Obsessed with Conformity

I Need a Mentor

 

I need a mentor. I need to find someone who believes in my talent as a writer to help me get over the hump. Here’s the hump - I have a day job as an entrepreneur. I’ve been writing advertising and marketing communications for brands for over a decade and have even experienced some modest success along the way. But I feel strongly that I’ve got more to do in this world than write and execute communications strategies for brands. I write every day, but nothing really contiguous. Rather, my daily writing is a lot like my copywriting - where I solve complex problems in the time it takes to watch a commercial. Brevity doesn’t bode well in developing longer works. 

When I quit drinking many years ago in Queens, I had a sponsor. His name was Jack. He was 6’ 9”, about 300 pounds and 100% New Yorker. I remember going to AA meetings at night and then Jack dropping me off at my basement room where I'd wave goodbye and then walk up to the corner store for booze. The next morning Jack would let himself in and pick up all my beer cans then haul my ass to another meeting. He was formidable influence, but he knew what was best for me. And I wasn’t going to say no. I knew he knew too. Eventually I got it. But I couldn't have done it without Jack. 

I need a Jack for my writing. I want more. It’s in me, It’s like an ache that I acknowledge daily. It's not that I haven't tried - it's just not easy making the jump. It’s not easy balancing what’s real and what’s not. It’s not easy transitioning and keeping the faith and believing in myself. But fear of hard work isn’t why I don’t do it - I don’t do it because I’ve got no one to show me the way. I’m completely lost. 

I need a mentor. I need someone who is confident enough to challenge my ego and tactful enough to know how to help me get the most out of my talent. I need someone who has run the gauntlet and who knows what it takes to do this thing. I fear that without this person kicking my ass, I may well suffer the rest of my life in deep regret. 

Hello Jack - are you out there? 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

 

Posted via email from Jim's posterous

Warm October afternoon air - thick with the fragrance of tumbling drier sheets

Posted via email from Jim's posterous

Pack Mentality

This afternoon we fought rush hour traffic north out of Charlotte for two hours (how do people do that?) to pick up the newest addition to our pack - a black-tri Australian Shepherd from a farm near Statesville. Because he’s from a farm, he’s from solid working stock. Because he’s an Australian Shepherd, he’ll fit right in with our pack. 

We like dogs. Not cats. Not rodents. Dogs. And since our first rescue 13 years ago (an Aussie), it's become obvious that I'm something like a dog whisperer. To me, it’s almost as natural as rearing children. With less back talk, even. 

Our 13-year-old dog is the kind of animal that anyone who only vaguely likes animals would gladly share their life with. After a couple of years with him, we fell in love with the breed and so to keep him company, we purchased one from a breeder after we moved to Charlotte. She's a healthy, studly animal that acts half her age and is an alpha bitch in every sense of the term. These two dogs have basically helped raise our daughters and are true shepherds of our family. 

Not to be forgotten, last summer we rescued Sammy Davis - the one-eyed wonder pug, or chihuahua, or alien depending your angle when you look at him. He’s pretty small so he hardly counts in terms of dog mass. Our best guess is that he was about 3-years-old when we snatched him out of death row. He's part of the pack, but his personality is more like a cat than a dog. Which is to say, he can take you or leave you - unlike the Aussies, who become physically depressed when we're not around. Plus, where Aussies pretty much read your mind, Sammy's mind kind of wanders. In fact, it used to wander under the fence, before he was snipped. 

And so today we brought this new Aussie into our lives. He’s from a breeder too. That wasn't an easy decision for us, but we wanted our daughters to have the opportunity to help raise an Aussie pup. 

Another reason we decided on the puppy is because they don’t let you keep ponies in the city (only the best for my kids by God.) Goats, sure, but we’ve got a really nice yard. Additionally, with nearly a half an acre (fenced) in an urban area, we’ve got ample room to keep these animals happy and healthy.  

But mostly, we got this pup because of our first dog. As the alpha male, he’s had a tremendous influence on the other two. On Monday, I thought I was going to have to put him down. Last year at this time the vet gave him three months - so he’s due. I keep waiting for a sign. This puppy is like his swan song in a way. Even without being very mobile, it’s clear that he’s the alpha. It’s said that the influence of an older dog on a puppy is tenfold that of a human. I couldn't hand-pick a better influence, so we're taking advantage of it while we can. 

For anyone who might think it’s gross living with so many animals, maybe it is. But our dogs have never had flea one, and I’m pretty sure our space is probably cleaner and better organized than most people you know. I even have the rolls royce of scoopers. Call it a writer thing. I do. 

