phö q. The name that wasn’t afraid to get in trouble.

When we first came up with phö q, it wasn’t a joke.

It was a statement.

A middle finger wrapped in a bowl of soup.

We were tired of brands pretending to be brave while running every idea through a focus group. So we created something that couldn’t be sanitized. A name that made people flinch before they smiled. Because if you didn’t get it, you weren’t the audience anyway.

The film we made for it was a mash-up of movie clips, moments of rebellion, chaos, love, loss, beauty, absurdity. A cinematic mixtape for misfits and makers. No voiceover, no logo reveal. Just a visual manifesto that said, This is what it feels like to give a phö q.

It was the kind of thing you play loud on a projector in a bar, not present politely in a boardroom. And for a while, it felt right, the perfect flag to plant in a creative world allergic to risk.

But as the work grew, something shifted.

People stopped reacting to the spirit and started reacting to the name. The joke became the story, and the conversation we wanted, about boldness, honesty, and work that moves people, got buried under the laugh.

We realized we didn’t want to be defined by provocation. We wanted to be defined by belief.

So we let the name go.

phö q was never about saying “fuck you.”

It was about saying “fuck it”, let’s make something real.

And that idea didn’t die with the name. It evolved into VAKA, still irreverent, still fearless, just stripped of the smirk.

Because sometimes, growing up as a creative brand doesn’t mean calming down.

It just means aiming higher.

Friday the 13th: A Stroke of Luck

In the shadowed, tumultuous waters off Coronado, California, a young man’s dream danced with the relentless Pacific tides. A marked day of reckoning for me, a US NAVY SEAL candidate in the gruelling BUD/S program, which stands for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALS, embodying a relentless pursuit that had consumed my post short-lived university life. That day, amidst the chaos of an IBS Rock Portage evolution, fate intervened in the most dramatic way. By the way. The US Navy uses an acronym for almost everything, from IBS (Inflatable Boat Small), the EDF, Enlisted Dining Facility, to UA, Unauthorised Absence.. More on UA Later.

April 13, 1984, my destiny intertwined with the capricious tides off Coronado, California. As a SEAL candidate in Class 129.

My essence was moulded by the relentless surf, each wave a test of resolve, each setback a lesson in fortitude. That day, during that IBS rock portage evolution, the Pacific’s mighty surge became my crucible, charting a course beyond my wildest dreams.

Before the tumultuous waves of SEAL training reshaped my destiny, my journey with the US Navy was marked by an exemplary period aboard the USS Denver, LPD-9 (Landing Platform Dock) that was both my home and proving ground. This ship, a colossal 561’ long entity of steel and might, carried not only sailors and Marines but also the aspirations of a young petty officer eager to carve out his place in the vast maritime expanse.

My role aboard the USS Denver transcended the ordinary expectations of a Third-Class Petty Officer. I was a Second-Class Diver and also worked in Combat Information Center.. yup CIC, manning the Radar, and I was not content with merely fulfilling my responsibilities; I sought to excel, to learn every facet of the ship’s operation, from the engine room's throbbing heart to the tactical manoeuvres on the bridge.

This was my journey towards earning the Enlisted Surface Warfare Specialist (ESWS) qualification, a feat that marked me as a master of my craft aboard the Denver. The ESWS insignia was more than a badge; it was a symbol of comprehensive knowledge and the ability to operate and navigate the complexities of a warship. Achieving this distinction as the very first Third-Class Petty Officer on the ship was a ground-breaking accomplishment, highlighting my expertise and dedication to naval operations. The journey to this accolade was rigorous, involving extensive study, hands-on training, and a deep dive into the operational intricacies of various departments. It demanded not just intellectual acuity but also a profound connection to the lifeblood of the ship, understanding every nuance of its capabilities and limitations.

My efforts did not go unnoticed, earning the Navy Achievement Medal was a milestone that encapsulated my relentless pursuit of excellence. This accolade was not just a ribbon or a piece of metal; it was a testament to my dedication and the tangible result of countless hours of toil, strategy, and an unwavering commitment to my duties. affirming my belief that perseverance and passion could indeed pave the path to recognition and success.

My time on the Denver was a crucible of growth, where I honed my skills, forged lasting camaraderie, and laid the foundation for the leadership qualities that would later define my career. These experiences aboard the ship, earning the Navy Achievement Medal and the ESWS qualification, were not mere footnotes in my naval career but pivotal chapters that shaped the trajectory of my life, instilling in me a profound sense of purpose and the unyielding spirit to conquer new horizons.

From my earliest days, athleticism was the thread woven through the tapestry of my youth. The crisp, invigorating air of the ski slopes was my winter sanctuary, where I carved paths through virgin snow, each turn a dance with gravity and speed. Soccer fields were my battlegrounds in other seasons, where I channelled competitive fervour into every match. The match was not just a sport to me; it was a strategic chess match played at breakneck speed, each pass and goal a testament to teamwork and individual skill.

Swimming added another dimension to my athletic pursuits. The pool was my arena, where I contended not just with opponents but with the very element of water, striving to slice through its resistance with every stroke and turn. This relentless pursuit of excellence in the water honed my discipline and physical prowess, traits that would later prove invaluable during my time in BUD/S training.

Yet, my athletic endeavours were shadowed by a rebellious streak, a spirited defiance that often put me at odds with authority.

1984 somewhere off San Diego

This wasn't about lawlessness but rather a deep-seated desire to challenge norms and push boundaries. I questioned decisions, defied conventional paths, and sought my own route to success, which sometimes led to misunderstandings with those in positions of power. This rebellious nature was not born of malice but from a relentless drive to seek more, to test limits, and to not merely accept the status quo. While it occasionally brought me into conflict with authority figures, it also imbued me with the courage and conviction to forge my own path and to stand firm in my beliefs and ambitions.

