Just Put It In Adobe

You get older. You keep thinking of yourself as the younger version of yourself. You’ve done it. I’ve done it¹. Like, in our neighborhood congregation, there are couples who are 10+ years younger than Holly and me, but I somehow bend the space-time continuum and believe we’re “peers.” We’re not, at least not age-wise. Just one of many ways we delude ourselves, probably because it feels better to believe outright fiction than to face the brutal truth that, say, the white overtaking your beard and the crows feet encroaching² on your eyes are telling everyone else.

Such was the case of a former-Deadhead executive at a company I used to work for.

The guy still perceived himself as a hippie-dippy free spirit, talking about how he flew (first-class) to Chicago for the final Dead & Company³ shows. In his heart of hearts, he was still the idealist 20-something, following the Dead, tossing up peace signs to everyone, and looking for a miracle⁴.

But that rainbow-tinged, tie-dyed, Love Is All You Need guy⁵ was long gone, replaced by a stiff capitalist rich numbercruncher—the peace and love had long since left the building—with less personality than a brand new, meticulously ironed white Brooks Brothers Oxford shirt. (And with less class. ZING!)

Before I go on, I have to cop to a bit of pertinent context here: it was brought to my attention, in my early days at the company, that this particular executive had me in his crosshairs for whatever reason. He was of the opinion that I was overpaid from the get-go and was consistently gunning for me and my team whenever it came time to talk about tightening belts and making cuts. Is it surprising that an executive doesn’t share the way I value creative? No. It happens more often than it doesn’t. Do I still take it personally? You bet your meticulously ironed white Brooks Brothers Oxford shirt I do.

All of this to come clean: I am neither objective nor emotionless in writing this. If you know me, you’ve probably heard shards of the story. How this guy—along with a Scandinavian blowhard con artist who was half machine, half sentient IKEA assembly directions, half ornately-framed HBS diploma (I realize that’s three halves; but YOU ask the Scandinavian blowhard why his quarterly numbers always looked so suspiciously good)—was at the heart of the worst day (and period) of my professional career.

Worse than working 70-hour weeks for peanuts? Worse than a cruel creative director humiliating me and my partner in front of the rest of the department mere seconds after our first creative pitch? Worse than an expensive failure of a product video I was in charge of? Yes. Worse than all of those combined.

Cliffs Notes: I was told, by the CEO, that I had to fire 2/3 of my team. And there was no way around it. All in all, on the same day, I had to fire 9 people⁶, none of whom had done anything but good (and quite often spectacular) work for this company. It was a joke. It was unfair to good people. It was a travesty. It was more political⁷ than it was economic. It was shattering. It broke me (and I “got to” KEEP my job!). And I’ll have to go deeper into it another time. Suffice it to say, Former Deadhead Executive finally got his weasely way (and I’m still not over it).

Let’s rewind a year or two. Before the bloodbath.

My video team is helping shoot a critically important video for this company. It’s a video you only get to make once and it can—as the CEO and CFO put it in no uncertain terms—be the difference between an “ok” stock price and a lucrative one⁸. It’s part of the package when you decide to take your company public. The video would feature both the CEO and my friend Former Deadhead Executive presenting different information in it.

We shot the CEO first. He did fine. He was an idiosyncratic (and brilliant) guy but generally personable on camera, comfortable enough in his own skin, and could get loose, feel real.

Former Deadhead Executive, on the other hand…

Actually let’s rewind a bit farther, for context. Before the IPO video.

Over my time at this company, I brought in a fantastic photographer to take really amazing, distinctive photos of our executive team. Not the usual boring stuff you’ll see on the Executive page. These had brand and personality and soul and just the right amount of weird. As happens, some of these executives would move on to other companies, wouldn’t be a good fit, etc, so we found ourselves periodically arranging new photo shoots to get photos of the new hires. Former Deadhead Executive was there for my entire tenure. And he—in contrast to the rest of the executive team, who loved the photos—was chronically unhappy with the photos we took of him. So unhappy, in fact, that on THREE (3!) separate occasions, when we were shooting newly hired executives, he came in for a reshoot. THREE TIMES! Each time, upon receiving the heavily retouched final photos, complaining about how the camera made him look old or pale or chubby or whatever. Each time, me doing everything physically possible not to blurt out, “It’s not the camera, man!”

[Sidenote. Just to clarify that I try⁹ not to be rude to people (or about people) based on factors out of their control—genetics, looks, age, voice, etc. The point here is not “Oh, man, this fossil is PALE AND UGLY! AND OLD!” but rather about someone who wasn’t willing to take an honest look in an actual mirror. Me? I know I’m bad on camera. I know I don’t photograph well. So you won’t find me haranguing the photographer when I look like I have a paunch or am sporting a perma-grimace. I’m grateful if the photographer lands on something even half not-ghastly.]

Anyway, here was a guy without self-awareness. Maybe nobody had ever shot straight with him before. Maybe he had eggshell-walking friends. Who knows? But he did not see himself as he was. Each new round of (generously retouched) new photos was unsatisfactory to him. Each unsatisfactory photo another Jenga piece yanked from the already-shaky foundation he perceived me and my team to be on.