So here we are back in puppyhood again. It will be as fun as it is challenging. But thanks to genetics, we feel like we know what we're getting into.

Welcome to the pack, Strider. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

 

Posted via email from Jim's posterous

Staying Up, Up in the Air

I can't sleep. It's 3:30 a.m. and I'm on a plane somewhere over Utah, or Colorado, heading from the west coast of North America back east. Below me, people are oblivious to the tin can zooming by above them. Some are sleeping. Some are having sex. Some are watching reruns of Cheers between commercials about fixing their credit, or calling party lines so they can simulate sex. They don't feel the shaking of turbulence as we cross the continental divide. They're not basking in the soft glow of a computer monitor, with a warm lap. 

*

Next to me an older gentleman in a nice suit flips through the latest edition of Air Mall while tilting his plastic cup back - in hopes of savoring the last succulent drops of Jack on what was once rocks. All other lights on the plane are off. It’s as if he is having a contest with me to see who will sleep first. He’ll be sorry, because I can’t. Not on a plane. Not on a bus. Not on a train. I cannot sleep while moving. I’ll sleep tomorrow when my kids will be ready to play because they haven’t seen me in four days. But my wife will guide me into bed and tell the girls to let me rest. As she closes the blinds on a sunny day.  My row mate keeps glancing over at me. He's fading. He's in denial. I laugh at him - evilly, in my mind. My eyes fixed on you like an inside joke he's not privy to.

*

He checks his watch. Another glance.

Three hours to go.  

More turbulence. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

Posted via email from Jim's posterous

Why I'm a Better Writer than You

Stop right there.  Before you read any further, get the notion out of your head that I’m an ego-driven maniac who thinks he’s better than everyone else. I’m not. But I am a better writer than almost everyone I know. And while you might think that’s my ego talking, if you give me a couple of hundred words I’ll explain. 

Everyone does something really well. I am a lousy cook. I kill every plant I’ve tried growing. And despite a carpentry gene that flows through my veins, I can’t build shit. But I'm a good writer. And it used to be ok to be ok with that. Only now when you say things like this, the rest of the world looks at you like a freak. Why? Because everyone writes. How many illiterate people do you know within your digital social networks? Exactly. Everyone writes. But not everyone is a good writer. Most people just type and publish, as far as I can tell.

A repeating theme you hear from bloggers who have managed to make a living from their writing via advertising space and speaking arrangements is, ‘Just write. All the time. Constantly.’ And because these people have become successful at writing blogs on micro-specific subject matter, telling everyone to write like they’re getting paid for it gives people the false sense that everyone is capable of writing and getting paid for it.  

Over the past year I’ve been approached a few times by people attempting to find their voice in writing. People who have heard these successful bloggers tell them that the more they write, the better chance they have of making a living doing it. That’s akin to stating that the more lottery tickets you buy, the closer you are to becoming a millionaire. 

Not everyone is a good writer. No matter how much you write. Sorry. Sure, you can become a better writer in terms of grammar use – absolutely. And frankly, if you want to make grammar and structure the primary criteria for being a good writer, then I’m probably nowhere near as good a writer as you. My writing is routinely riddled with grammatical inconsistencies. Don’t mistake writing well with being a good writer. 

That said, there’s one critical reason why I’m a better writer than you - Empathy. 

Empathy is something you’re either born with or you’re not. Yes, you can become more or less empathetic over time, but you can’t learn to be naturally moved by things. Combine a hysterical sense of empathy with a clear understanding of how to string words together and you've got a dangerous combination that doesn't often account for much. Except maybe in advertising. 

As an advertising copywriter, empathy is the only reason I’ve been able to connect with so many different audiences, and why I’m absolutely confident that I can make a meaningful connection with any human on the planet if tasked. All I have to do is call on my empathy. 

I do not have a blog with thousands of subscribers, so you really have no reason to believe what I’m telling you. Besides, I’m not going to tell you the things you want to hear. That’s manipulation and I reserve manipulation for the things I get paid for. If I were to tell you to write as much as possible so that you too can make a living from it, then I'd immediately ask you for your credit card number. Don't get me wrong, there are some excellent writers in the blogosphere who are truly empathetic and who understand how to interject empathy into their posts so that even the most boring topic dances around in your chest. They're out there. They're just rare. 