That fateful day in April our objective was simple yet daunting: To paddle up and drag tour IBS, ok, it’s like a rubber boat, a Zodiak. Anyway, you drag it up these sharp rocks kind of like a jetty which is front of Hotel Del Coronado. A super ritzy Hotel. Then the BUD/S instructor will deflate half the air out, you drop it back into the ocean and try to paddle past the surf line in a wet noodle half-deflated rubber boat. Not easy. My crew and I, seven in total, were a spearhead though, slicing through the ocean's chaos, leading the race, our synchrony a testament to months of gruelling preparation. As we neared victory, a colossal wave emerged, a towering behemoth of nature’s raw power. It crashed over us with primal fury, flinging paddles into the air, one striking me beneath my helmet’s brim. Darkness enveloped me, the ocean’s roar fading to silence.

Regaining consciousness in the stark, antiseptic confines of Balboa Naval Hospital across the bay in San Diego, I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty. My physical wounds were overshadowed by the gnawing void of my disrupted journey. I was a SEAL candidate in spirit, yet my body lay broken, my aspirations unmoored. After about 6 hours, the Hospital Corpsman who accompanied me to Balboa asked me if I wanted to go back to Coronado or dropped off at my off-base housing in Ocean Beach. Granted I was still a blur but I had my dog at home and all of my roommates would be out at sea. So I told him my house was preferred. Even though not realising that my car was still back at the base.

After feeding my dog Django that Friday evening, I collapsed into bed, the exhaustion and trauma of the day's events pulling me into a deep, unyielding sleep. It was more than just rest; it was a near-comatose state of unconsciousness, a direct consequence of the concussion I had suffered earlier. Throughout that long weekend, I remained in bed, completely disconnected from consciousness, my body and mind shutting down to recover from the injury.

Even Django, usually so attuned to my movements and moods, couldn’t rouse me. The silent vigil my dog kept at my bedside was a poignant contrast to the bustling world outside, which moved on, oblivious to my condition. The severity of my state was such that I was utterly unreachable, lost in a void that no one, not even my loyal companion, could penetrate.

This prolonged lapse into darkness was a stark indicator of how grave my condition was. It wasn’t just sleep; it was a shutdown, a system reboot that my body enforced to deal with the trauma. The fact that I was left alone, without any check-ins or follow-ups, underscores a chilling oversight. That weekend, in the supposed safety of my home, I was as vulnerable and exposed as I had ever been.

This incident starkly highlighted the gap between the ideals of never leaving a man behind and the reality I lived through. OK, I wasn’t a SEAL, just a candidate, It became a critical reflection point for me, underscoring the profound importance of vigilance, care, and accountability for every team member, lessons that I have carried forward into every aspect of my life and career.

My absence from the base went unnoticed, a testament to the solitary nature of my struggle. Until I didn’t show up for muster at 5am on Monday morning, then the military finally came knocking about 9am, pounding on all my doors and windows, Django going crazy and barking is actually what woke me. The Shore Patrol and their stern faces heralding my neglect, I was jolted back to a reality I no longer recognized. My subsequent journey to the base was a haze, punctuated by a Senior Chief’s act of kindness, a gallon of water that became my lifeline, both literally and metaphorically.

The Instructors reprimand that followed was a cacophony of blame and regret. But as I sat there, absorbing the tirade, a profound realization dawned on me: I had been abandoned, yet I survived. My dream of becoming a SEAL, once a beacon of purpose, had dimmed, overshadowed by a newfound clarity. The institution I revered had failed me, but in its place, a fiercer ambition took root.

There is a symbolic and highly emotional tradition associated with voluntarily leaving the program. This tradition involves ringing a ship's bell. If a candidate decides that they can no longer cope with the challenges of the training, they can choose to "ring out" or "DOR" (Drop on Request).

The process is both simple and profound. The bell used is typically a standard U.S. Navy ship's bell, and it's placed in a location where all candidates can see it. To voluntarily exit the program, a candidate must ring the bell three times in front of their instructors and fellow candidates. After ringing the bell, they place their helmet alongside the line of those who have also chosen to quit.

Ringing the bell is a significant moment filled with mixed emotions. For some, it represents relief from the intense physical and mental pressures of SEAL training. For others, it can be a moment of deep disappointment or feeling of failure. However, it's also a moment of stark honesty and personal acknowledgment of one's own limits.

This tradition underscores the voluntary nature of SEAL training, emphasizing that continuation in the program is always a choice, and choosing to stop is a personal decision that requires courage in its own right. The act of ringing the bell is a public acknowledgment that they have reached their limit, and while it marks the end of their journey to become a SEAL, it also signifies a moment of intense personal clarity and decision-making. I was DOR’d and wasn’t even given the chance to “ring out”. Lets say my intense personal clarity, My IPC (ok, I made that up) was at an all-time high

After packing up my things in my on-base room and getting the orders to move across the street to NAB Coronado, I was disenchanted, so I sought solace in Baja’s untamed vistas, where the surf whispered tales of freedom and resilience. Yeah, basically, I took off. Unauthorised. AWOL. Absent With Out Leave. Adventure was a desperate quest for meaning, a rebellion against a path that had forsaken me. Yet, even as I surrendered to the embrace of the waves and the ephemeral comfort of oblivion, a part of me remained anchored, yearning for redemption. While Baja was a magical experience for Django and I, it’s a whole ‘nother story.

11 days later, tanned and a bit hungover I returned to face the consequences, I found myself ensnared in the Navy’s bureaucratic grasp, my fate hanging in the balance. They actually didn’t know I had even been missing. Second time now.. I had my entire Enlisted Service records folder with me as they were given to me when I left BUD/S. I was to check-in across the highway at NAB and I didn’t really make it that far. There was no internet, 1984 remember?, and no paper trail follow through. I had to inform them that I had been AWOL. A few minutes later, the same Shore Patrol sailors that picked me up from my house a mere 12 days earlier were now escorting me to the on-base Brig, where I spent 60 days awaiting a court-martial. Thankfully that Senior Chief wasn’t there.. I sure I would have disappointed him.

The Court-Martial date comes and due to me having a whip smart Jag Officer, a Navy Lawyer, and my previous accolades on board The Denver, spoke volumes. The court martial proceedings, fraught with tension and anticipation, ultimately bore witness to my transformation. Supported by the commendations of my past and the advocacy of my peers, I was granted an honourable discharge. The week of Thanksgiving, I was on a plane home.

