Sir John Hegarty at the BBH Seminar at Cannes Lions 2011

Haggis

A Martha’s Vineyard Night of Single Malt Whiskey, Robert Burns’ Poetry, Fine
Cigars, and an Oozing Mass of Sheep Entrails Called Haggis.



Anybody can learn how the Scots developed Scotch whiskey.  I now know why
they invented it.  This I learned while vacationing with friends on Martha’s
Vineyard.
It all began when we visited the Scottish Bakery on that lovely isle that
must have so reminded its Scottish settlers of their homeland.  Upon
entering the charming little cottage bakeshop, my friend Sherwood, his funny
bone honed on classic ‘70’s Saturday Night Live, couldn’t resist asking the
question of the matronly woman behind the counter:
Got any haggis?
For those of you unfamiliar with Dan Aykroyd’s Scottish restaurant routine,
haggis is the Scottish national dish.  The culinary equivalent of the
bagpipe.  A bloated sheep gut, stuffed with the innards of said beast.
Haggis. Living proof that the Scots make better chieftains than chefs. And a
very a good reason why there are no Scottish restaurants dotting America’s
highways.  (No, MacDonalds’s does NOT qualify as a Scottish restaurant.)
There was nothing in that lovely bakeshop filled with butter-engorged
pastries and cookies that could have prepared us for that gray-haired
shopkeeper’s answer.  Certainly the scone-laden glass cases before us only
served to bolster my friend’s smug expectation of a resounding “nay” to his
haggis question.  But the woman paused, then looked up at him, beaming with
Scottish pride. “Oh yes, we just got in some freshly-made haggis this
morning!  Would you like a large or a small?”

