainted parent and exemplary role model. The kind of man children and grandchildren name their own male child after. 

But, never mind that he may have been an unreconstructed bigot and racist. He used the N-word with the same kind of familiarity and ease one has when asking for a bag of potato chips at the convenience store. Also, he was what they call a good ol' boy. Never said an untoward thing. Never went against the grain; ever. Possibly, not even when it was the right thing to do. His role model might even have been Jimmy Stewart in "It's a Wonderful Life". A peach of a man, by everyone's estimation. But, let's not dwell on any flaws. And, with the passing of time, it may even come to pass that he will rise in shared memory to saintly status. He was loved. And, that is as it should be. But, the narrative painting him as hero ... I'm not a fan. He wasn't so keen on me either. 

The man showed nary a hint of introspection. Eschewed the inner life as if it were a command from God. Or, why rock the boat? Kept his uniform strack. Obeyed the rules. Just like any of us, he had his flaws, I'll bet. Maybe did the right thing only when he was sure no one would object. But certainly when everyone was watching. Kind of a human careerist. He knew how to polish the apple. The script of the family romance drama called for that role. And he now even in memory fills it with distinction. A child named after him to carry on the legacy. 

The foregoing will prove my point if there is some offense taken. Also, prove that point that I am in fact [still] an ignoramus. Your umbrage just proves you know who is being described. And, your indignation is a sure sign of your complicity in that particular family myth.

Woe to any family member who breaks or goes against the rules. We are invited to bring love into the Family nexus; but, of itself, the Family is not particularly loving. Family exists only in the consensus of the participants. How loving or not any particular family may be is something else. And, what's loving to some may be just a kabuki drama of nice manners to others. Family is a social construct of necessity and convenience. That is a good thing. 

This is not something to which we usually give much, if any, thought. Reflect on your own situation and see what rules are in place that are coercing you to maintain your status as a member of your Family. And, what it would look like if you didn't behave as expected. 

In my ex-wife's family where I was an "Outlaw" (that's her revered father's term for "in-laws") there seems to have been a niche in the narrative for someone to play the role of "That-dirty-rotten-bastard-who-done-her-wrong". When I first arrived on that family scene I learned about the former husband of one of her aunts. He had that distinction. Not much said, but a clear indication that the guy was stone no good. Never discussed, just you knew there was strong disapproval. Even a sulky, brooding emotionally damaged daughter for good measure. 

Currently, I believe I have that particular honor. At a wedding where I was granted rare invitation I said good bye to my former Mother-in-law for what would be the last time. Her foot was ailing and she used a special therapeutic contraption. Jokingly I whispered in her ear that I bet if her foot was in better shape she'd be kicking me in the butt right now. She righteously retorted "That's right". So long, dear heart. Don't hold on to it any longer than you can. It only hurts you. And, you can't take it with you when you go. 

Point of fact, I think I may have graduated to a role tantamount to Who-has-ever-heard-of-him. My own daughters have fully engaged relationship with their mother. Wonderful. With their dad it's let's get together when we're in the vicinity and we have some spare time and it suits us. And, let's have it be in a public place like a restaurant because then the length of the visit can be kept short.

To exacerbate the situation in the divorce, others in our life may have had their own opinions on things. One such take, unabashedly put right to my face — from my dear brother no less — sees it as me abandoning my family. Strong stuff. I think that has more to do with his own need to see me as the bad guy. I did, after all, break up his cozy arrangement as the doted upon only child for his first nine years on earth.

Sides were also taken. That's classic, isn't it? Still remember my ex-wive's uncle getting me on that phone and telling me from some righteous position above me, that I was an "asshole". Ouch! And, dear sir, that makes you ... what? Right. 

I found out who my friends were too. Yet, even in the face of the disdain of loved ones, being shunned by them, I held it as my duty to myself and to them to find my true way. My life took a sharp turn toward that goal and everything before that had to be left behind. Now, please to understand, I didn't set up that goal by myself. It was presented to me. You know, the hand of Universal Fate, kind of thing. And I saw it. But, really didn't have to do anything but let it unfold. It was in the cards you could say.