My exit from the military marked the birth of a new odyssey. Driven by the indomitable will that BUD/S had instilled in me, I ventured into the world of advertising. My father had been in advertising, publication and filmmaking. There was some hobbies of mine I learned from him that turned into a paying job. The ethos of “mind over matter,” ingrained during those tumultuous BUD/S days, became my guiding principle. In 1988, I started with an internship at an agency in Portland, Oregon where I bugged them for 2 months and they finally gave in and hired me that would redefine my identity, going from an intern at the first shop, to VP/Senior Producer at McCann Erickson in less than 3 years was meteoric. Eventually becoming an Art Director, then a successful Commercial Director for 20+ years. I was in the Cannes Film Festival New Director’s Showcase. I’ve won Cannes Lions, Clios, ANDY’s, ADDY’s and I’ve been in Communication Arts Ad and Design Annuals numerous times.  I returned to advertising and design, rising to Executive Creative Director, a role in which I thrived, channelling the tenacity and strategic insight of my former and current life into a tapestry of creative endeavours.

The crucible of BUD/S training was where I truly grasped the essence of teamwork, a lesson that has profoundly shaped both my role as a team member and my leadership style in the realm of advertising and design. In the gruelling environs of BUD/S training, individual prowess, though essential, pales in comparison to the collective strength and synchrony of a well-oiled team. Every evolution, every drill was a testament to the fact that the success of the evolutions hinged on seamless collaboration, mutual trust, and the unspoken bond that tethered each of us to a common purpose.

In those relentless days, I learned that true teamwork is not merely the sum of individual efforts but a cohesive force that amplifies each member's strengths and mitigates their weaknesses. It was about diving into the freezing surf, paddling through towering waves, and enduring the harshest conditions, all while maintaining an unwavering commitment to the team’s objectives. This experience taught me that leadership is as much about listening and supporting as it is about directing and deciding. It showed me that a true leader doesn’t just command respect but earns it through actions, empathy, and the ability to bring out the best in others.

Carrying these lessons into my career as a Creative Director, I've strived to cultivate an environment where teamwork is the bedrock of creativity and innovation. Leading my creative teams, I apply the principles honed during my BUD/S training: fostering a culture of mutual respect, encouraging open dialogue, and ensuring that every team member feels valued and understood. Just as in BUD/S training, where each team member’s unique skills were crucial to the unit’s success, in the creative field, diverse talents and perspectives combine to produce ground-breaking ideas and solutions.

This principle is equally applicable and vital within the broader context of an agency, production & events house, or marketing agency where the symbiotic relationship between various departments is the linchpin of overall success. In the agency environment, each department, be it creative, account management, strategy, media planning, or production, functions like a specialized unit within a larger force. Each team has its own strengths, capabilities, and responsibilities, yet their coordinated efforts are what ultimately drive the agency’s success.

This understanding of teamwork has been instrumental in navigating the complex dynamics of creative projects, enabling me to lead my teams not just to meet the brief but to exceed expectations and set new benchmarks in the industry.

BUD/S, while not the sole architect of my transformation, played a pivotal role in sculpting the person I am today. Before undergoing this rigorous training, my life was less disciplined, more chaotic, a mess, to put it bluntly. The demanding environment of BUD/S instilled in me a set of habits and principles that have become second nature, profoundly influencing how I navigate both my personal and professional life. While the SEAL’s were not for me, I take-away valuable life lessons never to be forgotten. Especially if someone has had a freakin concussion, Don’t drop them off and not check on them. Le Duh!

In the civilian world, and especially in the creative environment of an agency, I’ve come to understand that every individual is not just a role or a function but a valued human being with unique contributions, perspectives, and needs. This understanding has shaped how I lead and interact with my teams. I make it a point to ensure that everyone, irrespective of their position or role, is accounted for, heard, and supported. Whether it's checking in on a team member's well-being, ensuring that workloads are manageable, or simply acknowledging their efforts, these actions stem from the deep-seated belief that every person is integral to the collective success of the team and the agency as a whole.

IM CD’A.

Now, residing in Singapore’s vibrant metropolis, my life is a harmonious blend of past and present. The discipline and resilience forged in the crucible of BUD/S fuels my passion for Ironman triathlons, each race a testament to the enduring creed: if the mind says go, the body will not say no. My journey from the tumultuous shores of Coronado to the pinnacle of creative leadership is a narrative of rebirth, a testament to the transformative power of adversity and the relentless pursuit of excellence.

In retrospect, Friday April 13, 1984, often regarded as an ominous date, was not a harbinger of misfortune but a pivotal moment of serendipity. It was the day my true path was unveiled, leading me to a life rich with purpose and achievement. This narrative, once a tale of lost dreams and bitter revelations, has evolved into an epic of resilience and triumph, a chronicle of a man who, against the odds, found his true calling in the aftermath of his greatest challenge.

No likes required.

We made this for everyone who’s ever opened LinkedIn and felt… a little dirty afterward.

The platform was meant to connect us, but somewhere between the motivational quotes, humblebrags, and algorithmic applause, it became another addiction, validation disguised as networking. So we made a film that owns that truth.

No branding. No agency credits. No self-congratulation.

Just real people, confessing what we all quietly do: clap for posts we don’t read, scroll when we should sleep, envy people we don’t even like.

It’s not a takedown. It’s a mirror, awkward, funny, human.

A reminder that behind every curated headline and polished post is someone just trying to matter in the feed.

So yeah, “Hi, my name is ___. And I’m a LinkedIn user.”

63 IS THE NEW 63

They say “act your age.” Fine. I act 63, reckless, hungry, and allergic to bullshit.

Here’s the thing: 63 isn’t the new 40. It’s not the new 30. It’s not some bullshit AARP rebrand where we slap an Instagram filter on crow’s feet and pretend we’ve hacked time.

63 is the new 63

It means you’ve got scars and stories. It means you’ve been on enough planes to know the drink cart clink by heart. It means you’ve watched people burn out, sell out, or fade out, while you’re still here, still hungry, still making things that matter.

But try telling that to an industry that worships at the altar of youth.

