hey say losing one’s job is like a death. I don’t know who ‘they’ are but the process of acceptance parallels similar feelings I experienced post dad’s funeral. A foggy disbelief settles in fueled by a lot of pointless masturbation, snacking and staring at walls in coming to terms with my grim reality; I have no place to go tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the one after that one. And that’s another thing that quickly occurs: I’ve lost all sense of routine and timing. My pre-dawn coffees are now comfortably debuting around 9:00am. My first thoughts this morning were how to spend Saturday. Only today is Sunday. In less than a week one’s routine flies out the window. And you learn just how structured your little rat-mazed, pointless webinar office existence really was. And you’re glad to be away from that slow death.

Because it is like a death. In the days and weeks ahead I’ll share my experience and observations on losing my job. Not that my job loss is unique; oh hells no, sweeties. The October unemployment stats released last week; our nation’s unemployment rate now hovers at 10.2%. The highest number since the economic struggles of 1983. There are currently 16-million Americans out of work. Seventy five percent of that number are male. October also signaled the beginning of the end of unemployment benefits for nearly 7,000 people a day. That’s a helluva’ lot of folks who’ve been out of work for a full year. If I think too much on how long I may be out of work my heart races while I mentally scan closets for things to eBay.

But back to that death thang. On Tuesday, September 29th, I learned that our long valiant struggle to keep the agency afloat was ending. Figuratively our CEO pulled the plug; I suppose literally, too. One could hear the life of the agency suck out of the conference room that morning as we grasped fresh goddamned truths. We were done. All that remained was the systematic shut down of operations. Only it wasn’t systematic at all; it was fresh ‘women & children first’ Hell. As I knew it would be. Years ago I worked with a retailer who bankrupted; it took three weeks to box inventory, trash signage and displays while once-loyal employees stole the place blind. All the merchandise we’d so carefully and proudly steamed, stacked and inventoried either tossed into large rolling plywood wardrobes or the dumpster bins. I vowed never to repeat that experience.

ut priorities shift and twenty-something dramatic pledges are wasted on the stupidity of youth and trim waistlines. The truth of the matter is this: I wanted to stay till the bitter end. In my twisted fucked fashion I willingly chose to play agency loyalist, an acolyte in Christ’s final tortured trudge up the mount. It’s that hero thing I noted earlier. I thought maybe there was something I could do. Or maybe my sheer will, presence and puppy dog eyes would prevent the roving scavengers that descended once our office inventory hit Craigslist. You’d be surprised what folks will pry off a wall when it’s free. I’ve learned that civilized society and the rules that govern that concept hang by man’s delicate thread of cultural rules and decorum for what’s acceptable in any given situation. That breaks down when one thinks nobody’s looking. I’m surprised our toilet stall door remained. But I digress.

Death is anger. Well it’s one of the stages one traverses to acceptance. That’s what tassel-loafered therapists tell us. And my anger is real and raw. The very last question I want to hear right now is “what are you going to do?” It’s far too early for that challenging answer. The morning I learned that my 30-year career was finished filled me with a white-blue hot hatred I’ve not felt in years. I wanted to punch something. Someone. Break something. I wanted to scream. And cry. And shout “NOT ME” even though why not me. And that keeps me focused; I did not fail. There are 16-million others out there who know what I’m talking about. Who can feel what I’m feeling. It was a blue-skied morning that found me violently flinging my office in-bins and scraggy desk plant into filthy dumpsters; it was part rage and part Joan Crawford melodrama. I took my crown of thorns on a dark loading dock.

I lost my job as Vice President of Creative Services.

closed my office door for the last time Friday, October 30th, at 3:30pm. The advertising agency has dissolved; closed down. Shut operations. Not like I didn’t see the proverbial handwriting on the wall; it’s been common knowledge that we operated on razor thin margins for months. My salary was cut last February; I moved to a more affordable address and paid down debt to roll with it. Tuesday, September 22nd, I learned that my 30-year career in advertising was finished via a ten minute meeting. Our CEO wore a suit; I admired the nod towards professionalism. It was a challenging speech to deliver. And a heartbreaking speech to hear. I studied the conference table’s wood grain. I wondered where such a large table would end up while biting my cheek to remain stone-faced.

Actually, no, I did not lose my job. It was taken from me.