Some might call that a cop out. Let them. 

Even after several years the shunning continues. Now that is real love, actually. Just in case I get some pangs of sentimental attachment. "Stay away . . . forever". I have recently been directly told in so many words if I don't like it, then that's my problem. And, for good measure, that all concerned have moved on and that they don't have any unfinished inner business going on when it comes to me. Could it be that it's just a case of out of sight out of mind. Oh yes, the gold standard for the family is to eschew introspection. So, if it's there, I might bring it up. So let's not bring it up. Let's not have him there. 

But, I know a little secret. My then recently ex-wife and I had a meet up once on the steps of the New York Public Library. Between those two famous lions. She tartly asserted to me, "You aren't in my life!" She had her own ignorance too. I responded by pinching her nose. A tactile asserting of the reality of what was right in front of her nose really. She protested. Just another proof of my abusiveness. But, she may have missed the point entirely; most likely, if I had to say. Yet, I know what she was saying. I wasn't in the commerce of her daily life. But, I was there with something to say as well.

We are connected. It's in the nature of God's creation. 

I was  — and, most certainly am — in her life. Don't you count me out, my darlings. My healing is yours. And, I don't care if you agree with this or not. The success of my project to be myself does not require agreement, support, or participation from anyone else. What's real can't be threatened. Just to suggest you may want to look at whatever disagreement, if any, with this you may have. And ask yourself, just who put it there? I am willing to be 100% responsible. Take as much responsibility as you will.

It is a pisser when you have children raised in an ethos which eschews introspection, and you are held in disrespect and distrust by them, while at the same time you're attempting to point them to look inside. For me, another lesson in trust. And, courage. Courage to let it go, not worry or concern. They are children of the Universe first. I didn't know who I was. So, I didn't directly instill in them any sense that they were anything other than two little girls. Which, dutifully they accepted.

Children do not give up their innate imagination, curiosity, dreaminess easily. You have to love them to get them to do that.

— R. D. Laing 

Here is a pertinent quote from The Sanity We Are Born With: A Buddhist Approach to Psychology by Chögyam Trungpa, page 166:

Confusion is two-sided; it creates a need, a demand for sanity. This hungry nature of confusion is very powerful and important. The demand for relief or sanity that is contained within confusion is, in fact, the beginning point of sanity. That is what moved Buddha to sit beneath the bodhi tree twenty-five hundred years ago — to confront his confusion and find its source.

Of course, the divorce left a dissonance, especially with our children. But, I believe that dissonance — that confusion — in its demand for relief and resolution is the grace for them to find their own sanity and forgiveness. My part is to let the Universe work in this situation. And, trust.

We parted company after ten years of marriage and the birth of two little girls. I was raised in the Roman Catholic Church which unequivocally forbids divorce. While I would be considered liberal in my stance on the Church's rule, the years of indoctrination had their effect. It was a devastating experience all around. Not least, for my darling little girls.

It has been several years and the wounds of the past are being healed. But I do reflect on the injunction, "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder". That's from Mathew and it is, as far as I know, the bedrock of the Catholic position on divorce. In short ... no way.

But, for good and bad motives, people divorce. The reasons are legion, and my point is not to cover the whole topic here. But, it seems to me that there is a larger meaning than just concerning marriage and divorce that I would like my children to understand.

I believe my ex-wife and I did ourselves and our children a disservice. It's one thing to decide to not live together. What often gets missed is that in reality the notion of separation, it is an illusion. And, one pays a tremendous price in aliveness and proper care of the soul for maintaining that fiction.  

Of course, the plain fact that daddy wasn't part of the usual household family scene was jarring enough. It broke my heart to hear, "Please come back and be our daddy again". My daughters are grown now with children of their own. I wonder if their own wounds are healed, or healing. I do know for certain my healing is their healing. Their relationship with me is mostly arms length. Cordial, of course. And, surface mostly. I do sometimes put in a word or two. But, if it doesn't agree with what they already think or want to do, it falls by the wayside. Let's just say I don't have the experience of being a parent whose children will do anything whatsoever just because I asked, or said so. The reason (pig headed?) given to me is that I don't approach things in the right way. I lecture. My take, what's the matter with you that you have to have things delivered in just a certain way? 