The Gods We Looked Up To

When I started, the first ten years were ruled by names whispered like gospel. Dan and David, Rich and Jeff, Lee, even Hal. The gods of West Coast advertising. The East Coast had their own, so did every market worth a damn.

And here’s the thing, we looked up to them. Older creatives weren’t invisible, they were the sherpas. They weren’t saints, but they were legends. They carried the map, the scars, the bad habits, and the brilliance.

And that’s why it’s such a bitter joke now. Because instead of passing the torch, this industry loves to toss the torch, along with anyone holding it, straight into the trash. We don’t call it what it is, but let’s: ageism.

Fuck ageism.

Call It What It Is

Yes, you may notice that I swear. If that offends you, then stop reading. I’m not forcing you.

And of course, I know how to behave myself in a client meeting. Le fucking duh.

The point is, ageism is eating this business alive. Not because older creatives lose their spark, but because agencies stop seeing it. They’re too obsessed with “culture fit” and chasing whatever’s trending on a platform that’ll be dead in five years.

I’m not asking for nostalgia. I’m not asking for a parade. I’m saying the flame doesn’t die at 50, 60, 63. If anything, it burns cleaner. Hotter. Sharper.

The Cult of the New

Advertising loves the shiny. The just-graduated-with-a-portfolio-of-pitch-decks generation. Millennials and Gen Z, latte in one hand, TikTok trend in the other, ready to save the world with a carousel post. Agencies line up for them like it’s sneaker drop day, while the veterans, the ones who actually bled for campaigns, who shot in the rain and cut film in the middle of the night, get ghosted.

Over 50? You might as well be radioactive. Too old for the junior roles, too “out of touch” for the senior ones. A creative director with 30 years of experience gets passed over because some HR algorithm says they don’t “fit the culture.” Translation: they’re not 27, wide-eyed, and willing to work 14 hours for cold pizza and “exposure.” Some of my best memories were all nighters before a pitch. And winning the business made it even sweeter. It created a true team mentality. And we celebrated those wins, and mourned the losses. Together. As a team. No matter the age.

It’s backwards. It’s fucking insane. The very people who know how to take a fragile, billion-dollar idea and keep it alive through client tantrums, last-minute budget cuts, and endless “Can we make the logo bigger?” meetings are the ones being shut out.

Everyone drools over AI like it’s a silver bullet. But guess what? AI isn’t dreaming this shit up from scratch. It’s trained on decades of blood, sweat, late nights, and ideas from the same older creatives you’re ghosting. You want the machine but not the makers. That’s not progress, that’s theft.

Old Is a Choice

Here’s the secret: you don’t get old because of candles on a cake. You get old because you start acting like it.

You start moving with the herd of elder lemmings, marching in slow, sad formation toward irrelevance. Trading curiosity for nostalgia. Trading boldness for “back in my day.”

Fuck that

You want to look old? Think old. You want to die young at 40? Start saying no to risk, no to change, no to whatever’s next. That’s when the wrinkles hit, not your skin, your mind.

The number is nothing. Attitude is everything.

People ask me what’s my secret to the fountain of youth. Well, I surround myself with people who inspire me. That’s the real Botox, curiosity, energy, conversation. Maybe it’s because I swim in the ocean every day. I go under, let the salt sting my eyes, and then with both hands I gently wash my face with sand from the seafloor. My own ritual. I call it the daily raw rinse. A way of scrubbing off the layer of bullshit and tiredness that wants to stick.

Retire When?

There’s this saying, worn out like a bar mat: “If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.” Cute. Not true.

If you love what you do, you’ll work every goddamn day of your life, and you won’t want to stop.

Retire? When I stop loving this. When the smell of ink on a fresh comp doesn’t hit me in the chest. When the hair on my arms doesn’t rise in an edit at 2 AM because the cut finally sings. When I stop getting high off the perfect line that makes a client lean back in their chair and mutter, “Oh, fuck. That’s good.”

Until then, the answer is never.

63 Is the New 63

The fix for ageism isn’t begging for another seat at their table. It’s proving, over and over, that the work speaks louder than the birthdate. It’s building your own table when theirs gets too small. It’s stacking teams with people who give a damn, no matter the year they were born.

The truth is, this industry doesn’t need fewer voices with experience, it needs more. More scars, more instincts, more hands steady enough to steer fragile ideas through the storm.

So don’t call me 40. Don’t dress it up. I’m 63. I own it. I wear it. And I’ll still out-create half the room because I’m not trying to be young. I’m still dangerous.

That’s the difference.

That’s the answer.

Branson Veal is 63. Creative director, filmmaker, survivor of late nights and bad clients. Still restless, still dangerous, still allergic to mediocrity. More at www.vaka.studio

Seven Million Motorbikes.

As I sit in a taxi trying to make my way across town in Ho Chi Minh, I realize this isn’t traffic. It’s anatomy.

The cars are clogged arteries, jammed with exhaust and ego, all inching forward like they’ve got somewhere more important to be.

Meanwhile, the motorbikes, the real lifeblood of this city, flow like red blood cells, darting through every narrow space, weaving between side mirrors and sidewalk fruit vendors. Helmets strapped, faces blank, instincts dialed to eleven. They’re not driving. They’re surviving. Performing surgery on a city that never stops pulsing.

Seven million of them. Each one part of the rhythm, the pulse, the barely-controlled heart attack that keeps this city alive.

It’s not gridlock. It’s a cardiovascular event.
And somehow… no one flatlines.

And now someone has a plan:
Make them all electric by 2030.
Seven. Million. Motorbikes.

No fucking way.

You don’t just swap out gasoline for batteries and call it progress.
This city runs on instinct, on combustion, on organized madness.
You can’t plug that into a charger.

The People’s Tariff

Tariff.

Great word, isn’t it? Sounds tough. Presidential. Sprinkle it on anything and it becomes policy. Steel. Cars. Chips. Each other. Tariff the world into submission.

But what if the people set one too? Not on imports. On the folks running the show. Remember, we hired you.

Maybe you think I’m drifting into politics. I’m not. I’m talking about value. What we trade. What we get back.

