Family

We just wrapped up our annual family Kris Kringle revelations - a goofy, rambunctious family tradition that we've managed to observe over the years despite the extended family wrangling and the general drifting apart  of once-close relatives.

I don't think of myself as an overly-sentimental man, but maybe because I'm getting on, I suppose I'm beginning to see family in a different light.

It's easy to take them for granted, especially when one is busy chasing one's ambitions.

But at the end of the day, being surrounded by material possessions - the trophies of success - one finds oneself still empty and unsatisfied.

And yet, one funny, laughter-filled day with my parents, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and my favorite dog somehow makes me happier than any flashy sports car or new addition to my various hoards of beautiful things.

I don't spend a whole lot of time with the folks nor my siblings, for various reasons. And I realize my reasons, at the end of the day, have little value.


Work is important. But family even more so.


I think that shall be my first resolution and epiphany for this new year.


I wonder what yours will be.


While you think about it, a good and prosperous 2013 to you and yours.

And may you cherish things of real value.

Like family.

Life In Advertising

On the occasion of the start of the last quarter of the year, I'm interrupting my Paris Je T'aime series to bring you this little infographic on the life I have chosen:

As usual, click to embiggen.

Thanks to copyranter for the link.


And never fear, I shall be back to bore you with more pictures of Paris afterwards.


A tout a l'heure, messieurs.

Peak Season

Straight from the airport to a three-project interlock with client.

Currently finishing revisions for tomorrow morning's presentation to their Big Boss and a slew of sales personnel.

When I get home later tonight (or early the next morning, God forbid), I have to do two storyboards and collate documentation for the projects airing over this coming weekend.

Shooting for another project immediately after tomorrow's presentation, interspersed with work-in-progress interlocks for other ongoing projects.

Nine more storyboards for three upcoming projects to be done, then meetings the morning after, recording voiceovers in the afternoon, more editing way, way into the evening.

Release materials early the next day, secure clearances for airing by lunchtime, then spend the remainder of the day (and most of the night) for offline edits for one of the three projects we just graded in Hong Kong over the weekend.

Spend Saturday doing offline edit for the second project, Sunday for the third, in time for Monday afternoon's interlock with client, after I spend the morning stuck in even more meetings.

Another shoot the next day, interspersed with offline revisions, and then five edit-downs for previously-aired projects have to be discussed with my editor.

Day after shoot, we fly once again, this time back to a battered and battle-weary Bangkok.

Variations and permutations of this dance till the end of August  - for now.



What was that line again?




Oh, yes.




There's plenty of time to sleep when you're dead.

Taking Off In The New Year

Well, talk about hitting the ground running.

The Silent Hill fog caused by the metro-wide fireworks festivities hadn't even had a chance to clear up when I was already in the studio on a set check. First day of the new decade, and already working. The first week of January went by in a blur of consecutive 4-day shoots and random leftover edits from last year. I think we're the first guys in the industry to shoot anything this year, so w00t, w00t!

I am in a Bangkok post-production house, waiting to begin color-grading 35 reels of footage as I type this. And since my regular colorist is still on holiday (damn Brits), I'm unsure what time we'll be done with this new guy who's taking over. Oh, well. This was supposed to be work, not a junket.

When we return to Manila, I shall go straight to the editing suite from the airport. Four post-heavy commercials to finish in two weeks, over and above 4 random re-edits, 4 music scores, another deadline-tight production on the way, and 2 new creative briefs client thoughtfully emailed me before I left for the airport. Hmmm - we've had worse. I think my record was a dozen spots within six weeks. Then again, I anticipate the worst each and every time.  Not that I'm a pessimist; anticipating the worst just means I won't be caught off-guard if and when the worst does happen. And if it doesn't, well then aaaaallll-righttttyyyy!

Annnnnd it's time to work, which is just right because I'm just rambling right now.

Happy New Year, all, and may you hit the ground running, too.

Brain Farts

In a previous post, I held forth that work can be a blessing in times of crises, personal or otherwise. In that work occupies our attention and gives us something constructive to do, other than standing still worrying about things we have no control over.