My friend hesitated for a moment, first looking at me, then at his younger
brother.
At this point, there was no backing down.
“Uh, there are a lot of us. I think we probably need a large,” his brother
volunteered.
And so the woman scurried into the back room, emerging moments later with a
basketball-sized lump the grim color of uncooked dough.  Sutures snaked
around it, giving it a Frankenstein-like appearance.  Was that blood I
detected oozing from the stitches?  Mmmmmm.  Haggis.
On the ride back to our beach house in Tisbury, I mentioned that, of
course, the haggis would make a great joke.  We would carry it home,
frighten the bejesus out of the womenfolk and the wee ones, then deposit
this gigantic Scottish meatball where it would do no harm.  In the trash.
OK, people are starving all over the world.  But surely even they would
readily reject this nightmare dish from the Scottish highlands.  Give us the
Yankee bean soup, but please, no haggis!
My friend seemed hurt by my attitude.  He indicated that not only was he
fully prepared to cook the thing, he also planned to partake of it.  In
fact, he officially proclaimed Thursday night would be “Scottish Night” at
our previously idyllic summer compound.  After all, hadn’t we done a Mexican
Night.  An Italian Night.  Why not a Scottish Night?
Fine.  But I’ll have no part of it laddie, I swore.
However, as the day of the proposed haggis feast approached, I found myself
slipping into the spirit of the adventure.  What the hell, we’re on
vacation.  Live dangerously.  How bad can it be?  You were afraid to try
sushi, and look how much you like that.  You eat Italian sausage.  For god’s
sake, you eat hot dogs!!  Surely they’ve got worse stuff in them than
haggis.
These rationalizations were working well. Then I opened the refrigerator
and saw the haggis lying there under the harsh refrigerator light.  Tiny
beads of condensation had formed on it, due to the high humidity and nonstop
door opening by the kids.  My background in food photography taught me that
condensation can make food look fresh and appetizing.  This was not the case
with the haggis.  The droplets made it look...slimy.  No doubt about it, the
haggis was sweating.  I closed the refrigerator door quickly.
Can’t you put that thing someplace else, I asked my friend.  Like in the
freezer. Or at least cover it with tin foil. He looked at me incredulously.
Why would I freeze it now?  We’re going to eat it tomorrow.  Besides, it has
to properly congeal.
Enough is enough.  This had been  a perfectly wonderful vacation.  Now
thoughts of the impending haggis were beginning to invade my day.  Well, I
simply won’t be part of this, I reaffirmed.  You can eat haggis to your
heart, liver and kidneys’ content.  I for one will keep my contribution to
Scottish Night on a much more civilized level -- with a single malt Scotch,
some good cigars, and a little Robbie Burns poetry.
The morning of our Scottish Night feast the men all began to talk like
groundskeeper Willie, “Excuse me, lassie, but co’ ya please pass the Froot
Loops?  The wee one wants mair.”  “Wud ya lak me to go to the store now,
bonnie belle, ‘cause we ha’ run out of malk.”’
Understandably, our wives soon forced us to leave the house. We then went
out in search of the Scotch and cigars.  At the liquor store we were faced
with so many choices you would begin to wonder if the Scots spent all their
waking hours making Scotch and not much else.  No wonder there are no
Scottish cars.  No Scottish jeans.  No Scottish computers.  They’re just too
damn busy making Scotch.  Now, do we want a ten year old single malt, or a
twelve year old blend.  Let’s see.  Whoa!  Look at the price on that one.
Finally we made the only intelligent choice.  We bought The Glenlivet,
because anything that says “The” must be pretty darn good.
The cigar department was no less confusing.  So we just made our decision
based on price.  We bought the most expensive cigars in the store.  After
all...this is Scottish Night!
As we sat down to dinner that night, one of the older children asked the
impertinent question.  What is a haggis?  This question sent us scurrying to
Wikipedia, which said:
“Haggis, from the Scottish word hag, meaning to chop.  A Scottish dish,
commonly made of the heart, lungs and liver of a sheep, minced with suet,
onions, oatmeal, salt and pepper.  (Salt and pepper, there’s something in
there I can actually eat!) and boiled in a bag-like object - usually the
stomach of the sheep.”
Of course.  What else would you put heart, lungs and liver into but a nice,
juicy gut?  You’re not going to stick something that good into an ordinary
pie crust.  No, that’s gotta go right into the old sheep belly.  I poured
myself a stiff dram of The Glenlivet.
Next came the Robby Burns poem we found at the Vineyard Haven Library.  Can
you believe the luck: it was titled “Address to a Haggis”  We took turns
reading stanzas in our best Highland accents.  Here it is in its entirety.

“ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS”
by Robert Burns
(with humble annotations by me)


“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,         (I assume sonsie means slimy)
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race.        (entrails are not pudding!)
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm.                           (I assume he’s favorably
comparing
                                                              it to other
delicacies like tripe)
Weel are ye wordy of a grace                 (Praying before eating haggis
makes As lang’s my arm.     sense.)


The groaning trencher there ye fill           (Must have been one big
haggis)
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill             (how its sewn up?
In time o’ need.
While thro’ your pores the dews distil       (That ooze I was talking about)
Like amber bead.


His knife see rustic Labour dight,                 (They’re gonna cut it!)
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,                        (Yum!)
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
(Double Yum!)

Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive                  (Eager diners)
Devil tak the hindmost, on they drive
Till a’ their well-swall’d kytes belyve                          (Piggies!)
Are bent like drums.
Than auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
“Bethankit!”

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow                                         (They’re
making fun of Or fricasse wad mak her spew French food.  Yeah, right!
We’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! I see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,                                    (French
food makes
His spindle shanka gui whip-lash                                   you
weak!)
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,                                  (But
haggis is the...
The trembling earth resounds his tread,                       breakfast of
champs.)
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ head will sned    (Don’t mess with  Like taps o’
thrissle. anybody who eats it.)


Ye Pow’rs, wha make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware,                (We don’t want any of
the That jaups in luggies;                                             wussy
stuff - Lord, give us But if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
this day our daily haggis!)
Gie her a Haggis!