I work in creativity. I sell ideas that are supposed to move people. Commerce, yes. It’s not a fresco. But sometimes it’s art. When it hits right, when it lands in your chest like a perfect chord, that’s value. You can feel it.

There’s a tax in my world too. Meetings that drain the blood out of an idea. Award shows that keep multiplying like rabbits. Admin trying to sit on creativity until it stops squirming. I’ve been called difficult. Not process-minded. Not focused on the admin portion. True. I carry a different weight. The weight of caring whether the idea has a pulse.

Give me the 64 box of crayons, not the 12. Give me the weird color at the bottom with the paper peeled off. I’ll find a use for it.

Here’s the truth under all of this. People don’t mind paying for what works. We pay the cook who knows the grill. We tip the driver who gets us there clean and fast. We reward a leader who speaks to us like adults and delivers. We even pay a little extra for honesty. Always have.

So why not charge a small fee every time they waste our time? A fine for every press conference that says absolutely nothing? A bill for every pothole that’s been “scheduled for repair” since the Stone Age? Wouldn’t that balance the books a little?

They tax our money. They also tax our patience, our attention, our hope. They call it process. They call it we appreciate your understanding. I don’t appreciate it. I’d like a wire transfer.

And audits. Oh, the audits. When we get audited, we open our lives like a suitcase at the airport. Bank accounts. Files. Receipts from dinners we can’t remember. But when we ask them to open theirs? Suddenly it’s classified. Redacted. “For security reasons.”

Really? If you can grade my honesty, I should get to grade yours.

How is it that citizens get x-rayed for missing deductions, but governments get privacy for missing integrity? Seems backwards, doesn’t it?

And let’s not pretend it’s about Democrats or Republicans. Jerseys. Left wing, right wing. Positions on a soccer field. Two sides of the same slow game.

This isn’t politics. It’s customer service. We hired you. Do the job or we’ll find someone else.

You promised to release the files on that creepy bastard with the powerful friends. Then release them. All of them. Not a crossword puzzle made of black rectangles. Just truth. The real stuff. Every redacted line is another tariff on trust. Every lie, another fee we pay in patience.

And why are we always in everyone else’s business?

Do we really need a finger in every pot, a flag in every sand dune? I’ve been living in Southeast Asia long enough to hear how the rest of the world says it. They don’t call us ignorant. They call us arrogant. We export freedom like a fast-food chain. We decorate it in slogans. But our pride often drowns out our humility.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe we are the loud kid in the room who mistakes volume for virtue.

Meanwhile, the conspiracy theories multiply like gremlins. Aliens. Comets. Cloned presidents. The Moon landing. 9/11 math that doesn’t add up. People are bored. They suspect everything because nothing feels honest anymore.

We argue. We choose our flavor of truth. While the real work goes undone.

And who profits from keeping us angry and entertained? Anyone? Bueller?

All of this feels weirdly familiar. The same thing happens in advertising.

We censor ideas before they even walk into the room. We scrub headlines clean of anything that might offend the intern’s cat.

We say “bold” a lot but act like hall monitors.

We talk about transparency while hiding behind NDAs and case studies nobody reads.

Sound familiar? It should. We’re just better at kerning our hypocrisy.

Maybe the industry needs an audit too. Not the quarterly kind. The soul kind. What are we really making? Who are we trying to move?

When did selling soap become more respectable than telling the truth?

Ever notice how every great idea starts messy? Scribbles. Arguments. Versions that die ugly deaths. We bury the chaos like it’s shameful. But that chaos is the heartbeat. Maybe that’s what we’ve redacted our own humanity.

Truth has a tariff. In government. In business. In advertising. It costs courage. It costs sleep. It costs a few meetings where people shift in their chairs because you asked the wrong question.

But when honesty breaks through, when a line or an image hits you square in the chest, it’s still magic. Same rush I got with that Portland Opera piece years ago. Same reason I’m still in this game.

So here’s my invoice:

Tariff on bullshit.

Surcharge on arrogance.

Flat rate on lies.

Lifetime discount for anyone still building something real.

This isn’t a rant. It’s a receipt. For years of tiny cuts that bled quietly. I’m done pretending the cost is invisible. I’m 63. Not angry. Not naive. Awake.

I still believe in work that moves people. I still believe in cities that function. I still believe in leaders who can say, “Here’s what we did. Here’s what we failed at. Here’s how we fix it. Hold me to it.”

Until then, I’ll keep sending invoices. Maybe only in my head. Maybe printed and pinned above my desk. It keeps me honest. Keeps my focus where it belongs, on the work, the people I love, and the next idea that might actually matter.

Call it The People’s Tariff. Call it rebellion. Call it truth with a price tag.

Maybe it’s just advertising until it isn’t.

Maybe it’s just government until it works.

Either way, I’m done paying to be ignored.

Send me the brief when you’re ready to build something real. I’ll bring the 64 box of crayons.

me: American creative director living abroad. Seeing my country clearer from a few thousand miles away. Still paying taxes. Still chasing ideas that make people feel something.

Not open to work.

This is not about awards.
This is not about titles.

This is about doing work that moves people.

I’ve pitched rooms that didn’t want to listen.
I’ve led teams that made something impossible happen.
I’ve shot in chaos. Edited in calm.

I’ve been a lot of places. Some glamorous. Some full of bullshit.
I’ve told stories that made people feel something.
Not everything I’ve made was perfect, but none of it was fake.

If you get it, you get it.
If not, scroll on.

How 76 Kilos, a Broken Visa, and a Wink Got Me to Vietnam (Or: What Happens When You Try to Leave Bullsh*t Behind)

Denpasar Airport. Bali Indonesia

You ever feel like your whole life is one flight away from fully unraveling?

I don’t mean that dramatic-in-a-movie-way. I mean literally:

A single desk agent.

One mismatched date on a visa.

A few too many kilos.

And it all nearly fell apart.

Let me back up.

Bali was supposed to be a clean slate. A warm breeze. A new current.

And for a moment, it was.

But underneath that postcard peace, there were cracks.

People who said the right things and did the opposite.