I seem to occupy a niche box in their heart. The term is called pigeonholed. I am not part of whatever family they live in, at least in the conventional getting-together sense. And, there's a problem with that. Not with whether or not we are getting together. But in the matter that concerns the heart.

You see, if your heart is closed anywhere to someone, then that part of your heart is not available to anyone. Including those who you are committed to, and want to, love unconditionally. Conversely, if your heart, or a piece of it, is only reserved exclusively for someone, then your whole heart is not available to anyone. There is a friction there that wants to be resolved. It won't go away until it is settled.

I do believe that friction can be a blessing in disguise. If you want to let it reveal itself. The option that is too easy to take is to just ignore it. Out of sight . . . kind of thing.

I don't have the answer to why there is so much divorcing going on. I have an opinion, of course. I want to say though, the seeds of discontent have to do with objectification. When you are in love there is no other. It's "I Thou". When troubles show up (and they always will when there are egos) there is a temptation to start to look at your loved one as a "her" or a "him". In short, there is a separation. Maybe mental at first. But, the story develops, you may even have some agreement from outside others, and finally you have a "HER!" or a "HIM!". It's called "crapping yourself out". Unless this separation gets cleared up, it's very easy to go to the next step and enfranchise the position legally.

So be it. Just to remember that the original sin in all this is the idea of separation itself. What God has put together, let no man put asunder. The Catholic Church bases its prohibition on divorce right there. But, the larger and more exquisite truth is what God has put together can't be in any way put asunder. As Mr. Dylan sings, "Ring them bells so the world will know That God is one.

Here is an excellent quote on the subject; specifically, on objectification:

Much of the disharmony in relationship can be attributed to our belief in objectivity — the notion that we experience other people the way they really are. This belief in objectivity tends to arise with the belief in separation. Through this separate me, I see separate others. Once this division is made in the mind, there is a tendency to believe that I, the subject, can see other people, the objects, exactly as they are. And in that tendency there is a kind of mental sleepiness or blindness to the fact that every time I see subject and objects, I am thinking. I fail to see that I am looking through a filter of thought. 

When we believe in objectivity, we have difficulty seeing that our thoughts, emotions, and sensations paint others in a way that is unique to us. Our views of other people are shaped by our memories, personal histories, cultures, worldviews, and psychological and emotional traits, along with various other influences. The painter is inseparable from her painting. We don’t see others the way they are. We see them the way we are.  

— Scott Kiloby

* From Osho . . .

. . . Come to understand the futility of so-called worldly life. . . . [One should understand] one thing — that something needs to be done immediately about his own being. If he goes on drifting in the old way, he will lose the whole opportunity of this life. . . . [He became] alert that up to now he has lived wrongly, has moved in wrong directions. Has been too concerned with things and not concerned with himself, has been too concerned with worldly prestige and power and has not been concerned about who he is. [He] is turning towards himself . . . [It] is a miracle — the energy is moving back towards oneself.

Ordinarily, the energy is moving away from you — towards things, targets, in the world. The energy is moving away from you, hence you feel empty. The energy goes away, never comes back; you go on throwing away energy. By and by you feel dissipated, frustrated. Nothing comes back. By and by you start to feel empty. The energy is just oozing out every day — and then comes death. Death is nothing else but that you are exhausted and spent. The greatest miracle in life is to understand this, and to turn the energy towards home. It is a turning-in. It is not that you leave the world. You live in the world — there is no need to leave anything, or go anywhere else. You live in the world, but in a totally different way. Now you live in the world but you remain centered in yourself; your energy goes on returning to yourself.