I poured myself a double single malt.
Finally the time was at hand.  The haggis was done, as best we could
figure.  We had followed the cooking directions perfectly.  At last we
pulled the beastly ball from the oven.  Its skin had turned from a sickly
dough color to a golden brown.  Even the sutures looked more benign in this
darker shade, looking more like shoelaces.  Nonetheless, the definition
still lay in the pit of my stomach.
I was selected to do the honors, to hack open this Scottish Piñata of
dyspepsia.  I held a sharp knife poised above it.  As I slashed, I turned my
head away, expecting a sheep aorta to spring from the gash like some bizarre
ovine jack-in-the-box.
Nothing erupted.  No gruesome gelatinous mass.  Instead, a very tame
mixture looking much like ground beef came forth.  Of course we all knew it
wasn’t ground beef.  Suddenly it hit me.   Haggis is why the Scots invented
Scotch whiskey.  Strong drink is the only way they could get up the nerve to
eat something like this  Later I would also learn why the Scots invented
kilts: after eating  haggis you don’t want clothing to slow you from
connecting with the nearest commode.
I bolstered up my courage, all eyes in the room on me.  I took a bite.
Hey, not bad.  It has a nice flavor.  It tastes like...chicken. Just
kidding.  It tastes like sausage.  Except for the dull crunch of the
oatmeal.  (Was it really the oatmeal that made the crunch?)  I could only
hope so.
And so, the haggis was eaten on Martha’s Vineyard.
Afterwards we repaired to the porch to enjoy the beautifully bug-less
Vineyard night, and to smoke our stogies.  That haggis wasn’t so bad, was
it?  No.  Not bad at all.  Maybe we’ll do it again next year.  Aye. To  next
year!

1984 all over again

Apple advertising, RIP

Died of a severe case of advertisingitis, and a massive loss of Jobsian aesthetics. Survived by a room full of celebrity mongering Hollywood hucksters who think stand up comics are "cool."  And so, the slice of death returns.  Oh gosh, can I write this blog on my macbook before the plane lands? I don't know - please - somebody help me.  Help me, Mr. Mac Brain.  Can they bring back the magic of Steve before Apple crash lands?  If this crap is any indication, I doubt it.

1980's advertising - BK

Who knows. Maybe there's hope for a bunch of old guys.  Maybe McGarry Bowen can bring back 1985 style advertising. Maybe that stuff actually works.  Naaaaah.  Just run an FSI.

The (Burger) King is Dead

So I just saw the new Burger King 2 minute (seems like 10) summer anthem commercial. I guess that's what passes for an idea these days. Get a Dire Straits song, throw in some pictures of the target, have a tagline that's pretty much what we used to call "the strategy on wheels." Taste is King.  Why?  Because we said so!  Burger King is the BBQ you can have when you can't have a BBQ. Yeah, right. I do love Dire Straits, though.  Gonna download some of their music so I can listen when I have a real BBQ.

The single best thing you can do for your health

Woody really knew how to sum it all up.

Just thinking about this quote from Annie Hall recently.

Uncover The Un-Agency

A great alternative to the traditional structured ad agency

The importance of writing ideas write

Great ideas can come from anywhere. I'll even go as far as saying great Ideas are a dime a dozen.  Great articulations of ideas, however, are not. They're best left to those who know how to write. Next time one of your ideas gets blank or confused looks, ask yourself "Was this written in a clear, concise, compelling way?" or more bluntly, "Was this written by a writer?"

Today's Times gives Mad Man Ed McCabe his due

As a baby copywriter, I would often sneak across 3rd Ave from my office at Grey to have lunch with a good friend who worked at Ed McCabe's agency, Scali McCabe Sloves.  There I would hear tales of the man who could bring seasoned writers to tears. He was a master of "go for the juglar" advertising. The article in today's Times Automotive Section gives Ed McCabe his due as a matchless idea guy and copywriting legend. He wrote headlines that made you feel dumb if you didn't follow their logic. He made statements that could always be followed by the parenthetical  phrase (you shmuck). e.g. "It shouldn't take an act of Congress to make cars safe (you schmuck). " Contrary to the philosophy of H.L. Mencken, Ed's a guy who got rich by never underestimating the intelligence of the American public.  I particularly love his comment the end of the article about social media.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/25/automobiles/real-mad-men-pitched-safety-to-sell-volvos.html

KONY 2012

It's Halftime in America.

