You'd think there'd be nothing better for a soon-to-be-out-of-work freelancer than a reunion of your old agency. But not if old is the operative word. Hundreds showed up at a designated restaurant last night, but most were pimping for freelance, just like I was. Common topics of conversation over cheese cubes and mini-crabcakes: how to segue into interactive if you can't program a phone and how to make your hot flashes appear to be something else. The former ECD and office hearthrob who must be in his 70s looked amazingly fit--probably because he now lives in the sunny Hamptons with a jailbait wife and their 5 year old son. Most people, alas, haven't fared so well and would have been unrecognizable were it not for their nametags. Which were helpfully written in 54 point type.
An art director who was "kick-ass" in 1981 bemoaned her new freelance job at a BDA, working on tampons. "I saw my writer for 2 seconds, she just threw me headlines and said to make them look good. They're not even headlines, they're package copy. Two guys in their thirties are each vying to be head of the account. They keep coming to my desk separately, hissing, 'Don't listen to him, you work for me!' "
Of course, I asked her if they needed a writer.
from someecards via goodURLbadURL