You are no longer out-going: you have become in-going. Of course you become a pool of energy, a reservoir, and energy is delight, sheer delight. Just energy there, overflowing, and you are in delight, and you can share, and you can give in love. This is the difference. If you put your energy into greed, it never comes back; if you put your energy into love, it comes back a thousand-fold. If you put your energy into anger, it never comes back. It leaves you empty, exhausted, spent. If you use your energy in compassion, it comes back a thousand-fold . . .

On our interconnetedness ...

 

I asked the vendor if I could take some pictures of his nice truck completely covered with ice cream wrappers. He quickly and flatly responded, "Not mine".

Since it wasn't his truck I figured it was fair game to take some photos. I took several shots. Then the man asked me for $5.00. Though he was a serious soul, I thought he was kidding. (Hey, dude, your selling ice cream.) He took the money without hesitation. I was surprised, expectin...g that he would decline; but, I accepted the outcome nevertheless.

It hit me later he was not telling me it wasn't his truck; but "Not mine" in fact meant "You can't take pictures of my truck". So I guess it evened things out for him to get some compensation from the smart ass who was rude enough to take pictures after he said no.

Lost in translation.

Notice, however, my name in the center on one of the packages. So, it was meant to be. Today, after all, is my birthday celebration. The universe had a little fun with me.

 

𝐈 𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐝 𝐁𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐞

I Was an Ad Biggie

Let's get the doctored photo image out of the way first. That's my face in the photo alright. But not with those lovelies. However, I did have my own share of tempting taxi cab rides.

Before the time professionals in advertising came to be referred to as "Mad Men", we called ourselves "Ad Biggies". The "Mad Man" moniker comes from when a lot of the advertising agencies in New York City were headquartered on Madison Avenue. Does anyone not know that?

Calling ourselves Ad Biggies was somewhat of a self-mocking thing to do. The kind of boast "Young Turks" like to make. An inside joke. Not something we actually would claim, unless we thought it would bring a laugh. And, the term "Young Turks". I remember there was a headhunter who would typically specify in her NY Times classifieds, "Wanted: Young Turks". This was code for eager beavers who would go 100% plus right out of the box, and be put on the so-called "Fast Track". Carrots before horses.

Lots of jargon in the Biz. We "Targeted" "Optimized", "Maximized". Definitely, "Synergized". We got "Penetration" and "Saturation" and "Efficiency" and "Bang for the Buck". We "Blitzed" and made sure there was enough "Reach" and "Frequency". There was "Duplicated", and then there was "Unduplicated". Sometimes we would "Put it on the train to Greenwich to see where it gets off". "Put it on the back stoop to see if the cat licks it up." "Run it up the flagpole to see who would salute it." But, we only used those phrases in jest. You get the meaning. And, the cynicism.

We all liked a good advertising joke. During the blackout of 1965 the story went around about a young lady claiming to have been deflowered by an advertising account executive while trapped in a pitch black elevator. When asked how she was certain is was an advertising guy, she stated, "I had to show him what to do".

News came through the mill that a certain advertising man had died. Someone over cocktails asked, "What did he have?" "He had $10 million with Procter and Gamble and $6 million from Prudential."

I did a stint on Madison Avenue myself, at my last job in the business with Doyle Dane Bernbach. Bill Bernbach was still roaming the halls then, and Ned Doyle and Maxwell Dane had offices in the building, those two rarely seen. That was before DDB went public and then was subsequently gobbled up into a huge holding company. Media billed at 15% commission, production costs at 17.65%. That's it; no negotiation. Now everything is negotiated. 

It was the time when that brilliant author, Patty Volk, was a hard working copywriter, with antimacassars on her office couch. She had a thing for lace and wore lace collars frequently. She is a nice Jewish girl, and if it weren't for her public acclaim as an author, she could have fallen back on her inherited fame as the descendant of one Sussman Volk. The gentleman is said to have served the "foist" pastrami sandwich in America way back in 1887. Read Ms. Volk's book Stuffed: Adventures of a Restaurant Family. Props to Patty.