For me - I’m a writer first, and blogger second. I don’t specialize in topics like Wordpress, Social Media or even Advertising. In fact, the name of my blog (Obsessed with Conformity) is intended to be ironic. Empathy flings itself in many directions. Sometimes it latches onto brilliant little moments in daily life that resonate enough for me to sit down and write about it. Other times it treads on life’s inequities. And yes, I've learned how to push empathy into advertising. But in reality, I don’t really control most of the things I truly care about. I’ve tried writing to specialized subject matter on my blog, but it comes out so stale and homogenized that I feel dirty afterward. And even when I have tried to write about things like Social Media, when I interject empathy, it sounds so different than most of the guys who get paid for it that it fails miserably. Some of the best posts I’ve written over the past two years were on business topics. Except, you guys didn’t think so. My most popular posts are those that deal with real life experiences – moments when my empathy latches onto something and materializes as meaningful dialogue in your heart. And invariably, those are the thirty-minute posts. Albeit, with some grammar issues. 

So yes, write. Write your ass off. You can become a better writer with practice, just as you can become a better free-throw shooter with practice. Only, you may never make it to the pros because of variables you don't control. Things like size, quickness, speed and age. If you practice writing, but lack true empathy that you have little control over, then you’re likely to become a serviceable writer. But may I suggest finding a popular topic to focus on and exploit instead of relying on empathy to light your way. Besides, there’s really not much money in this. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

 

Posted via email from 300 Words

Untangling

As far back as I can remember my mind has been a playground for wild vines that wrap around themselves in a fight for slivers of sunlight. Some produce fragrant flowers. Some are outfitted with thick thorns that draw thick blood. I suppose all of them have some purpose, but as the keeper of these thoughts, I have always had a tough time deciding which are most useful, and which to prune. So they grow and tighten and somehow manage themselves within the confines of my little mind. 

Only now, it’s getting trickier. It’s like a hard drive filled with images. Except that you can’t replace the old hard drive with a new one. And instead of images, the data is mostly random. Things like song lyrics, baseball statistics and conversations from when I was six. Some of these things are more important than others. Like the moment I laid eyes on my wife and felt a bolt of lightning strike my heart. Or watching our daughters slide from the womb into the world. These are welcome to stay. They’re useful to my attempt at being a good human on this planet. But then there are things like the time in fifth grade when the girl I had a crush on was holding my feet still during the sit-up portion of the Presidential Physical Fitness test, and in an attempt to prove my God-like abdominal strength, I ripped a fart right on her. Why does that have to stay? And why does it have to be so vivid? 

I realize that every breath I take is death to another memory. I just wish I could manage them a little better. My new thoughts are darker today than they’ve ever been. I blame the vines. They have a way of choking the life out of imagination. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

Why September Can Kiss My Ass

I hate September. Yes, I know it’s still technically summer, but I’ve always considered September something like a harbinger of nightmares. When I was a child, it meant that summer was over and school had begun. Today, it’s like the tip of a poisoned arrow.  September creeps in on the heels of August’s humidity cloaked as a relief worker. But it’s a lie. September means more darkness than light, more work than play, more clothes than skin, more football than baseball, more inside than outside - and most of all, more cold than warmth. 

My wife is from New Jersey. I'm from Florida. Her people love autumn and celebrate its arrival when the calendar flips to September. And why not? Autumn means outdoor festivals and pep rallies. It means soft gray smoke swirling from chimneys. It means pumpkins and foliage and mums and mummies and, oh my Jesus most of all it means – GLORIOUS AMERICAN FOOTBALL! 

I have a hard time embracing these token tradeoffs when I know damn well what comes next. Awareness sometimes sucks.  

Don’t you people get it? There’s only one way out of autumn. No matter how nice it seems, it always dumps you right in front of that spooky shed out back where you must sit inside on the dirt with your knees pressed against your chin while blowing into your hands for three months. Watching your breath quickly appear and disappear like memories of basking on the beach under golden light the summer before. 

Then, sometime in April, the earth tilts on its axis enough for sunlight to stream through the broken window onto your eyelids. You’ll stand and stretch and step outside, squinting in a pasture of clover. Your gray, ashy skin shrinking away from the sunshine. 

September. I’m not falling for it. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

Posted via email from 300 Words

Tinkerbell's Light

Sometime during the night, Tinkerbell’s light faded.  It was a toy given to our daughter Cozette while visiting Walt Disney World back when she was four. She was admiring it clipped to a young woman’s backpack. The woman noticed, smiled and then offered it to her. As she handed our daughter the molded piece of translucent plastic, she pressed a tiny button which caused a soft green light to glow through Tink. Cozette’s eyes widened and then she threw her arms around the woman and hugged her for what seemed like forever.