You think you’re a young, hip Deadhead but your whole vibe is Corporate Vampire, from the complexion down to the demeanor.

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So back to the video.

We rigged up a makeshift teleprompter using some gadgets and an iPad. The first minor hurdle: something about his script format—turned in 15 minutes AFTER we were supposed to start shooting rather than the requested two days prior, which of course had zero¹⁰ bearing on our ability to troubleshoot it— wasn’t working with the app we were using. He was growing impatient and eventually sort of hissed,

”Guys, just put it in Adobe.”

Oh, yes. Of course! Why hadn’t we thought about just putting it in Adobe, whatever that means?

In retrospect, “just put it Adobe” was a terse summation of his esteem for us. What else did a creative department do besides (waves hands demonstratively) put things in Adobe? Nothing, of course. Why call us the creative department at all when we should really just be the Adobe Putter Inners?

I wish I could say that such condescending and oversimplifying perception of creative departments were the exception. But, no. The exception is the executive who understands the value and nuance of great creative work¹¹, how it helps the brand which helps everything. The rule? Executives like this guy and his comical oversimplification and cruel undervaluing of our work (made all the more ironic in contrast to how much he overvalued his role and its exponentially higher salary/stock, especially for a company that was doing unbelievably well and didn’t exactly require a polymath¹² running the numbers).

We worked out the technical wrinkles. We got the makeshift teleprompter going and we filmed him doing his bit of the IPO video. In order to do so, we skipped lunch (no big deal; we’re team players) and went more than a few extra miles for him. I can be snarky and sarcastic, but I also take pride in my work, whether the person involved recognizes it or not.

I should note: we gave Former Deadhead Executive some tips to try to loosen up and make his delivery more natural, less stiff. Having helped produce quite a few talking-head-style videos, I’ve got a proverbial bag of tricks that can help people relax and come across their best. None of those worked here. Ultimately, as the clock ticked down our time with him, we found ourselves settling for “this will work.”

When our time was up, in a gesture of humanity, he turned to his assistant as he left the conference room we were shooting in and, in a condescending Biblical Creation voice¹³, pronounced,“Treat these guys!”

About an hour later, a UFO-sized platter of lukewarm Chic-Fil-A nuggets showed up at our desks. Tell me you don’t understand us without telling me you don’t understand us¹⁴. I didn’t eat a bite in silent (and unsuccessful and passive aggressive and wholly undifference-making¹⁵ ) protest¹⁶.

Fast forward a couple days later (which, mind you, was on a wildly and aggressively compressed timeline due in no small part to the fact that the executives had pushed back agreed-upon shoot dates which were intended to give us realistic, doable—but still ambitious—deadlines), after we had edited together the footage. We show our first cut. They watch it. Nod their heads. I sensed something was up, but they were acting like it was working. I prefer standing ovations, but sometimes “acting like it’s working” has to do the trick. We went back to our desks.

About an hour later, my boss stops by.

HER: So….Former Deadhead Executive doesn’t like it.
ME: Yeah, it seemed like something was up. What doesn’t he like about it?
HER: He says it’s not good and it’ll be embarrassing to the company.
ME: (scoffing) Embarrassing? What specifically? The script that HE wrote? Or the way we shot it? I mean, it’s an IPO video, not a Terrence Malick short film. Does he not like the setting?
HER: I don’t know. He just doesn't like it and wants you guys to reshoot it.
ME: (stares)
HER: I know…

We’re already past the 11th hour so the time to re-do things SHOULD be over with¹⁷, especially considering our patience in rolling with their repeated delay of shoot dates. Overall, though, our biggest problem is that Former Deadhead Executive is terrible on camera. Full stop. The guy is wooden. Or stone. Or some rusty metal. And, on some level, it appears that maybe he can see that and it makes him uncomfortable. The trouble is: he thinks it’s our fault.

Knowing the fundamental issue is not solvable without a Avatar-level CGI budget, I push back: “The video works. Let’s not nitpick here.” Next thing I know I have a meeting on my schedule. My team and his team. I gird up my loins, so to speak.

He leads off the conversation in patently Boomer ways—power-playing like a pro, speaking loudly AND carrying a big stick, making sure everybody knows who the alpha in the room is. He bad-talks our edit, tries to get us to admit that its perceived failings are OUR failings, lists some conjured-up ways we’ve failed¹⁸. But I won't cave. My team has done its job. I know why it’s not working. And most of all, I’m pissed that this guy—because of his rank—gets to run roughshod over the timeline in the first place AND THEN has the nerve to ask for more involved revisions than even the original, more-breathing-room timeline would have afforded us. I don’t feel like it’s fair for him to ask my team to burn every droplet of midnight oil because a) he couldn’t keep his end of the bargain up timeline-wise, and b) he stinks on camera.

ME: I’m sorry, Former Deadhead Executive But we can’t do it. We don’t have the time. It’s not fair to my team with the time we have left.
HIM: I don’t believe you.
ME: It’s just not possible.
HIM: I don’t believe you.
ME: You believing me or not believing me doesn’t make it more possible¹⁹.