Technologically, when I was last in the business we were just getting typewriters in from IBM with the capability of storing documents in memory. Believe me, it was all directly from the typewriter during that time. An original business letter had to be perfect, no mistakes. There was such a thing as having a good secretary. Mistakes, if any, were whited out or taped over, but only in documents meant to be photocopied from the original. Particularly troublesome was when you had an exhibit for a presentation which was all numbers, ten rows across, twenty down. If you were projecting the presentation on a screen you had to go to a dedicated A/V department to have your material photo copied onto a slide. And, if there was an error in a chart, back it went for type correction and a new slide. Rush, rush. Panic mode. We didn't even have a glimmer of what in the digital world now takes minutes and is as easy as pie. Now you can practically correct a slide mid-presentation. It's hard to convey the kind of anguish with the time pressure you had to go through to get ready for a presentation with that ancient level of technology.

Alright, so I'm sounding like an old timer. Hey, so what?! There was a time when all that was new and fresh to me too. And, though ultimately it wasn't the field for me, I did learn a lot; interacted with some very nice (some not so) people, and super sharply smart folks.

My first job in advertising was at the venerable J. Walter Thompson Company in 1968. JWT was headquartered in the Graybar Building on Lexington Avenue, across the street from the magnificent Chrysler Building and directly connecting to Grand Central Station. At that time Kodak displayed a giant photo mural covering the entire East wall of the terminal. 

Four years before I arrived in 1968 JWT had celebrated its 100th year of operation. At the time it was also the largest ad agency in the world. It too has since been gobbled up by a conglomerate.

The executive offices at JWT were pretty swell. I was a newly minted Account Executive and I had an office with oak paneling, a coffered ceiling, furnished with Early American antique furniture. The big execs had offices with custom artistically made wrought iron panels floor to ceiling backed with frosted glass. The agency even had a snooty arty type on permanent staff to manage its in house art collection. I don't remember her name, but she looked the part and breezed about in flowing caftans. I am grateful to her. At one Christmas party, there was a raffle and I took home a huge original Jules Cheret poster.  It was under glass in a slim gilt frame, something like 30 by 40 inches. I took it home to Park Slope on the subway, genuinely fearful it might break in two with the crush of riders.

The company occupied several floors in the Graybar Building. In the lobby we had the south bank of elevators. Vogue Magazine went to the north. I remember all those unattainable "stuck up" Vogue girls so fashionably going to their office. You work for Vogue, you gotta pose, right.

In the reception area on most floors at J. Walter Thompson there was a receptionist. Women of a certain age who were all very well dressed, carefully coiffed, and expertly made up. All those gals looked like they might have had, shall we say, history with some of the bosses back in the day. On the floor with the creative types, the receptionist was a slim old colorless woman, gaunt and gray with a huge beehive hairdo, lots of makeup, bright red lipstick, and black cat eye glasses. Her look said, "Creative". I never passed her that I didn't take special notice. In the 12th floor, where the top executives lived, the lobby featured Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chairs in black leather and a Richard Lippold wire sculpture adoring the North wall. He is fabulous. Take a look at his work "Flight", which adorned the Vanderbilt lobby of the PanAm Building back in the day.

I left J. Walter Thompson to get a substantial jump in salary. Ted Bates and Company, also now somewhere in a conglomerate, had just moved from its original site at 666 Fifth Avenue to 1515 Broadway between 44th and 45th Streets on the West Side. The address was then named the W.T. Grant building and it was constructed on the site of the old Astor Hotel. Many a lunchtime at Nathan's Famous down the road a bit, or Grant's on 42nd Street wolfing down a dozen clams on the half shell with a nice glass of beer. Or, the Governor Cafeteria farther down Broadway in the Garment District. When I left Ted Bates my farewell lunch was at the Governor. (When I left DDB we celebrated[?] at the Brussels where I enjoyed lobster ravioli with shaved fresh truffle. I didn't have a goodbye fete from JWT, but the headhunter who engineered my switch for more do-ray-me took me to a four martini lunch to celebrate.)