Two Christmases ago, Santa Claus brought our daughters two gift certificates from a major pet store chain. They’d been asking for Guinea Pigs since the beginning of that school year - because ‘all the kids had them.' My wife and I weren’t sure about rodents as pets, especially considering we have dogs, so we hashed it out with St. Nick – and instead of bringing the girls Pigs, he opted for gift certificates instead. So there was still time to get something else – like maybe really nice leashes for the dogs. But that wasn’t to be – and the day after Christmas we welcomed Luna and Pearl into our family. Two days later, Pearl, who was Agatha’s pet, was not eating and so we took her back to the pet store. They said that Pearl was probably going to die. We told our daughter that we’d get another, and through tears she said, “but I already fell in love with her.” Amazingly, the pet store nursed the animal back to health and until last night, it led a happy Guinea Pig life. This morning my wife discovered Pearl dead. 

Today after the burial, I visited a clock shop for two obscure (expensive) batteries. Tinkerbell’s light has returned. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

The Most Creative Thing I've Ever Done

 

 

As an advertising writer, my job is to influence, enlighten and engage people.  I could point to a multimedia Lexus campaign I wrote which sold every vehicle allocated to the dealer and say ‘that was the most creative thing I’ve ever done.’ Or I could tell you about the campaign I wrote that helped reduce the euthanasia rate in Mecklenburg County by 25% that was pretty freaking creative. Or, I could go on – but won’t. I’ve got 300 words and need to get this out. 

My point is, making people think about a thing differently, or applying emerging technology to media is not creative. You want to be creative? Create a completely new word for an idea that no one has ever even heard of before. Go ahead. I’ll give you a few minutes. 

.

.

.

.

Did you create the word? Cool. Now try and sell it. 

Sadly, humans are not creative. Creativity only exists at the ‘divine entity’ level. I wrote a couple of blog posts on this last year and stand behind them. But what I’ve noticed watching thousands of advertising people from across the globe on Twitter is that we’re kind of attached to being ‘creative.’ It helps us justify getting our elbows pierced and our eyelids tattooed. It means we’re able to be “different” from others and get away with it. Trust me, I’ve done it. I know. 

But believing we’re creative is a deception caused by the ego. Am I clever? Yes. Innovatively clever. But unlike true creativity where you ‘create’ a completely new idea that has never been conceived before, I have rules to follow. Lots of them. I just think differently than most people, within the rules. 

That’s why the most ‘creative’ thing I’ve ever done was have two orgasms that resulted in the creation of two humans who, despite having all the normal human parts, are distinctly original souls. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@jmitchem

Sarah Palin's Nipple

I haven’t taken LSD in 25 years. Even then, it was twice. So I've never expected any flashbacks. Besides, the statute of limitations on those things run out eventually, I’m thinking. Anyway, despite my non-consumption of hallucinogens, I’ve been having these wildly vivid and strange dreams lately. Last night’s was no different. 

I’m sitting in an office somewhere. Eva Mendez asks me if I’d like a water. I do. Returning with it is Sarah Palin. It’s her office. She closes the door and brings me the water. I stand. Now here’s the part where you think you’d act like your normal self in a dream, right? For example, you might say, ‘If that were my dream, I’d punch her lights out’ or something. But you don’t. You never do. You just stand there going, wha…? So I’m standing there in Sarah Palin’s office and she tells me to sit down. I do. She sits behind her desk. There is great natural light in her office. It looks like NYC outside. I look over at Palin and she’s smiling. And to be honest with you, she’s pretty hot in the dream. She’s wearing a loose fitting white blouse buttoned very low. It looks good in the light. Sexy.  So I’m sitting there looking across the desk at her and she starts talking about something. I remember none of the dialogue – none of it. I do remember her foot bumping against mine though. And how she didn’t move it. Then, with her eyes fixed upon mine, she slowly traced her hand across her chest, pulled her blouse back and revealed her right nipple. 

Suddenly, I’m in this massive underground parking garage with my dog. Evidently, he was in the office with me. He has a bad hip so I’m carrying him. We can’t find our car. 

I wake up. 

***

Jim Mitchem

Posted via email from 300 Words

A dream starring @eproulx, @thebrandbuilder and my friend Tim who is not on Twitter.

Sadly, this is the true account of a dream I had last night.