Just like jobs have been taken from 15-million Americans. I keep that at the forefront of my thoughts; I did not fail. The agency gave its all and then some to stay afloat. Many many sacrifices were made. And though I could laundry list a litany of knuckle-headed mistakes, cluster-fucked areas of mismanagement and cloudy judgments during a 20-year tenure I remain steadfast in my beliefs that had a robust economy been rolling along our outcome would’ve been different. If our workplace paralleled the sorrowful Titanic tragedy my role was the proud architect clutching at unsinkable blueprints. I did not really plan for the shut down of a once thriving, million+ billings agency; I was naively hopeful and knee-deep in denial.

We were never one of the mega worldwide agencies in our specific product/market niche but we were always there snapping at the big dogs for any major piece of business; we maintained three offices. And there was a lot of it, business; enough for all competitors to benefit and reap profits, too. Ours was a reputable shop; we delivered sound media plans and strategic campaigns mindful of our client’s budget. The creative product was tight and solid; I will remain enthralled at the genius of ideas that sparked to life despite limited budgets, impossibly short deadlines and, at times, clashing personalities. Stroll the corridors of any advertising agency and vivid words like ‘guru,’ ‘maven,’ and ‘diva’ spring to life.

It pains me personally and professionally that some folks at competitor offices in other cities near and far are downright gleeful that we’ve closed shop. Exactly what they’re celebrating puzzles me. Saddens me. What victory are they riding to town on? An advertising agency is only as good as its people. There was goodness here; real people who valued and took pride in their work, talents and business ethics behind the company’s logo and namesake founder.

n my heyday I managed a Creative Department with a staff of nine hard working Creatives; it was a blessing. With three locations and despite different time zones that Creative team delivered award-winning results. I can honestly state that in my 20-year role as Creative Director we never missed a damn Production deadline. Never. If you’ve not worked in a deadline-driven environment you probably have no frame of reference regarding that type of pressure cooker environment. I thrived; I was that guy in college with a nine-week project who aced it before deadline in nine hours. It was addictive; there’s a super hero quotient in pulling great creative out of nowhere in the final hours leading to a client presentation. Too, I hired and worked alongside some very very creative men and women who, though cliche, were literally the “wind beneath my wings.” The team worked well together overall; there were a couple divas that come to mind but those types usually flame out early on career-wise. There’s a warm exhaustion experienced in leaving a new prospect’s conference room post-presentation. So many smiling faces and happy handshakes; you delivered what they were looking for. What they envisioned but couldn’t communicate. I always liked that small window of time between “…we’ll talk next steps Monday” and rushed meeting recaps on the way to an airport.

Since last October I’ve laid off five members of our Creative team. I was the last man standing, literally and figuratively. There’s some minuscule sense of defiant pride that I didn’t jump at a competitor’s general inquiry last fall. I felt blindly confident that we’d be around. It’s a hard thing to do, you know, to look someone in the eye and release them from their job. I never did like that part of my VP management role.

I won’t have those troubling concerns to worry about now. The past few weeks were spent packing it up; my role in all of that is completed; the halls were filled with blue recycle bins as the ‘thump thump whump’ of papers slammed. It’s hard to understand, really. This is not what I expected. I did not plan for tomorrow because it’s always been today. Maybe you get that. I carefully packed creative print samples recently; a coworker asked why:

“For the agency archives; this is work that was created here!”

“Agency archives? The agency is gone, Michael! There’s no reason to save it! Why save the past when there’s no future?”

Into the blue dumpsters; everything we worked for. Stood for. Gone with no real reward, fanfare or fight left for those with boxed belongings riding the elevators. Our legacy sleeps now.

Do you know why witches can’t have babies?

Cuz their husbands have hollow weenies…

OH grow up! YOU know you’re going to steal that from me. Hope your weekend plans are big fun!

Better take better care of your gravy boats, ladies. And mind your Versace leather goods, too. Looks like the medusa luxury brand is taking a hit from economic realities. I feel sad; it’s been awhile since I snagged any Versace. Probably going to be a very long time before I will again, too. Le sigh.

Say that ten times real fast. “Precious pooches, precious pooches, precious pooches…” Well, you get my drift. Kind of trills off the tongue, eh? Only when you’re gay it sounds like a radiator leak. But I lovingly digress.

Aren’t these Halloween doggies adorable? Folks that get creative with their pets must have a good sense of humor. Maybe the pets don’t like it so much but it’s all in good fun. I scoured the innernetz for these lil’ goblins. It seems the smaller the dog the more outlandish the costuming. Maybe because a rottweiler won’t stand for this type of foofie fun.