Stanton On . . . Stanton Off?

By Rick Stanton

Buddy is my 1998 Toyota Tacoma. I bought him new and saved him from being sold and split in half in 1999, during a divorce.

We’ve been through a lot together. And here we are 23 years later, both a little worse for wear but still kicking. Which leads me to this; Nike (and John Brown) was wrong, there is a finish line.

Not to be maudlin, but what one does with the time he has left is a very real consideration.

And as of this column, I’m choosing to walk away from all things advertising. I spent a lot of my life caring about the business, what it could do when done well and the importance of the work.

I lived for the creative product.

I’ve tried to underscore that passion in many of these columns, praising the good work I’ve encountered and trashing the insipid that seems to be winning the marketing wars.

There is very little I’ve seen or heard over the last several years that makes me think, “I wished I’d done that.”

I never intended to be the Andy Rooney-Get-Off-My-Lawn-Guy of Puget Sound advertising, but in reviewing several columns over the last year, that’s what’s been happening. And I realize my objections to today’s agency model isn’t going to change much of anything.

I’m grateful to have had the chance to work at a time and place that gave us Mike Mogelgaard, Jim Copacino, Ron Elgin, Tracy Wong, Brown and a bunch of other folks I’m sure I’ve missed.

“The work” mattered back then.

So, with my belief that it doesn’t seem to matter much anymore, in sports parlance, “I’m hanging ‘em up.” I realize this will make the three people who still read my column sad.

I told Larry that if something arose that he thought might benefit from my point of view, I would consider submitting my thoughts.

I also want to thank him for allowing me to tackle all kinds of subjects with the understanding how current cultures impact messages. He took some crap but had the guts to ignore it.

And my thanks to Melissa Coffman, who—along with her pop—helped make my little book project come to life.

It’s time to spend more time with my buddies. In fact, I’m about to toss the golf clubs into Buddy’s truck bed and do just that.

Pub. Note: Dear “three people who still read my column” (and the many others). Not to worry. I’m sure things will get under Rick’s thin skin and move him to share his outrage with us here many more times.