 

I am at game 7 of the World Series in the front row with my longest-known friend Tim, from Cleveland. The series is tied 3-3. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, full count and the bags are juiced. Cleveland is up. In Yankee Stadium. (If you’re not a baseball fan, this scenario is impossible on many levels.) Travis Hafner is at bat. He hits a foul ball down the 3B line. Right at us. ARod comes over to catch it for the 3rd out and to send the game into extra innings, but Tim pushes ARod out of the way and catches it himself. Tim’s ecstatic. I’m ecstatic. We high five and look for the TV cameras. Then we realize Tim’s wearing Indians gear. Boos suddenly rain down on us. On the very next pitch, Hafner hits one out of the stadium. Cleveland wins the World Series. Then Erik Proulx, a Red Sox fan and someone I've never even met in person, incites the crowd around us. We start getting pelted with beer and shoes. The cops have to escort us out. Twelve of them. They take our ball and throw it to the crowd - who then lights it on fire. The abuse continues in the mezzanine. Then out of no where, Oliver Blanchard walks by. He’s wearing a ruffley white shirt and skinny jeans. His hair is perfect. He waves to us, even though he doesn’t know my friend Tim because he’s not on Twitter. “Great game, no?” He says and keeps going. Only, there are like 10,000 or so people following him. Texting, talking on phones and taking pictures. We all have to wait. For fifteen minutes. At this point I think about Inception and how maybe I've gone to Limbo. Strangely, the angry mob stops as the procession passes. Really. You could hear a pin drop. When they finally do pass, we bolt across the breezeway just ahead of the enraged fans. I wake up. 

W.T.F.? 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

A Daydream on a Daydream

“Jim, you haven’t produced anything marketable in 18 months.” Said the slick blond man with dark-rimmed glasses. 

I sat in a chair that was too comfortable. Rather than engage him at eye level, I sunk into the chair and had to look up to my agent. I stood. He leaned back in his chair and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “So what do you say Jim? What’s been in your mind lately?” 

“You should know. You follow me on Twitter. It’s hardly any different than what’s been in my mind since the day we met.” I said, referring to that fateful day years before when I was discovered by Andy Godshaw, Literary Agent to the Stars. 

Andy got up and walked over to where I stood near the window. “Jim. Jimmy. You’ve been talking about this thing, this Twitter thing for some time. Do you have a story on it? People love your fiction, it could work. If you can explain it.” 

I turned to him. “Are you serious? How can you be as successful as you are now without knowing about social media?” 

He laughed, walked over to a bar and poured a scotch. “Look, I’ve been in media for two decades. There’s nothing social about it. It’s ruthless. But by the way you’re acting, I can only think you’re either way too deep into a piece and are living through it somehow, or you need to schedule at session with Doctor Ruffalo.” Dr. Ruffalo being Psychologist to the Stars.

“Really? Are you that out of the loop man? That old?” I spit with a tone. 

“Jennie, Jennie come in here please,” Andy called toward the door. Suddenly a girl appeared. “Jennie dear, what’s Twitter?” 

The girl smiled and shrugged. 

“Thanks Jennie.” He said. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv - that is, if Twitter's really real. 

Posted via email from 300 Words

46 lines

When I was born I wanted to be outside the incubator.

When I was 1 I wanted a breast.

When I was 2 I wanted to take naps in my Nana’s arms.

When I was 3 I wanted a red wagon.

When I was 4 I wanted a father.

When I was 5 I wanted to visit the moon.

When I was 6 I wanted to watch more Johnny Quest.

When I was 7 I wanted the Vietnam War to get off of my television.

When I was 8 I wanted to be the fastest kid on my street.

When I was 9 I wanted to pilot a boat on the Jungle Cruise.

When I was 10 I wanted to be an oceanographer.

When I was 11 I wanted the girl to notice that I pitched a perfect game.

When I was 12 I wanted the world to stop spinning so fast.

When I was 13 I wanted us to move back to Florida.

When I was 14 I wanted to find out why people drank alcohol.

When I was 15 I wanted to skip past high school.

When I was 16 I wanted to understand The Metamorphosis.

When I was 17 I wanted to be a man.

When I was 18 I wanted to never go home again.

When I was 19 I wanted a Fiero.

When I was 20 I wanted another hit of acid thank you very much.

When I was 21 I wanted to have sex with every hot chick I met.

When I was 22 I wanted the fuck out of the Air Force.

When I was 23 I wanted to walk the earth like Caine in Kung Fu.

When I was 24 I wanted to be invisible.

When I was 25 I wanted to kill myself.

When I was 26 I wanted to wake up from a perpetual nightmare.

When I was 27 I wanted a tattoo that would never let me forget.

When I was 28 I wanted all of the happy people in AA to die.

When I was 29 I wanted to know more about God.

When I was 30 I wanted the girl I couldn’t have.

When I was 31 I wanted to never see snow again.

When I was 32 I wanted to finish college.

When I was 33 I wanted to live happily ever after.

When I was 34 I wanted into the ad agency world.

When I was 35 I wanted children.

When I was 36 I wanted out of the ad agency world.