That bit of Aaron Sorkinery set him off. He glared at me, tight teethed and steaming-from-the-ears, and huffed off to get the CEO²⁰.

Ultimately, his tantrum worked. The CEO walked in, kinda shaking his head like “why am I in the middle of this” but then managed to show just a modicum of humanity, “Look, I know this is a mess, but….what can you do for me, guys?”

Wow. A real question instead of barked demands? What a concept.

Treat us like humans and maybe we go extra for you. I stubbornly maintain that it wasn’t possible the way he wanted it and certainly wasn’t possible without my team (especially our video team) putting in superhuman hours. But Former Deadhead Executive got his way. And he knew it, smug grin on his face. I’m sure when he’s at home in his brand new tie-dye, Scrooge McDucking through his pool of millions, he doesn’t spare us even a single thought.

But we made it work. Not with him. Not for him. In spite of him.

Bright and early the next day, we find ourselves reshooting Former Deadhead Executive’s portion. A different conference room to appease one of his “reasons” the initial cut failed. An improved teleprompter setup. Everyone on high alert. All just pacifiers for this little baby’s tantrum.

The best part, though, is that the CEO sits in.

He takes a seat behind the camera, watching Former Deadhead Executive’s first take. He sees precisely what we had seen in the earlier (“failed”) shoot. He vailiantly tries to coach, just like we had done. Former Deadhead Executive listens to his peer and nods. His second take is the same. Or worse. The CEO coaches again, doing his best Coach Taylor²¹. The third take is precisely the same. A cartoon light bulb illuminates over CEO’s head as he realizes what we’re up against. The inherent limitations of the situation. I would’ve loved a “Thanks for doing your best with Former Deadhead Executive” email or even just a knowing glance from CEO as he left (see also: abandoned) the room. But I’ll take the knowing vibe that permeated the room as he walked out to the tune of, “Welp, guys, I’m late for a meeting.”

Even Pilate washed his hands with more subtlety.

1. In my mind, I’m 31 or so.

2. en-crow-ching? Sorry. I couldn’t resist.

3. Spoiler: they weren’t final.

4. A spare ticket, in Deadhead-ese.

5. FWIW: one of my best friends from high school is a massive Deadhead. He was the reason I learned how to play “Uncle John’s Band” and “Wharf Rat” and “Friend of the Devil” and “Franklin’s Tower” and more. He was the reason I went to my first-ever Dead show down in Vegas. He followed the Jerry-era Dead up and down the west coast. He was the first guy I wrote when I was on my LDS mission and found out Jerry Garcia had died. To this day, he’s still going to Dead shows. Still wearing tie-dyes, long hair, etc. He’s not pretending to still be a Deadhead. It’s not a costume he puts on. It’s who he is. And, to be clear, he is highly valued at this job with a law firm. It’s possible to not succumb to the Young Deadhead To Washed Up Yuppie pipeline.

Here he is—with the backwards hat and ZZ-Top-worthy beard—on the actual broadcast of the last Dead & Co show in California. I believe this was during “Althea.”

6. Perhaps the more valiant move would have been to simply resign in protest.

7. The previous head of our department had made executive enemies defending my team. The new head was out to make allies by doing the opposite. It worked. For awhile, at least.

8. AKA: they were extra-worried because it was a potential difference in millions of dollars for each of them.

9. Keyword is “try.” My snark has been known to get the best (worst) of me.

10. sarcasm font!

11. Not a unicorn. I have met more than one, in fact.

12. Hypocritical of me, I know. The oversimplification and condescension run both ways. To be fair, though, mine runs up a steep economic hill while his punches down like a herd of rogue shopping carts.

13. Lacking just the thespian flourish of a generous hand wave and the words, “Make it so!”

14. Creatives are food snobs. And, at the time, Chic-Fil-A was unpopular with liberal types, many of whom find themselves in creative departments.

15. Not a word.

16. A small gesture I learned from my friend Bren. One night at the ad agency, we found out around 5pm that one of our account people had dropped the ball and forgotten a deadline. This all meant that we had to stay super late to crank on a project that was due the next day. In an attempt to engender good will, one of the account people brought down some sushi from nearby Takashi (best in Salt Lake). I watched Bren nod to the account person wordlessly, wait until they had gone back upstairs to their office, and then cinematically slide his entire to-go box into the garbage, unopened. It was majestic.

17. As my former partner and friend Bren legendarily used to say, “There’s never time to do it right, but there’s always time to do it over.”

18. In retrospect, it was positively Trump-ian.

19. It was a good line. It felt good to say. But he still got to be right, which was unfortunate.

20. Something in my DNA makes people run for “Dad.” In another of my most-heated moments in corporate career, I was upset about a website that had not involved my team enough and was basically discarding/ruining the brand (which was my and my team’s stewardship). As it got more heated and I continued to vehemently push for a better brand presence on the site, the “opposition” leader said something about bringing in the CMO to solve this. And I said, “Oh, are you gonna call Mom?” It was mean and shorter than I’d like to be, but it also got the point across that I didn’t believe in her ability to reason with us (because she didn’t have a leg to stand on) about her decision-making and leaving us in the dark regarding something as brand-critical as the website.

21.