While many of our countrymen are still reeling from the aftermath of Ondoy, life - and work - goes on for the rest of us. A colleague was grousing over the fact that work demands have effectively cut short his volunteering for the Ondoy relief efforts. I suppose it's a question of priorities: in the long run, what does truly matter most? Helping others in a time of great distress, or making sure one meets the deadline for yet another radio commercial?

I maintain that we all have different responsibilities in life - work included. And that the needs of others may still be best served by the mere fact that we continue to do our jobs, and do them well. If everyone who worked for telecoms and other service providers like utilities companies, stores, and media just dropped everything in order to continue trooping to volunteer stations, we would grind to a standstill and be worse off than we already are.

And so, to help, some of us simply have to continue just doing our jobs - mundane as it may sound.

It's at times like these that I question the relevance of what I do for a living. The last time I had any real existential angst about being in advertising was when I was but a young copywriter during the first Gulf War. Everyone went panic-buying and, as the countdown to the US invasion of Iraq drew ever closer, believed that the world was about to end. It threw into great relief what little value our work had when set against the greater scheme of things. As one of my CDs so succinctly put it: "Wala talagang kuwenta ang ginagawa natin."

Advertising - and its cousin, show business - is a study in contrasts. The stress levels are high, but so is the fun. The output may be shallow, but the input that goes into making them are serious. The hours we keep rival those of doctors - practically always on-call. But I can't say our work directly saves lives or anything noble like that. Oh, sure, there's the occasional pro bono work and advocacies, but most of the time, my opinion is that these are little more than awards-bait and ultimately, self-serving.

I'm writing this because I am once again stumped because I can't seem to summon concepts for a project whose deadline has long passed and is terribly overdue. Ironically, in the midst of all this death and destruction, my task is to think of a humorous approach to sell something prosaic. And while I am distressed by what Ondoy has wrought, I cannot in all honesty say it has devastated me to the point of immobility. Like others, I and my loved ones have been spared this time around, and therefore I am fine and functional. I'm writing this, am I not?

I just can't write what I'm supposed to write for a living right now.

One of the priests in my alma mater once lamented that they trained us to change the world, and we end up writing back label copy for pineapple juice instead. Perhaps, just like the priesthood, many are called, but few are chosen. And even fewer make a conscious choice.

I ended up in advertising by sheer happenstance. I was going to be a journalist - at least, I thought I would be. Like most youthful idealists, I was going to rage against the system and stab it with my pen, crusading for truth, justice, and freedom.

As that old chestnut goes, life is what happens while you're busy making other plans. And so it passed that I find myself having chosen to stay in this line of work instead. I have no illusions about advertising and have long stopped equating my work with my self-worth, unlike newbie writers who take it personally and weep the first few times client rejects their brilliant ideas. I'm old enough to know and canny enough to accept that all of us in this field utilize our talents in the service of commerce - nothing more, nothing less. My art and whatever pet causes I have, I should do on my own time. Given the constant demands of business, that time doesn't amount to much.

What is the point of this long ramble?

Sigh. Father, while I understand that what we do shapes us more than we know, what I do for a living is not all that I am. While my work informs who I have become in imperceptible ways, I am still more than the sum of 30-second commercials hawking beer and bubblegum.

What I do is not who I am.

At least, that is what I would like to believe. And I would like to give it more thought, but right now, I have to write a funny commercial and sell soap.

The Midnight Toil

It is half-past midnight and I am writing this from the editing suite. My editor, my PM*, and I are pulling another all-nighter for a rush job that has to be approved tomorrow for airing the day after.

It's one of those hectic yet curiously non-toxic days. I was up at 6:00 a.m., was at client's by 8:00, got through 4 briefings for upcoming projects before the big client presentation at 10:30, then a couple more briefings right afterwards followed by an interlock**. Then it was off to the studio for a jingle revision, then pre-work with my editor, then home to finish rendering some animation, then back here to piece the rush job together in time for tomorrow's interlock.

I should be a wreck but I am oddly at peace.

Work is a godsend sometimes. And I don't mean its material rewards.

Work helps me take my mind off my private fears and worries and gives me something else to focus on. It makes me feel productive, that I've done something with my time today aside from plumbing the internet till my eyes bleed. It gives me a sense of control over things that have a definite beginning and a definite end. A sharp contrast to the rudderless ship that is my personal life, adrift in the doldrums, waiting for fair winds and seeking the North Star in an empty, moonless sky.