When I was 37 I wanted to kill Islamic extremists.

When I was 38 I wanted my business to be successful NOW.

When I was 39 I wanted to take a crowbar to the guy who repossessed our minivan.

When I was 40 I wanted more strength than I was capable of.

When I was 41 I wanted to earn enough to give my wife the freedom to do anything.

When I was 42 I wanted to embed in our daughters a deep respect for their imagination.

When I was 43 I wanted to stop trying to control every little fucking thing.

When I was 44 I wanted to effectively exploit my talent.

When I was 45 I wanted to understand why I’ve been so blessed.

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

Coach Mount.

When I was 11, I was small for my age. But that didn’t stop me from playing sports. I compensated for my shortfall by being quick and fast. When I played on the 11-12 year old Pop Warner football team, I had just turned 11. I was the smallest player on the team by far. The previous year I was a star center and defensive end playing against kids my size and age. But on this team, I rode the pine. This didn’t stop me from making every practice and working just as hard as the other kids, however. 

Our head coach was named Coach Mount. He was about 9 feet tall with bushy read hair and matching beard. He looked like a lumberjack. He never played me in games. Then during the halftime of the second to last game of the season that we were losing badly, I saw my stepfather talking to Coach Mount before Coach Mount came over to give us the royal ass whooping we deserved (hey, it was Florida - they take their football pretty seriously). I was just taking a seat on my helmet in a semi-circle when I saw Coach Mount throw up his arms and walk away from my stepfather. 

After the you’d-better-play-better-or-else speech, we donned our helmets and Coach Mount gathered us in for a ‘Team!’ chant then released us to the field. Except for me. He pulled me aside by my facemask and without even looking at me told me that I was going to start at right defensive end to start the second half. Then he walked away. 

A swarm of butterflies took flight in my stomach. 

After the opposing team advanced the second-half kickoff, I ran onto the field with the ten other boys on defense -  all of whom were a good helmet taller than me.  In the huddle, the captain asked where I was playing, “right end,” I said. A couple of kids slapped me on the shoulder pads for encouragement. We broke the huddle and I went to my position. I looked over at the sidelines. Coach Mount was standing there with his arms crossed, revealing the terrifying black anchor tattoo on his massive forearm. He was smiling. Smug-like. Two assistant coaches flanked him, and the kid I was temporarily replacing stood in front. They were all looking at me. Behind them in the stands I saw my stepfather sitting on the bleachers like it was any other play. Only this was my first real play of the year. As the opposing team broke their huddle, I watched a massive country boy take his position at left tackle. Suddenly, I forgot how to play defensive end. 

The ball was snapped. The quarterback dropped back to pass. The tackle stepped back to form a pocket. I couldn’t see past him. Then I saw the halfback fade into the flat - they were going right at me. Then a ball flying toward him. I pushed off of the tackle, stepped between the quarterback and halfback and intercepted the pass. I managed to get about 10 yards downfield when what felt like an army of pachyderms fell on top of me. Our sideline erupted, probably for the interception - but I thought it was for me. I looked at Coach Mount as I ran off the field. He didn’t make eye contact and never mentioned the play.

My stepfather didn’t say anything about what happened at halftime of that game, and was instead surprisingly subdued in congratulating me on the interception. But I’m sure he went into his office the following Monday and crowed like a rooster at my accomplishment. Or maybe he talked about how he conquered Coach Mount. 

Size was never an issue for me. Not before that play. Not after it. I’m normal-sized now. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

Church.

That’s right, this is a post about church. I sometimes like to go right for the controversial stuff. 

As a boy, I was raised Southern Baptist. We were poor and lived in a mostly black neighborhood. Feel free to identify me in the image from 2nd grade. You’ve got a 50% shot of getting it right. 

When I went to church, it was a big deal. We went to Sunday school and learned about Jesus. We wore suits. Mine was lime green. Yes, it was a leisure suit. I had another suit for Easter that was checkered. I wore it until the bottoms were near my knees.  We also sang – *really* sang. If you’ve never been to a Southern Baptist church, you don’t know what singing is. Also, we didn't have rock bands at church back then. Finally, every Sunday after church we had a fried chicken feast. 

Today, my wife and kids go to a Baptist church where the only black people is the family the church adopted from Africa. And while there’s no rock band at this church, the choir seems to lack true soul. Sometimes, when I go with my wife and kids, I just look down at the songbook and lip sync. Badly.  Also, kids don’t dress up anymore (they wear flip flops).  Only the old people do. So I guess that just being there is good enough these days. 

