You’re still here. Honestly, I’m impressed. I figured the unsubscribe button would have done its job by now.

Apparently, you’re either a glutton for punishment or genuinely curious. Either way—you’re getting more.

Sunday is when this thing runs without guardrails. No PR polish. No handlers hovering with “brand-safe” edits. No marketing team pretending this was focus-grouped. Just the truth, or at least the version that hasn’t been trademarked yet.

This is ADOTAT Unfiltered—the edition that never makes it into the pitch deck.
Where buzzwords are deleted on sight, spin gets shredded, and “authenticity” isn’t a KPI.

What you’ll find here are half field notes, half confessions—dispatches from the messy edges of media, tech, and whatever’s left of honesty. I didn’t plan to write this. But after one too many “thought leadership” panels and performative LinkedIn sermons, someone needed to say what everyone’s thinking but too polite—or too funded—to admit.

This newsletter costs less than a seasonal cup of overpriced coffee foam.
It also contains more truth than any RFP you’ll read this quarter.

Your Sunday inbox could be full of motivational quotes and “grindset” nonsense.
Instead, it’s this. A little chaos, a little clarity, and maybe something real.

You’re welcome.

End transmission.

It never ceases to amaze me how many people in this industry take personal offense to someone being—brace yourself—human.

Imperfect. Honest.

Capable of saying something unscripted.

Somewhere along the line, “authenticity” became a branding exercise instead of a moral compass.

Everyone markets humility until they have to practice it.

Every religion has its version of the same memo: you’re flawed, so work on it. Judaism says teshuvah—own your mistakes, make amends, do better. Christianity, Islam, Buddhism—same theme. Self-reflection, not self-adoration. But advertising seems allergic to the idea of imperfection.

We build billion-dollar systems to measure attention, yet can’t stomach introspection.

Let’s put this in perspective: we’re not running cartels here. Nobody’s getting buried in the desert over a missed IO. This is advertising, not organized crime. Yet half the industry behaves like a snubbed dinner invitation is a declaration of war.

Every few days, someone asks me, “Why does this podcaster hate you?”
Hate me? I’ve exchanged maybe two polite emails with them. The rest is projection.

What people call “industry tension” is usually just bruised egos and unpaid invoices.
It’s astonishing how much energy gets wasted on grudges that don’t pay rent. Somewhere between the client decks and conference panels, this industry convinced itself that drama equals relevance. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It just means you’ve run out of ideas.

Despite the nonsense floating around, I don’t use my platform to attack people. That’s not PR polish—it’s a principle.

In Judaism, there’s Lashon Hara—“evil speech.” Not lies, but truths told to wound. Gossip. Whispered reputation hits. The kind of poison that spreads faster than an RFP.
You don’t do it. Not because you’re scared of bad press, but because it erodes your integrity molecule by molecule.

Unless someone’s actively doing harm—a thief, a predator, a scammer—keep quiet.

Criticize their ideas, not their humanity.

Because if you build your brand on humiliation, sooner or later you’ll be the headline.

People are always surprised that I write a lot of apology letters.

Not because I think I’m worse than anyone else—I don’t. But because one should always be more apologetic, more cordial, more self-aware.

It’s not weakness. It’s discipline. It’s the act of saying:

Owning mistakes—real or perceived—defuses conflict before it festers. It tells people you’re playing the long game, not the ego game. And yes, sometimes it backfires. I’ve actually gotten letters back saying things like:

“At least you admit you’re at FAULT!!! You people.”

I have no idea what “you people” means. Jews? People who can spell “empathy”? The irony, of course, is that the same person who weaponized the apology would never send one themselves.

Still, I’d rather be the one who moves forward than the one who stays angry. I’d rather risk misunderstanding than marinate in bitterness. Because the apology isn’t about surrender—it’s about momentum.

Let me give you a secret: hate is bad for margins.

Every ounce of energy you spend nursing a grudge is energy you’re not using to build something that matters.

It’s the cheapest form of currency in business—resentment.
It circulates fast. It feels powerful. But it buys you nothing.

If someone helps you make money, build with them.
If someone doesn’t, move on.
If they’re a crook, expose them.
Everything else is vanity—emotional clutter dressed as ethics.

You can’t claim to shape human attention when you can’t even manage your own insecurities.

We’ve turned what should be a creative, high-stakes business into a sandbox for bruised egos.

Panels become therapy sessions.

Conferences become scoreboards.

And gossip? The new KPI.

It’s not edgy to be cruel. It’s lazy. It’s the absence of imagination disguised as wit.

At some point, this industry has to decide whether it wants to build connection or conflict.

You can’t do both forever.

The audience knows when the people behind the ads are faking it.

So stop pretending every disagreement is war.
Stop mistaking gossip for power.
Stop taking everything so personally.

We’re in advertising, not diplomacy. Act like professionals, not contestants.