No dogs. No monkeys. No babes. No babies. No stud muffins.  Just amazing words. Thank you, Weiden & Kennedy. Thank you, Clint Eastwood. Thank you, Chrysler. Thank you for the quiet roar of your words:

"It's Halftime. Both teams are in their locker rooms discussing what they can do to win this game in the second half. It's halftime in America, too. People are out of work and they're hurting. And they're all wondering what they're gonna do to make a comeback. And we're all scared because this isn't a game. The people in Detroit know a little something about this. They almost lost everything. But we all pulled together. Now Motor City is fighting again. I've seen a lot of tough eras, a lot of downturns in my life. Times when we didn't understand each other. It seems that we've lost our heart at times. The fog of division, discord and blame made it hard to see what lies ahead. But after those trials we all rallied around what was right and acted as one. Because that's what we do. We find our way through tough times, and if we can't find one we'll make one. All that matters now is what's ahead. How do we come from behind? How do we come together? And how do we win? Detroit's showing it can be done. And what's true about them is true about all of us. This country can't be knocked out with one punch. We get right back up again, and when we do, the world is gonna hear roar of our engines. Yeah, it's halftime, America. And our second half's about to begin."



http://www.nfl.com/videos/nfl-super-bowl-commercials/09000d5d826a09d0/Halftime-in-America

When you're unemployed do you...

a. Put off that costly dental work until you find employment
b. Get it done, but save on anesthesia, as the termination process has already numbed you to all pain
c. Use your diamond implants in your other teeth to pay for the work
c. Extract all your teeth, put them under your pillow and hope the tooth fairy leaves some money

When you're unemployed do you...

a. Make your martinis with cheaper gin
b. Use a domestic brand of vermouth
c. Buy smaller olives
d. None of the above

When you're unemployed do you...

a. Switch the dog to the store brand dog food.
b. Start eating the store brand dog food yourself.
c. Start eating the dog.
d. All of the above.

Here’s to all the thankless tasks.

Here’s to all the thankless tasks.

The ones that go unnoticed.

The ones that won’t get you promoted.

The ones that won’t stop you from getting fired.

Here’s to the reading of that one last e-mail

After everyone else has turned out the lights.

Here’s to the making of that one last call

That nobody else will know about.

Here’s to taking that later flight

Staying that extra hour.

Writing that one last draft.

Answering that one last text.

Here’s to the doing of all those things

That would otherwise not have been done

And will not likely be acknowledged

When the contract finally comes through.

Here’s to all the thankless tasks

The ones others wonder why you do

But in the end the thankless tasks aren’t really thankless.

Because the one who knows you do them is you.

An update of recent performances of Mt Olympus Coffee Shop

Byron-Bergen High School Drama Club - Bergen, NY
South Sioux City High School Speech Team - South Sioux CIty, NE
Friend of the Author - Stamford, CT
Sublette School Dist 9 - Big Piney, WY

Farewell to my neighbor, Andy Rooney

When my wife and I moved into our home in Rowayton 30 years ago, we were already fans of 60 Minutes, and Andy Rooney. Anyone who moves into this section of Norwalk quickly finds out that Andy Rooney lives here - although you weren't very likely to run into him. Soon after we came to town, Andy's segment on 60 Minutes began alternating with "Point Counterpoint" and eventually replaced it. I became a big fan of his commentaries. Maybe it was because he was a hometown celeb - but honestly, I don't think that had anything to do with it. Andy just said things that I wished I had.