Purpose. For whatever it's worth, work gives you a sense of purpose. It may be shallow and insignificant when set against the panorama of The Big Picture, but God, as they say, is in the details.

At its noblest, the purpose of work is to give some meaning to being. And while I normally have no problem whatsoever doing absolutely nothing, I don't want absolutely everything to be nothing.

So thank God for work. For idle minds are indeed the devil's workshop, and mine needs a reprieve from the hammering of my personal demons.

And with that - gotta get back to work.

*Production Manager, aka the guy you ask if ten more Frappuccinos from Starbucks and two packs of cigs are still within the production budget.
** Interlock: The process wherein Client and Agency come together to view a communications material, usually followed by Client rendering said material unrecognizable as Creative slits its wrists while Accounts takes notes.

Vive La Rain

As far as I can recall, I've always loved the rain.

It was the harbinger of good things. Unscheduled school holidays. Staying indoors and watching TV all day. Anticipating lola's champorado for merienda. I don't think there's a child alive who doesn't enjoy playing in the rain, so the few times we were allowed to frolic gleefully in a downpour are among my fondest childhood memories.

Storms were even more glorious. I remember praying and praying for Signal No. 2, and considered Yoling, Duling, and Tililing to be tempestuous aunts whose visits were a free pass not to go to school. When my grandfather and uncles would literally batten down the house in anticipation of a storm's fury, I felt safe and protected. When the power would go out and the winds howled in the darkness outside, there was calm in the flickering light of my grandmother's gasera. I would watch the flame, warm and comforting like the blanket around me, until I, too, was out like a light.

As an adult, I still love to sleep safe and snug under the covers as the driving rain lashes outside.


Of course, I only love the rain as long as I don't get caught in it.


No sane person enjoys commuting in the rain. The murderous scramble for a jeep or bus, sardined with dripping and sweaty fellow wage-slaves. Getting caught in traffic while desperately needing to take a leak, with nothing to look forward to after disembarking except the certainty of wading through flooded streets in search of leptospirosis or worse, a chance meeting with an open manhole.

It also literally puts a damper on my social life - whatever wisps of it are left. When it rains, I couldn't be bothered to get dressed and go out. It's just far too tempting to stay in bed and watch endless DVDs. It also doesn't help that my compound gets flooded easily, or that my car is so lowered it doesn't run over snails so much as scrape them along. Just last week I missed a friend's birthday blowout (yes, I know you texted me all through the week to remind me) and another friend's anniversary (next time, send the wild horses) due to - you guessed it - the rain.

The fickleness of the weather also wreaks havoc on my work. It's comforting to know I wasn't the only one playing tag with the rain all throughout July. Clients, being the darlings that they are, will always approve outdoor storyboards at the onset of the rainy season. The loveliest of clients will make no provisions for weather contingency. And the sweetest of them all will carve their breakdates in stone: rain, storm, meteors hurtling down from the heavens notwithstanding.

It's a long-standing superstition in the industry that you have to make alay eggs at the Sta. Clara monastery if you wish to have good weather on the day of your shoot. I'd be willing to believe "Twilight" is a masterpiece of literature if it would make my shoots go smoother. So whenever the production assistants "forget" to offer eggs and dark clouds form simultaneously in the skies and on my brows, I threaten to offer their testicles instead if it would clear the heavens instantly.

Nevertheless, alay or no alay ng mga alalay, I had to play best of 3 with the rain for my last project. I cancelled a Friday shoot, which turned out to be a good call because it rained cats and dogs that day. My next bets were Sunday and Monday, and since it rained gerbils and skunks on Saturday, I called off the Sunday shoot, as well.

The sun shone fiercely and bright all throughout Sunday. As if that wasn't enough mockery, client texted me just to share her observation about what a fine day it was.

Monday came, and it was a draw. It rained, I fretted, but the rain was not an endless downpour. It gamely stopped to allow us to shoot a few frames here and there, and in the end, when you look at the commercial, you'd never think there was even a drop of precipitation that day. A colleague of mine fared less well: she had a two-day weekend shoot - requiring expanses of green fields and blue skies, of course - and both days they got rained out. Hard.

Both. Days.