Ted Bates was were I really learned the advertising business. Strategy ruled. It is the famous home of the USP, Unique Selling Proposition. The claim was the thing. There was such an emphasis on scientifically valid claims we even had our own science department. Even with clients we sat in and discussed research design and consulted with their own clinical researcher on interpreting the data for advertising claim purposes.

Once when the bakers of Wonder Bread, the ITT Continental Baking Company in Rye, New York, wanted to market a high fiber bread, we watched as the recipe that included wood cellulose (the fiber ingredient that backed the claim) would burst into flames when it went into the toaster. Or, a sourdough bread that got its tang from the addition of vinegar. Actually, that one did better in consumer taste tests than real old fashioned sourdough made with fermented starter. Go figure.

The agency had gotten into trouble with the FTC showing Colgate Rapid Shave taking the grit off sandpaper. This was on our part I'm sure more about the visual than a claim of being able to remove sand from sandpaper. The legal outcome was that after each commercial featuring a shaving scene the agency producer had to sign a document attesting to the fact that the shaver only went over the demonstrated shaved area only once. In another situation a junior executive was called on the carpet for disclosing to a reporter that there was only 1/4 ounce of butter in the top cut of the whole loaf of Home Pride Butter Top bread. You see the issue, don't you. We made a big fuss over the taste. The small amount actual butter was just gave us legitimacy to make the claim. Then again, when we realized that the closing of Wonder Bread commercials used a foam rubber insert to have the bread showing up on screen springing back nicely for the camera, we went back to the studio to redo with an actual loaf of bread. CYA.  

From the foregoing you should get the clear idea the game was to generate a superior selling claim. As far as that goes, fine enough. However, whether in fact there was any real benefit or need, that was secondary to the goal of getting something hard hitting that passed legal (Oh yes, "Hard Hitting" was tossed out a lot too). I was a clean cut, honest looking Midwest kid, and I was usually the designated one to take advertising ideas to the in-house legal department.

We were in the business of selling goods and services. Completely neutral, as professionals should be as I was told, to any considerations of social impact, ecology, or conscience; and, perhaps with a rather fungible sense of ethics and morality. If it sold, it was good. 

Nowadays that ethic is way more out of the closet than when I was in the Biz. Of course we weren't so short term to not consider something called "Repeat Purchase". It's one thing to get someone to try a product or service; but, the question is, will they come back for another. Then another, and eventually become a regular customer. So, we weren't just out to fool folks. But, a large part of the advertising message is based on the underlying, if unstated, supposition that consumers in general can reliably be expected to be fools. Look at all that drug advertising on television with an arms length of disclaimers for sometimes terribly harrowing possible side effects. The voice-over blithely and sweetly chirps the list of possible horrors then happily suggests you ask your doctor if is this is right for you. Insert a "Hey, asshole!" at the beginning of that line and you have the complete message, fully stated.

Obviously, what I have shared here is just a smattering. I could write a book. For whom to read? That keeps me from going there. Net, net (oh, that's one of the pieces of jargon too) I enjoyed my time in Advertising. Maybe with equal amounts of dread. Job security is something you are constantly working on, and the pressure to to have your standards, integrity, and even ethics coopted can be intense. Especially when you're strapped into a mortgage, car payments, and a family to raise.

At one point in all that, I just had a moment of clarity and honesty with myself. I did not really want to be doing this. This Advertising business thing. Not long after, the universe did its thing and I was out. I had already become keenly interested in holistic health and healing. My own Rolfing experience was life transforming. Within a few years after leaving Madison Avenue, I trained successfully and became a Certified Rolfer. I enjoy immensely working in a worthy field which is both artistically challenging and sharing in terms of true human values. Teaching people of all kinds how to live well and stay healthy. Going on 34 years.

And now, just like everyone else, I enjoy the commercials. And the discussions about how good they are. But, come on! "Coke ads life"? Most advertising, like I said before, would read better if it the spots were prefixed with, "Hey, Asshole!"

I actually now do work in a field that truly adds life. Now, just to get the word out. I'm an Ad Biggie, after all. It's in my blood.

Click here to read a Top Secret, recently de-classified account of my exploits in counter espionage in advertising.

