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June 4, 2001
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Yes, perhaps not the most optimistic way to begin my weekly/monthly/semi-biannual dispatch, but a seemingly appropriate one nevertheless. The jungles of South America were a stroll through a daisy-filled garden compared to the horrors I have discovered to be lurking in this so-called "civilized" world. I knew I would not be returning to the same perk-laden land I had left behind. But Jesus Christo, this is ridiculous.
Then again, perhaps I was simply naive. I knew people, I had reassured myself on that long boat ride up the coast (digressing, after departing my jungle lair, sympathetic associates secured travel aboard a tramp freighter, which set sail only under the darkness of night to avoid the suspicious glare of Coast Guard cutters. What other cargo the small craft carried I neither knew nor asked. Such is the way of the smugglers’ code.) A few calls, perhaps an unsolicited office visit or two with my storied portfolio in hand and my slender bankroll would be swelled once again by a stream of freelance money in little time at all.
How horribly wrong I was soon proved to be. You see, in glorious 20/20 hindsight, it seems I had grossly overestimated both the health of the industry, and the magnanimity of my past acquaintances. For in this newfound dog-eat-baby world which bares scant resemblance to the "ad game" I left behind, it seems neither my moderately rapier wit, nor my readily acknowledged skills at turning the carefully-honed phrase, are in any sort of demand whatsoever. Not even piecemeal, at my grossly-exorbitant freelance rate.
"Are we hiring? What, have you been living in a tree?" the faceless "creative gatekeepers" ask, hanging up before I can answer in the sincere affirmative. But of course, my response is not important, as I have learned this to be little more than a rhetorical question. The answer is no. Not now, nor anytime in the foreseeable dot-com bankruptcy-driven future. Now leave us be, lest your sorry plight be contagious.
Alas, while I regret saying so, I have to admit I have found some solace in discovering that there are some former self-proclaimed "creatives" in even worse state than myself. And as I have become familiar with the faces at the local Red Cross (where a pint of healthy red cells can sold for a crisp $20 bill,) I have heard enough cries for help to fill a full season of teary-eyed Sally Jesse Raphael shows. Some want revenge. Some, in moments of clarity, see this an opportunity to escape this life once and for all for the relative stability of retail sales. But the gross majority, I am both saddened and oddly encouraged to say, seem determined to believe that they were not the dead grass that in these lean times simply needed to be pruned. To too many, their sudden loss of employment was all a gross oversight. All they need is a new goatee, a pierced tongue as proof of their inner 'edginess,' and perhaps at most, an 'out there' spec campaign for their local cigar emporium and they will be welcomed back into the busom of the industry at once, with a substantial bonus to be paid for their troubles, they are sure of this. The industry cannot survive without them. It will learn the error of its ways in no time at all.
Needless to say, I'm afraid such will not be the case. For in truth, they are the walking dead, with whom Darwin was well acquainted. Some may adapt, but most, willingly or otherwise, will fall from the advertising landscape altogether, living on only as footnotes in long-forgotten award books. This is as it has always been.
As for myself, I know not what the future holds. But a return to the relative comfort and security of the jungle bush is looking better every day.
–The Editor
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