Luckily she had a weather contingency - an extra day to shoot the following weekend. The sun shone happy and bright for most of the week, and on the day of her shoot - well, let's just say it's harder for people to tell if you're weeping when you're getting drenched.


Still - I love the rain.

Rest for the Wicked

I'm currently enjoying a brief and well-deserved respite from work.

My field is advertising, and as any agency slave knows, the work knows no hours. It's even better when you're freelance, because THEN it doesn't matter which 18 hours of the day you work.

Been freelancing for close to a decade now and have been blessed with a steady stream of work from clients. One major client's stream, in particular, has, over the years, gradually swelled into a series of tsunamis. I'm not one to knock blessings, because in freelancing, lean seasons can reach famine proportions. But when it rains, oh how it pours, and the resulting tidal surges have just swept me along and swept everything else aside.

I was born in the sign of water, and it's natural for me to go with the flow and ride the tide. But I remember years ago, back in my agency drudge days, my sage ACD admonished me. "Why do you always have to go with the flow? Make your own waves!" he said.

That piece of advice has, for the most part, been observed more in the breach, when I examine my work vs. life ratio. It is August, and I have barely kept my head above the water with the relentless crashing of wave upon wave of projects and the infinitesimal problems they come with. Like a drowning man, I've only managed to thrash to the surface to get a gulp of air before being sucked by the undertow again.

Truth be told, I've been so busy my checks often run the danger of being stale. You know you need help when you're too busy to deposit your check payments. I also have unbilled projects from last year, and client has chided me repeatedly for not billing. "How can I bill you when I barely have time to even sleep?!?!" I wailed.

And it's true. I enjoy the adrenaline rush of handling multiple, overlapping projects, but all it takes is a major setback in one to create a pile-up worthy of "Smashup on Highway 59" proportions. It's then that I feel like Mickey Mouse in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice", trying valiantly to stem the onslaught of marching broomsticks dumping more and more water on an already overflowing well.

My stock answer whenever anyone asks me how I've been consists of one four-letter word: "Work." That four-letter word has caused me to miss my mom's birthday, my dad's birthday, their anniversary, a friend's funeral, and countless other personal engagements. I can't even remember the last time I had sex. There.just.simply.isn't.time.

Oh, I can hear you now. "You MAKE time for important things, you fool!" "You just need good time management" "Maybe your priorities are screwed" Good and valid points, all. I never in a million years would define myself as a workaholic, but my behavior suggests otherwise. Work takes precedence over everything else. When I am working, I am incommunicado to anyone outside of work. "How r u" texts either get deleted promptly with no response, or if a response is actually made, it is "I'm busy."

The few remaining friends I have left already know the code. "I'm busy" means "Go away don't bug me dammit I don't have time to listen to your personal drama please do not bother me unless you're about to die and even then I'm not sure I can make the funeral."

It makes me a horrible friend and a terrible son. Then again, it's been ages since I was a sweet-faced choirboy. I find myself trying to buy my way back into everyone's affections, like a chronically-sinful Catholic on an indulgence subscription plan. When I have rare moments of introspection such as this, I find myself trying to justify everything. I have few memories of my father when I was growing up, because he was often abroad for years at a stretch on business. He made up for it by giving us material things, but the cost was that I never really knew him, and is the reason why our relationship today, while better, is still tentative and cautious.

It must be a blessing that I have dogs in lieu of children. They don't see me for weeks on end sometimes, but when I finally call them, they come gleefully. All is forgiven, we love you still. But then again, while I love dogs and their affection is sweet, their slavish devotion is also cheap. My Persian gets more brownie points the rare times he deigns to rub up against me asking for some fur stroking.

There's a scene in "The Devil Wears Prada" where the boyfriend tells Andie "The person whose calls you take - that's the person you're having a relationship with." I guess that means I've been having a very long relationship with a married woman who's my human alarm clock.

The curious thing about all this is that, yes, I finally, finally have my long-awaited break. Projects are done, they are on air, feedback is good. I have made enough money to be able to afford not working till next year. Client hasn't texted nor called me for two days now. I should be happy and enjoying this blessed idleness.

So why am I sitting by the phone waiting for the next briefing?


Work has become my life.


Ergo - I have no life.