Young.

Young.

In our culture youth sells. (That's because youth buys.) Really, in any culture where buying and selling is a priority, youth sells. Who doesn't want to be good looking, strong, vital, fresh, eager, sexy. Disregard those other usual traits of youth: callow and shallow.

As we age we seem to lose those attractive qualities even as we may gain in wisdom and understanding. I say "may" because as you have probably noticed, older is not necessarily wiser. The industries that cater to our desire to retain that glow of youth are big; As The Donald would say, "Uuge". There's a pill for that, don't you know.

I would argue, however, that we have it wrong. Who says that because you get older you automatically get more decrepit and — well, let's call a spade a spade — damned butt ugly. Is aging, in itself, the cause of that slide from dewy-cheeked rosiness? If you look at how things seem to progress, you would likely say that, yes, it is. Too soon old, and you look like an old fart. When you get old, fella, what do you want to be; a coot, a codger, or a curmudgeon?

I represent an emerging industry that is also youth oriented. And, I beg to differ. Youth has nothing to do with age. Repeat, "Youth has nothing to do with age." Don't be confused by usual parlance. Youth is vital, strong, good looking, and capable . . . at any age.

So just how does one manage to pull that off, staying young throughout one's life? Think young you might say? That doesn't hurt. But, as you become wiser you begin to understand that life isn't about getting your thinking in the right place, getting your shit together as they say. Here again, a lot of folks seem to opt for this way of living, as a goal in life. "If I could just get my head right." Isn't that what passes for adolescence? Problem is, as anyone who as lived into this post-modern era knows, just what does "getting your head right" actually mean? Can you do this on your own, or do you need to have some agreement with other like-minded folks? Your friends, associates. And, that bastion of unstated agreements, your family. 

"Getting you head right" isn't altogether a bad idea. Here is where my new industry has a useful take on getting that accomplished.

But first a word from one of our sponsors . . .

Approaching the Self is like walking the razor's edge: two cannot go there. You cannot bring your mind nor even a thought. The only one who can help you is Self. Anything that touches a flame becomes the flame. Touch a sage and you become a . . . sage. Knowing Self, you see only Self and this Self is your Guru. The Satguru is within, meditate only on That! The true Guru is Self. All else is pointing to Self.

Eventually you have to get rid of the name and form of both Master and yourself. You have to reject the finger in order to see the moon. Where there is name and form there is falsehood. It is an impediment to freedom because nothing you see will give you freedom. When you are drowning hold only onto Self. Reach for anything else and you will die. Don't cling to anything made from the five elements. The Guru has no body, visible or invisible. Do not depend on any body. Bodies are just fingers pointing to the Truth! Reject the form of the Guru and only the Supreme is left.

~ Sri H. W. L. Poonja (Papaji)

If you are not (yet) disposed to even want to know what in the hell the foregoing is all about, that's just dandy. Don't worry. You are going to die soon enough, you know. If you don't want to know where you are going, no biggie. Or, where you came from. Or, why. But, hey, buy that bronzer and look young. Everyone loves a beautiful corpse. It's over when it's over. Don't think about it. Just keep shopping.

[Excuse him for that rant, he occasionally gets on his high horse, and it will gallop.]

In a nutshell (because I am getting a little short on making this point) the secret is to stop dragging the past around. Yes, you are in such miserable shape because you are dragging your karmic bundle from here to there. If you are thinking the term "miserable shape" doesn't apply to you, then consider this: maybe it's just that your bag of karmic crap is all tied up nicely and pretty like, so everyone thinks you're just swell. Lipstick on a pig. (That's what she said.) And, what's worse is that as you get along in the world you like to collect more for your bundle. And, of course, keep improving how it looks on the outside. The time comes when your bundle is so big, just any old movement and it crushes you. Finito! Who turned out the lights? There's an inside to things. When you go there you find that youth we be talkin' about.

Among the many purposes for Rolf Structural Integration, the one that keeps me most engaged is that aspect at the very heart of the work which has to do with human relatedness to the Earth. And, from there, relatedness to All That Is. That is, the Sacred.