A few smiles that were just masks stretched tight over insecurity, greed, and control.

Let’s just say I mistook charisma for character, and that one’s on me.

I showed up to create.

To build.

To turn dust into story and pixels into feeling.

But some people don’t value that.

They value what they can own.

Not what they can grow.

They want creativity, until it challenges them.

They want branding, until it outshines them.

They want your ideas, until they realize they didn’t have them first.

Not everything that looks like opportunity is actually growth. Sometimes it’s just a well-lit trap.

It took me a while to see it.

To accept that some people hire creatives like they order fast food: quick, cheap, disposable.

To admit I was giving heart to someone who only wanted a transaction.

Someone who wanted control over collaboration.

Template over transformation.

A hollow leader in a polished suit.

And when I finally saw it?

I did the hardest thing you can do when you’re deep in the weeds of someone else’s illusion:

I walked away when I could have played a card that would have royally f*cked that pers........

Karma.

So there I am. At the airport. Denpasar.

Dragging 76 kilos of gear, gear that holds the real weight of that walk.

I’ve got my visa. I’ve got my flight.

I even paid for priority check-in because, you know, dignity.

The economy line is chaos, people stacked like Tetris blocks in a humid hallway.

But me? I’m chill. Early. Confident.

Bali’s in the rearview. Vietnam is ahead.

I’m not restarting. I’m redirecting.

Check-in opens. I’m first in the priority line.

Passport handed over. Visa handed over.

The agent squints. Frowns. Clicks. Pauses.

“Visa is no good. Expiration date does not match passport. You cannot fly.”

Excuse me?

“You must fix it. Then come back.”

Right. I’ll just fix a visa that took five days to get… in the next two hours. No problem. Let me just call the immigration hotline that doesn’t answer and refresh the website that keeps crashing. Super chill.

So I drag my 70+ kilos off to a corner of the check-in area, somewhere between desperation and denial. And I start googling like my life depends on it, because it kind of does. I try every Vietnamese immigration phone number I can find. None work. Websites are slow. Online forms crash. It’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube while on fire.

Meanwhile, the terminal is filling up. Fast. Lines turning to mobs. Economy passengers oozing into every direction like spilled syrup on a hot sidewalk. The priority line? Vanished. Everything is everywhere. It’s now a human stew with no sense of order. I’ve got sweat dripping down my back, time slipping away, and no plan. and I start doing the digital equivalent of CPR on my trip.

Clock is ticking.

2 hours until departure.

Websites spinning.

Time is slipping through my hands like sand.

When someone says “this isn’t personal, it’s just business,” it’s always personal. They just don’t want to feel bad about screwing you.

Then, an idea.

Those emergency visa services.

They’re expensive. Dubious. A last resort.

I ask ChatGPT who’s legit—it says: Vietnam-Immi.org.

I trust it. I click. I type. I sweat.

Card declined.

My United States Visa card doesn’t like Vietnam Immigration Visa. Fraud alert triggered. The universe is now just punking me.

Tick-tock.

So now I’m fighting with my bank via app while getting WhatsApp messages from Vietnam-Immi asking me to confirm every detail short of my blood type. Finally, after about 87 panicked taps on my phone and screaming “YES IT’S ME” into the fraud bot like I’m trying to re-enter the Matrix.

Eventually, blessedly, payment goes through.

$350 USD.

One last shot.

One Hail Mary visa.

They say: “You’ll have it in 30 minutes.”

Wha tha phö?

Worth every damn dong.

Um..that’s what the Vietnamese dollar is called.

I take a breath. Blood pressure drops. Re-enter the terminal’s warzone.

By now, the terminal is a scene from the apocalypse. Wall-to-wall people. Angry faces. Baggage everywhere. It’s like a crowd leaving a football match after their team got trounced, no order, no mercy. But no one is moving.

I elbow my way back to the “priority” line, which no longer exists, and find an Indian man and his family trying to maintain something resembling a queue at priority. We team up. Fend off line cutters like a makeshift militia. People are pushing. Shoving. The guy behind me is breathing directly on my neck, and a Euro looking couple are trying to sneak in like it’s a Parisian ski lift in Val d’Isère. (Don’t even get me started.)

There’s a special kind of betrayal that only happens when someone pretends to believe in you.

The airport just feels like a metaphor at this point.

Then, my angel appears.

The same check-in agent from earlier.

She sees me. Smiles. Points.

“Mr. Veal, come please.”

Cue celestial music.

I push my cart forward, stepping over wayward toddlers and stray carry-ons. She asks for my new visa. I show her the email, the PDF, the WhatsApp messages. She examines every pixel of that thing like she works for Interpol. Wants to be sure I didn’t Photoshop it. (Honestly? I considered it.)

Finally… she nods.

“Okay. Put bag here.”

First bag: 29.5 kg.

Second: 31 kg.

Third: 15.5 kg.

The limit is 70 kg, I'm at 76 kg.

I know I’m over.

She knows I’m over.

But she just keeps tagging.

We are, at this point, trauma bonded.

“Flight is boarding. Go.”

I thank her like she just pulled me from a burning building.

Drop my bags at the oversize luggage counter. Another agent gives me a wink. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I take it.

Oversize baggage.

Immigration.

Security.

I make it to the gate. Board the plane.

And guess what?

There’s barely anyone onboard.

The flight’s delayed.

Everyone else? Still stuck somewhere in the hellpit of check-in purgatory.

But me?

I’m on the plane.

Breathing.

Flying. Well someday.

Finally.

Postscript:

This story isn’t about luggage or airlines.

It’s about what it takes to walk away when you’re undervalued, unseen, and surrounded by people who say “we’re a team” right up until it’s time to actually act like one.

It’s about creativity in a world that keeps trying to monetize, minimize, and sterilize it.

It’s about finding the courage to say, “No more templates. No more transactions. No more pretending.”

It’s about defusing emotional bombs with one hand while dragging your life with the other.

And sometimes, just sometimes, after all that?

The universe throws you a wink.

And you make it through.

-B

PS: Eternal Thanks to Vietnam-Immi.org

The real MVPs of this whole wild ride.

