There’s something about a shoeshine

What is it about having my shoes shined that brings such a good feeling?

It’s not just the end product, although there’s a certain proud feeling walking around in a pair of newly polished, squeaky clean, shiny shoes. It has nothing to do with being served or pampered. No, it's more than that.

There’s something almost Zen-like in those five to ten minutes that I’m sitting in that big, comfy, worn-leather, throne-like chair. It’s a feeling of being removed from the world for those few minutes, where nothing else really matters. Relaxed in the chair, I am held captive until the shoeshiner is done his or her job. (A job they do with remarkable focus and pride, I might add. When I’ve polished my shoes at home – and it’s been a long time since that happened, since I’ve discovered the joy, ease and inexpensive option of visiting the shoeshiner – it’s been a real chore. The sooner I finish, the better. But while I would be done the job in a few minutes on my own, the shoeshiner goes on and on, polishing and wiping and shining for another five minutes or more. But I digress.)

Held captive in that comfy chair, sitting high above ground level, I am the king of my domain. I can read the morning paper, listen to some music, check emails, or simply people watch – all while sitting completely still for those few moments, nowhere else to go… nowhere else I’d rather be. While the rush of the city and Grand Central terminal goes on around me, I am still, peaceful, contemplative. We don’t get many moments like those every day. Who knew a simple stop at the shoeshine stand could deliver so much more than a shiny shoe?

My Dog is Like a Super Villain

Like a super villain, my dog is bent on utter destruction. Instead of plotting the end of the world, however, my dog is content to settle for a less lofty goal.

Mostly, he’s happy destroying his toys. Utterly destroying them. I recall as a child how much I cherished my most prized toys. If something happened and one of them got slightly damaged, let alone destroyed, I was devastated. In fact (true confession here), once when my "Captain Action" action figure lost a hand, I went so far as to “borrow” (OK, steal) the hand from my brother’s Captain Action figure to restore my Captain’s dismembered plastic body. (Sorry, Kyle.) I  just couldn’t stand the thought of playing with a damaged Captain Action.

But I digress. My point is that this dog has the complete opposite instinct. When he's playing with his toys, he is hell-bent on destroying them and he will settle for nothing less than their utter destruction – no matter how “indestructible” their packaging claims them to be. Fortunately, these days his destructive tendencies are channeled primarily on his toys. Earlier in his young life, his path of destruction included our couch and an “indestructible” dog leash (special word of thanks to the honorable “indestructible” dog leash company that honored its promise to replace any leash that was destroyed…).

Captain Action surely would have interceded (even minus one hand) to stop Megamind or Dr. Evil or any other super villains he faced from their paths of destruction. We, however, allow Cooper to continue on his ruthless mission of destruction, replacing the Kongs and balls and other “indestructible” toys when and as needed. So long as he channels his destructive tendencies on his toys and nothing else in the house, it's a simple price to pay for allowing him the pleasure of fulfilling his super-villainous instincts.

There once was a lady on a train...

I suppose there’s a place in the world for the limerick. I also suppose I enjoyed them as a child.

Recently, I was jarringly reminded of how seldom I consider the limerick – and perhaps how little respect I have for its place in the creative realm – when a fellow commuter seated in front of me on the train decided to read a book of limericks to her two children. Out loud. Over and over. And over again. What I learned from the experience:

1. There once were a lot of old men and old women. They make up nine-tenths of the characters in limericks.
2. It’s virtually impossible to concentrate on your own reading when someone nearby is reciting limericks out loud. Try it.
3. Amateur limerick readers find it necessary to overemphasize the rhyming words, while adopting an annoyingly sing-song cadence to the lines.
4. No one should ever read more than two limericks out loud in one sitting.

About half-way into my commute, the woman announced to her children and her surrounding victims, “We’re only a third of the way through the book.” I suddenly felt a very strong inclination to share with the youngsters the only limerick I’ve managed to retain over the years. You know, the one that begins, “There once was a man from Nantucket…”

After a while, the woman shared a most welcome observation: “They get a little boring after a while, don’t they?” and called it quits. A collective sigh of relief could be felt throughout the car – and the kids didn't seem too upset, either.

"Just a Writer"

On two occasions recently, I found myself feeling internally defensive about my chosen career as a copywriter.

The first time, the president of another agency asked me what I do at my agency. When I said I was a copywriter she sighed, “Sometimes I wish I was still just a writer.” I know she meant me no harm; it was more a reflection of her own busy workload and I suppose a desire to return to less stressful, easier days as a writer. Still, it stuck in my crawl.

On the second occasion, I was lunching with a group of agency coworkers, discussing past jobs. An art director was lamenting about a previous position at another agency where he worked for a creative director who, as he put it, was “just a writer.” In other words, he wasn’t qualified to be a creative director, overseeing the work of designers. This may be true – I don’t know the guy or anything about his experience or talent. But it struck me as a derogatory statement about writers in general; i.e., “he can’t be my boss… he can’t have creative oversight… he’s just a writer.”

“Just a writer.” It’s a demeaning sentiment, whether intentional or not. It’s that little word “just” that makes all the difference. Just a writer; nothing more.

Thankfully, I have enough pride in my work and my position that I don’t take it too seriously. But every now and then it sneaks up on me and leaves me feeling... “just” a little annoyed.