Over the years I had a few chance sightings of Andy on the commuter train,  scuttling quickly off  in his trademark orthopedic style shoes. I also had some more personal interactions. In little snippets I learned more about Andy, the man, who lived with his wife in the big house on one of the busiest corners in town  I discovered Andy loved kids, when I brought my son to his door on Halloween. He invited him and his friends in, gave them treats, and really seemed interested in their costumes.

When Keep America Beautiful was one of the clients at the ad agency where I worked, I decided they needed Andy to do a radio campaign about why on earth people wouldn't recycle. I sent Andy a proposal, which he graciously declined, because "In spite of being asked by many good organizations, like your own, I have consistently declined to do public service announcements. While they are not commercials, anyone doing them loses some of his editorial independence."  I wrote the spots anyway, channeling Andy's attitude, instead of using his voice.

A big fan of his book, My War, my wife  and I went to a talk he was giving to benefit the town elementary school. After the talk, I approached him and did the unthinkable. I asked him to autograph a slip of paper which I intended to later stick in my copy of the book. Andy has often called people who do this "idiots." He patently refused to sign scraps of paper, because he believed they would end up stuffed in pants pockets and washing machines. But after declining my request, he said, "Put the book in my mailbox and I'll sign it."

The next day, I showed up at his house. Andy's mailbox is not convenient. It's not a roadside box, it's on his porch, which is an uphill trek from the street.  Parking at his house is not an easy task either. As I mentioned, he lived on one of the town's busiest intersections.  I parked my car illegally, then  climbed  the hill to the house I had so proudly pointed out to many of my friends and relatives over the years. I stuck the book in the mailbox, then high tailed it back to my car, fearing the wrath of Rooney.

Over the next few days, I agonized over going back to collect the book.  How many days should I give him? If he signed it right away, would he be annoyed that I hadn't come to pick it up? Finally, I decided four days was long enough, and once again I illegally parked my car, and headed up to the casa Rooney. Once on his porch, I gingerly opened the mailbox. Surely this was a federal crime. The box was empty. Oh, well. I had given it my best. Just as I was about to run back to my car, the front door opened. "May I help you?" I turned to find Andy's wife.  I explained my predicament, and apologized for the intrusion. She demanded that I come inside, while she cleared this up. I sat nervously in the kitchen, as she looked around for the book, which she assured me Andy had signed. Finally, she did something amazing. She picked up the phone and called Andy at CBS. There was a brief discussion about the circumstances,  then she hung up, headed into another room and returned triumphantly with the book. She muttered something about hating when Andy left her with these unfinished tasks, then sent my on my way. In my car, I opened the treasure. Scrawled on one of the opening pages was "To Frank Izzo. Andy Rooney 2001" That was it. I felt his pain in doing it. Every letter seemed to scream "idiot." But I was a happy idiot.

My last personal encounter with Mr. Rooney, not much long after the book signing, revealed another aspect of his personality. One day I was walking our bulldog Bartleby through the tiny downtown village of Rowayton. As I walked, I noticed a vehicle moving very slowly alongside me, the way people do when they're about to ask you for directions. Finally the car pulled up a few yards in front of me, halfway blocking the road. The driver's door swung open, and a small figure emerged. It was Andy. He didn't even look at me. He just began declaring merrily "I brake for bulldogs! I brake for bulldogs!" Then he asked what my bulldog's name was, and proceeded to give him a proper rubdown for a solid minute. He informed me that he had a bulldog that he loved, then turned around, hobbled back into his car and drove off, allowing the traffic flow in the village to return to normal.

I will miss Andy's segments on "60 Minutes." I will miss not having him as a neighbor. But I will resist the urge to overly eulogize him or be overly sentimental about his passing.  I agree with what was said on CBS Sunday Morning today - that Andy would probably have an opinion about eulogies - something like - what good is all that praise, when the person is not around to hear it?

Prairie Home Companion "Beaver Manure" excerpt

Saw the show live last week from St. Paul while visiting Jesse