I don’t go to church anymore because I believe that religion, by its very nature, is more exclusive than inclusive. And God doesn’t discriminate. I had a personal epiphany about 19 years ago which affected me in such a way that I had no choice but to believe in a power greater than myself. I call this power God. And He really doesn’t care what I want. He just wants me to be humble before Him. So I am. Daily. 

It works for me. And Him.

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

Invasion.

It was a rare night when I retired early. I kissed my wife and kids and went to bed. No sooner had I drifted off, my wife woke me up. 

“Joel! Joel get up!” she said in a forceful whisper, shaking me with both hands.  

It took at a few seconds for things to register, “What. What is –“ 

“Shhh,” she said interrupting me and gripping my arm. “Did you hear that?” In the moonlight I could see that she was looking into the hallway. I didn’t hear anything except the soft growling of the dogs from another room. 

I sat up and glanced at the clock. It was out. In fact, there wasn’t a flicker of light anywhere. “What time is it? Why is the power off?” 

She gripped harder, “Shhh!” 

A faint knock came from the front of the house. I jumped to my feet. “What the fuck is going on, Amy?” 

She shot me a terrified look, and shook her head.

From our window I noticed a streetlight. Next to that, a porch light. I went to the bathroom and threw the switch. Dead. 

Another knock. This time from the kitchen window. 

“Get the kids,” I managed to say while pulling on pants. I ran to the attic string and yanked, then grabbed a child and followed my wife up. 

Another knock. From our bedroom window. The dogs continued to growl. Disoriented.

“Joel!” I hurried up the stairs, gave her a waking child and was going back to get the dogs when their growling was snuffed out by two sharp cries.

I pulled the stairs and they shut with a bang. It was completely black. The children began screaming and were quickly muffled by my wife. I then pulled up the dangling string, and we waited. 

Knock.

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

Social Media Made Me Social

I'm a copywriter who does his best work alone. Yes, I'm all about collaboration to a degree - but when I'm writing, I need only the voices in my head to do my job. Over the years this has caused me to be something of an introvert. Ten years ago I preferred email as my primary means of communication. I loved email because 1) it provides a paper trail and 2) it's highly controllable. With email, as with copywriting, there's no back and forth. No unexpected twists and turns. You control the entire argument and have an opportunity to hammer home your point. To me, email was an extension of copywriting because the only discourse that takes place happens between your ears. Sure, people could reply to email (but not 'reply all' because NOBODY USED TO GET THAT) but you still have the opportunity to control everything you say, and how other people think about what you say.  

Anyway, I was Email Guy during a time when phone calls were the preferred method of communication. 

Enter Social Media. Not only has Social Media made me less introverted (if I'm ever too extroverted, I fully expect someone to taser me), but it's connected me with some amazing people who I wouldn't even know if it weren't for this amazing medium. 

Last night I participated in the world's finest Marketing and Advertising podcast, The Beancast with host Bob Knorpp. Last night's show featured Bill Green and John January, both of whom I follow and engage on Twitter. The show also featured Esteban Contreras, who I didn't know, but who is a kindred spirit like most of the people I follow in SocMe. I may never meet any of these people in person, but dammit if it doesn't feel like I know them. 

Since October 2008, Social Media has allowed introverted Email Guy to thrive in a whole new way. Sure, I still work alone (I have to), but I no longer *feel* alone. Once I open up Tweetdeck, I know that any of the thousands of people who I consider colleagues and friends are there for me.

Has Social Media helped me become more social IRL? Sure, but I've never aspired to be social IRL, anyway. I don't do a lot of 'Tweetups' because that's just not my bag. I don't need to meet you IRL to know whether I like you. Which is to say that I know a lot of people who use SocMe to advance their IRL networks because that works for them. The way I see it - if you know me here, you know me IRL. Trust me. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Note: If you're in Marketing or Advertising in any capacity, I highly recommend you subscribe to The Beancast. You don't even have to listen to my episode - but if you don't subscribe, you're missing out on one very entertaining hour every week with some of the smartest people in our industry and hosted by one talented sonofabitch in Knorpp. 

iPhone4 Review for Regular People

We have 300 million people in this country and we can't find 11 guys to beat Ghana in soccer? 

[NOTE: This is not a detailed technical review and is not endorsed by many readers as anything like a review at all. Mostly, it's just me doing some free writing on what I think about this new device. Enjoy.]

As you probably know, I picked up the iPhone4 on Thursday by standing in line at the mall. And while most of my time that night was dedicated to setting up my old 3Gs for my kid, I did manage to play around with 4 enough to post this on my Facebook page: "Just got the iPhone. Meh." And of course people were all like 'Wha...??" and "I told you so, Droid rules!" and things like that. 