Here is an image study showing the relationship of the sphenoid, the central bone of the cranium, and the sacrum, the central bone of the pelvis. Buckminster Fuller's Dimaxion Earth and the little angel you can summon when things are in right order.



Below are links to articles that elaborate on the subject:

 

The Sacred Spine: Our Axis Between Heaven and Earth

 

Psyche and Soma: A Jungian Inquiry

into the Symbolic Landscape of Ancient Egypt

 

 

 

 

Farmers Market

 

When I was a boy (some would suggest I was never anything but) my mother cooked mainly from scratch, and my parents shopped for fresh fruits and vegetables every Saturday at a nearby farmers market in Poletown, Detroit. You could get everything seasonally fresh, supplanted by imports such as citrus from Florida. Sometimes even, a kitten or a pup.

Alas, the Chene-Ferry Street Farmers Market in my hometown Detroit is no longer anything except an abandoned ruin.

But, the historic Eastern Market is a very thriving affair located in the city's main wholesale food distribution center near Downtown Detroit.

And, in New Jersey where we are currently residing, we shop the local Farmers Market in Paterson most Saturdays in the growing season.

Besides fruit and produce at its freshest at good prices, I also shop for smiles. Also in abundance, as you can see. . .

Angels from Tabernacle, New Jersey



A True Jersey Tomato . . . Princess

"No squeezing the tomatoes!" But, we're tempted.

 Rockin' the radish.

Dad's best helper.

Boyfriend's away at college. Life goes on.

Undaunted by the cold weather.

 

It takes a tough guy to grow tender chive blossoms.

The "Dolly Parton" Tomato

 Chrysanthemum Queen

Spring 2013

(He's smiling. Really.)

Spring 2014

Notice Any Resemblance?

Spring 2015

 Some Farm Animal

Another Farm Animal

Wedding Bells Will Be Ringing

Exchanging Pickling Techniques (and Blessings) 

with Beautiful Hungarian Lady

Growing a Crop of His Own

Ms. Jacinta on Her Sofrito Recipe . . . with Lots of Love

Michele T. Fillion 

Wronski - Fillion Duo

Antonio Vacchiano Montclair Framer's Markets Spring 2015

Ricky Himself 
(THE Radish Connection) 

Danny Adickes

Never to forget Great, (Really!) Great Uncle Alexie Vronsky. . .



AKA: The Crimean Killa, the Ukraine Heart Throb, the Boychick of the Balkans, the German Germinator, the Polish Prick. (That last one, that's what she said). 

Uncle covered a lot of ground back in the day. He left, as they say, "a girl in every port". The appelations go on, and on. I don't think he ever picked his feet in Poughkeepsie, though. He was, for sure, a class act. And, a real contender. As you can see, drop dead handsome. Smelled like a million bucks. All in change. He was a little fond of the eau de cologne. Buckets full. Word is he wasted a fortune on fragrance. Metrosexual, I think would be the contemporary moniker.

When he entered the room, heads turned. (Nostrils would flare.) All the men wanted to be him. All the women wanted to be with him. On the latter front he was the Will Rogers of the Eastern provinces. You know that Will Rogers line, "I never met a man I didn't like". Uncle was fond of saying, "I didn't meet a lady I didn't . . . " Enough said. He had more than enough of The Kavorka to go around.

Rumor has it that he was the model for the Count Vronski in Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. They, he and Leo that is, were drinking buddies. Alexie was his wing man on more than one occasion. Tolstoy could write, alright; with the ladies, however, he needed a interlocutor. And our Vronsky was a smooth talker. Things like, "I could spend an eternity looking into the depths of your beautiful eyes". That one was a sure fire winner. The lady at hand would swoon and fall limp into his arms. That's when he would haul her over to the waiting Tolstoy and whisper in her ear, "That's what he said." It worked more often than not. Especially after several rounds of wódka shots.

For a peek at the incredible history of all the clan Wronski, CLICK this!