They got me a 90-day, multiple-entry visa into Vietnam in under 30 minutes.

While I was unraveling in an airport corner, they were calm, clear, and fast.

And yes, $350 felt steep. But what they saved was worth so much more:

My trip.

My sanity.

My whole damn pivot.

I’ll use them forever.

I’ll recommend them to anyone.

They didn’t just save my ass, they saved my altitude.

The AirPod. The Lavatory Toilet.

12:33 PM. JetBlue flight U396. Somewhere over New York.

I’m in the lavatory, washing my hands like a responsible traveller.

And then, BOOM.

My left AirPod LAUNCHES out of my ear like a bottle rocket.

One second: smooth Sade vocals. no judging!

Next second: free-falling like a bad stock pick.

It bounces.

Once.

Twice.

Sink. Counter.

And then, because fate is a comedian, it lands directly on the toilet seat.

And that’s when the roulette wheel moment begins.

You know that casino dude who tosses the ball and watches the chaos unfold? That was my left AirPod.

It spun. It bounced. It ricocheted INSIDE the toilet, clinking around like it had money on black 22.

I lunged. It dodged. I reached. Clink, clank, tap tap tap tap tap...

Then, it stopped.

Inside.

Deep inside that dark abyss. The tunnel to airplane Neverland. (Yeah, pun intended.)

I dropped to my hands and knees. The line outside the lav? Growing. You ever notice how it’s always a line when you need to do something weird in there?

Anyway, I squinted. Focused. And there it was a tiny glimmer of white reflection deep in the tunnel of doom.

I had two choices:

Flush and accept defeat.

$250 Airpod pro.

Find a way.

I busted out of the lav, locked eyes with the flight attendant.

“Do you have a fork?”

She blinked. “A…fork?”

“YES. URGENT.”

After a momentary pause, she hands over a plastic fork like she’s seen this before. Respect.

I go back in. People in line are watching me.

Fork in hand. Laser focus.

One wrong move and it’s gone.

By the way, I was the neighbourhood champion of the game "Operation".

I breathe.

Steady hands. No fear. No buzzer

I lower the fork.

It catches an edge.

And then, I LIFT.

Black 22.

HERE’S THE LESSON. (Is Gary V Listening?)

You don’t need the perfect plan. You need action.

You don’t need better tools. You need the plastic-fork mentality.

Business is never clean. It’s messy, chaotic, and unpredictable. Winners adapt.

There is ALWAYS a way, if you’re willing to get uncomfortable.

Everyone wants success.

Everyone wants the win.

But you know what?

Most people walk away when sh*t gets uncomfortable.

They want the perfect tools, the perfect strategy, the perfect moment.

They wait. They hesitate. They flush the opportunity.

Winners? They get the damn fork.

They adapt. They figure it out. They don’t fucking quit.

99% of people walk away. The 1%? They get the damn fork.

Oh, and am I putting it back in my ear?

You’re damn right I am.

After some surgical-grade disinfecting.

HAVE YOU EVER HAD A “PLASTIC FORK” MOMENT? DROP IT IN THE COMMENTS.

Anything but Stuffy: The Art of Being Bold

During my internship at Borders, Perrin, and Norrander, I had the chance to work on something completely unexpected. Myself, Eric Grunbaum, and Kent Suter created a spot for the Portland Opera with a budget of $500. Somehow, this humble project ended up winning practically every advertising award in the world that year. Public service category, of course.

Bold ideas win. But it begs the question: is there a line to boldness?

A few teams worked on concepts, and so did us interns. One of the senior writers at the agency scoffed at the Portland Opera project, saying, “Why would I want to work on the opera? It’s too stuffy.” Well, thanks for the open door Greg.

Well, the interns won. We sold the concept to the client and, here’s the kicker, I got to direct and edit the commercials. Let me repeat that: I was a lowly intern, and somehow, I got to direct and edit the spots. There were two commercials we needed to produce on a slim $500 budget. Public Service Announcements generally don’t have big budgets and often have no budget at all. Let’s just say this was a Sin Dinero Production. The two concepts included one about composer Gaetano Donizetti and another inspired by Alessandro Moreschi, the last known castrati boys who, for the good of their angelic, high-pitched voices (and to support their families), had their testicles removed. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for that career move.

With only $500, we pulled every favour we could. We shot it on a 16mm camera my dad had given me, a reward for getting suspended in seventh grade after screening my skateboarding film in the school talent show. That film, by the way, was shot on 8mm and might have featured streakers (tastefully no frontal, of course). The Portland Opera ad taught me that being bold isn’t just a gamble, it’s a strategy. Sure, there’s always the risk of going too far, but when you know how to walk that fine edge, you can create something truly memorable.

The Portland Opera project wasn’t just bold, it was eye-opening. We did a lot of research, and here’s what we discovered: opera storylines are seriously anything but stuffy. Betrayals, murders, forbidden love, epic feuds. these operas were the original soap operas, packed with more drama than any Netflix series or K-Drama. Once we uncovered this, it completely shifted our perspective. The angle became clear: could we attract a new, younger audience to the opera by showcasing how wild these stories really are, while still keeping the core audience engaged? It was a delicate balance, but one we were determined to strike. And thus, the tagline Anything but stuffy was born.

That campaign It launched Eric to Chiat\Day, and eventually a long career as the ECD on Apple. Me to McCann Erickson where I went on to work on Coca-Cola and Powerade. Five years later, and I left McCann to start the next chapter of my career, Directing. That same year, I was honored to be included in the Cannes Lions New Directors’ Showcase. And Kent, well he stayed at BP&N.

Today, the celebration continues (cue Kool & The Gang), and I’m still shooting, creating, and telling stories. Sometimes, I think it’s a curse, lying in bed at night, unable to shut off my brain as ideas and concepts keep popping up, uninvited but impossible to ignore. On some of those sleepless nights.

I grab my longboard and cruise around the neighborhood in the fresh air. Clothed, of course.

But that’s the beauty of this industry, isn’t it? Creativity doesn’t have an off switch, and honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way. Bold ideas do win. It’s about knowing where the line is, maybe even stepping over it, but doing so with purpose and creativity. Thank god we don’t need to, uh… well, you know.