I've had the phone for a couple days now and am qualified to give it a non-geek review. The list below are the primary features as per the Apple website.

Face Time - I haven't used this feature yet. And while it seems really cool, I don't like talking much on the phone anyway, and when I do, I'm often not presentable for a face-to-face convo. Which leaves any routine relevance of this feature to talking with my wife. And she still has a 3Gs - so she doesn't have this feature. So basically this selling point is irrelevant to me right now. 

Retina Display - Amazing. Crisp. Beautiful. The most obvious upgrade when you pick up this phone. Everything jumps off of the screen. Brilliant. 

Multitasking - I love the idea of multitasking, but until the apps I use catch up to the OS, I really can't tell how this works. 

HD Video - I haven't uploaded any video and watched it on my TV yet, so the only thing I know about HD video is that when iTunes tries to synchronize events from iPhoto, that the videos I shoot on iPhone4 aren't compatible with the 3Gs phones we have. 

5-Megapixel Camera w/LED Flash - The camera is amazing. Sharp and beautiful images. Great upgrade on an already great camera in the 3Gs (versus the Blackberry I had before my first iPhone). Also very cool is the front-facing camera feature. No more guessing on whether the photo you shoot of you and your friend from arm's distance is composed properly or not. However, the LED flash sucks. Everyone looks like they have jaundice. I don't reckon a simple software upgrade's going to fix this, so I feel a little jipped on the flash.

Folders - More an OS thing than hardware, the folders feature is solid. Just drag and drop one app onto another and voila - a folder appears. Folders can only hold 12 apps, however, so you may have to be pretty specific with your folder naming conventions. 

iMovie - I only add this because this app launched last week and it's as bad as the iLife application for Mac. Limited and with little relevance, save your $4.99. 

Antenna - There were some early reports of iPhone4 losing connectivity when held a certain way, but I was lucky enough to get a rubber bumper and haven't had any issues with calls (or rather, bars) dropping. I even tried it without the bumper, and it works fine. And to be honest with you, this was my #1 selling point. I get a lot of dropped calls for two reasons: 1) AT&T and 2) ancient plaster walls. If you tell me you have an antenna that can compensate for these things, I'm all over it. And after two days with this phone, I can tell you that the antenna seems to be the real deal. My wifi sticks better. I have more bars. I haven't messed with bluetooth, but I'm sure that it's better too. 

Bottom line, I really like this new iPhone. Then, I loved 3Gs. Don't get me wrong - iPhone4 is a nice upgrade, but I'm guessing that 3G users will be more impressed than those coming over from 3Gs. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Posted via email from 300 Words

On a couch

On a couch, in a room, in a house, on a street, in a neighborhood, in a city, in a county, in a state, in the US, in North America, in the northern hemisphere, in the western hemisphere, on a planet, in a solar system, in a galaxy, in a universe - reading with the kids. 

Posted via email from Jim's posterous

It's Not You, It's Me.

Social Media lets you connect with people you’d ordinarily never even know, much less meet in person. It provides an opportunity to expand your network to the farthest reaches of the planet like no communications tool before it. Think about it – before SocMe, if you read a magazine article written by a guy in India and you really liked the article and felt compelled to connect with him, you’d have to pick up the phone and call. Eww. 

Expanding networks means entering into new relationships with new people. Sure, these relationships are accommodated by wires and glass, but they’re driven by real people. And depending on the level of authenticity and openness people bring to the table, you can become quite close. Which makes it a little awkward when the relationships don’t work out. Sure, you’ll never make everyone you meet happy – there’s no reason to even try. If you’re yourself though, and you make what appear to be sincere connections with other people through your sharing on Twitter (or anywhere in SocMe), when someone you think you’re close to unfollows you, it makes you to think about why. People say it doesn’t, because people are too cool to admit this, but trust me – they do. 

Recently, I was surprised to see a particular person unfollow me. We'd passionaltely engaged each other for more than a year and a half. And this guy didn't even say goodbye. I know because I unfollow people who unfollow me. I'm a prick like that - sue me. Anyway, I even tweeted ‘goodbye’ before reciprocating his unfollow. So it was no mistake. I get that people change and all that, but it’s still weird.

However, this stuff happens here. And it makes you wonder - if only for an hour. Then you move on. 

***

Jim Mitchem/@smashadv

Note: I don't unfollow anyone unless they unfollow me. I don't care if we disagree on every subject. This is not to say I follow everyone either - nor do I follow everyone back, but I do follow people if we productively engage. Ok, this is starting to sound really stupid now. Erase this whole post from your memory. {{swinging a pocket watch}}