And speaking of bold ideas, after 18 months as a Creative Director in Singapore, if I don’t find a role that suits me, or vice versa, I may or may not be moving to Bali to open my own remote creative agency named "phö q". Because if bold is where it’s at, I’d like to think phö q has a nice ring to it. phö symbolizes creativity that nourishes and connects, while q for quantum represents bold leaps into the future. Together, phö q crafts ideas that are bold, transformative, innovative, and deeply human. after all, why would you ever want to blend in with your competition. let's be real, phö q is bold, unapologetic, and unforgettable. just like the work we create. not just a name; it's a statement. a brand that grabs attention, sparks curiosity, and stays with you. because for us it's never about blending in. it's about standing out, making an impact, and delivering ideas that people talk about. every time.

From Coffee to Chicken Rice

So, here’s how it went down: after what felt like a lifetime of emails, negotiations, and the great work visa shuffle, I found myself accepting a role as Group Creative Director at an agency in Singapore. This wasn’t just any role, I’d be leading creative for four offices across the APAC region. Pretty cool, right? In June 2023, I packed my bags, left behind the land of flannel and pour-over coffee, and dove headfirst into one of the most dynamic and fast-paced cities on the planet.

Spoiler alert: it’s been a wild ride. Moving across the world comes with its share of curveballs, from navigating a new work culture to figuring out how to order chicken rice without looking like a tourist. But it’s also been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life, filled with lessons, laughs, and a lot of sweating (Singapore is not joking around with that humidity). Here’s what I’ve learned so far.

The Agency Experience: Creativity Without Borders (Literally)

Working at an agency in Singapore has been nothing short of eye-opening. Every agency has its quirks, but this one came with a new cultural twist: hierarchy. After years in Seattle’s “everyone’s a creative genius” vibe, adjusting to a more structured and formal setup was… let’s say, a learning opportunity.

The highlight? Four campaigns I led were picked up globally. That’s right, globally. Seeing your work resonate across borders hits different. It’s like watching your kid crush their first soccer game, except your kid is a campaign, and the trophy is global recognition.

A lot of that success is thanks to Andrew, the Group CEO of Now Comms. Andrew’s vision for the agency and his unwavering focus on pushing the boundaries of creativity were inspiring. He trusted me to bring a fresh perspective, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful. While no workplace is without its challenges, having leadership that champions bold thinking makes all the difference.

Living in Singapore: Adventures in Humidity and Hawker Centers

Living in Singapore is like stepping into the future while being surrounded by some of the best food on the planet. Efficiency? Check. Diversity? Double check. Michelin-star meals for under five bucks? Game over. My regular haunt quickly became Maxwell Food Centre, where I developed a borderline addiction to chicken rice. (Anthony Bourdain was onto something, let me tell you.)

Living in Singapore has been such an eye-opener, especially when it comes to transportation. The MRT (Mass Rapid Transit) is nothing short of amazing. It’s so efficient and reliable, with a huge percentage of the population using it daily to commute. Owning a car, on the other hand, is a completely different story. With the COE (Certificate of Entitlement) system, the cost of owning a car is astronomical. A s$200,000 Toyota Corolla or to replace my hmm, German car, in Singapore would have been north of half a million and that's south of no effin way. It’s truly only for the very wealthy. As much as I miss driving, I have to admit, the public transport here is so smooth and air-conditioned, it’s hard to complain... except when stepping out into the heat, of course!

Then there’s the travel. Singapore is basically the ultimate launch pad for Southeast Asia. One weekend, I’d be kicking back on a pristine Thai beach; the next, I’d be elbow-deep in a bowl of phở in Vietnam. Sure, I might have had a minor existential crisis over whether the green curry tasted better with or without the sunset view, but that’s the kind of dilemma I can live with.

Work-Life Balance: A Tale of Two Cities

Here’s the thing about work-life balance: in Seattle, it’s more life than work. In Singapore, it’s the other way around. At first, I thought, How hard can it be to adapt? Turns out, it’s a sprint, not a marathon. There were plenty of “I need this by tomorrow” deadlines, but somewhere along the way, I found a rhythm, setting boundaries, prioritizing self-care, and learning how to say “no” without feeling like a total slacker.

And you know what? It worked. I discovered a new level of focus and discipline that I’ll carry with me long after I leave Singapore. Plus, I can now say I survived in one of the fastest-paced environments out there.

Final Thoughts: The Next Chapter

Looking back, my time in Singapore was like one big masterclass in adaptability and growth, with a side of chili crab. The challenges? They made me stronger. The wins? They reminded me why I love what I do. And the adventures? Let’s just say I’m never going to look at a boring weekend the same way again.

As I gear up for whatever comes next, whether it’s in Singapore, Jakarta, Bangkok, The U.S. or beyond, I’m ready to bring everything I’ve learned to the table. My advice for anyone thinking about taking a leap like this? Just say yes. Yes to the challenges. Yes to the opportunities. Yes to the chicken rice, and unexpected adventures.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not just about where you work, it’s about how you grow, who you connect with, and the stories you create along the way. And if that journey happens to involve a Michelin-star meal or two? Even better.

Give me a world

In celebration of World Down Syndrome Day, I'm reflecting on one of the most rewarding projects of my career with Best Buddies, an organization dedicated to finding employment opportunities for individuals with Intellectual Developmental Disabilities (IDD). The project began with a concept centered on belonging, initially brought to life in a book created by one of our agency partners. Eager to expand the narrative, a street poet was commissioned to craft the book's narrative, leading to the inspiring idea of producing a video. In a twist of creative collaboration, we decided to feature our employees with IDD as the stars, reciting the poetic lines. We coordinated a national effort to bring them together for an unforgettable day of filming. This experience stands out as one of the pinnacles of my creative career, highlighting the incredible talent and spirit of these individuals.

Belonging is universal, transcending conditions like Down Syndrome, Autism, or any form of IDD. Today, let's celebrate and embrace everyone's unique journey, creating unforgettable memories and fostering a sense of inclusion that resonates with us all. https://vimeo.com/361201582