ROTATION AND BALANCE

A late break-up entry

2012-02-07T20:58:00.000-08:00

You may remember a while back I did a post about break-up songs, and decided to turn it into a contest for the best one.

If you remember that, you're doing better than I am.

Due to the enormously underwhelming response, not only did I completely forget about it, but the grand prize of the winning song via iTunes remains unclaimed.

So here's what I'm going to do, since I'm not ready to break-up with this contest yet (I know, but I went for it anyway).

Let's give it another go. Submit your best break-up songs, and the selection committee here at Rotation and Balance will pick a winner shortly. We'll even sweeten the heartbreak pot: not only will you win your song from iTunes, you'll get the 5 runner-ups as well.

Entries from last time - Maybe You're Right, Hating You For Christmas and With Or Without You - are still in the running, so for the people who submitted them (you know who you are), no need to resubmit.

Just to get the tears rolling, I'm entering Can We Still Be Friends (don't worry, I'm not eligible to win).

What're you waiting for? Get listening. Because now, dredging up all your bitter, forgotten pain and heartache from the past could mean valuable prizes!

Remembering Ann again

2012-02-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was an interesting day for me. I was at my friend Al's Super Bowl party that I look forward to each year. And it was also 30 years to the day that my mom passed away. When it happened I didn't know how to get through the next minute, much less 30 years. But she wouldn't have wanted me to waste any time getting on with my life. She was good that way. Please excuse the repost if you've read it before, but one more time, this one's for mom.

It's not like me to get sloppy in my beer. Alright, who're we kidding - I'm a sap. And the fact that today is 28 years since my mom died isn't helping that any. I'm sad to say I can't remember nearly as much about my mom as I would like.
I can still hear her laugh. Because my parents had me later in life, I can still hear her almost apologizing to me for being "an old lady." But I never saw her that way. She was my old lady. She was my mom. She was there, frightened and strong in the emergency room at Cedars when I'd been thrown forty-five feet out of a car and knocked unconscious in an accident (many people by the way are still waiting for me to regain consciousness). She was there at the graduation when I walked onstage at the Hollywood Bowl to accept my diploma (yeah, I've played the Bowl). She held me, and the bucket, after my first real experience with a little too much egg nog and bourbon.

The last meal I had with my mom was at Nibbler's on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. Coke, tuna melt, arguements. The sounds of a generation and a half older clashing with a time and world that had changed in ways they didn't completely understand, and my impatience at their lack of understanding. Not my finest moment, and probably the first one I'd go back to change. Three days later, it was my turn to be with her in Cedars emergency room. She had died three times in the ambulance, and had been brought back three times. There was severe brain damage, and ten days later she was gone. I remember going into her intensive care room (can someone really be hooked up to that many wires?), and talking to her for about an hour. Trying to make my peace. Trying to say goodbye. And then, my mother opened her eyes and looked right at me. It was the first time she'd opened her eyes in ten days. Her doctors said it was a muscle reflex, similar to a twitch. They said she wasn't really there, wasn't really seeing me. But after a lifetime with this woman who gave me my sense of humor, sensitivity, temper, and everything I ever wanted (yes, only child), I didn't really care what the doctors said. Because I knew better. Every day, especially today, I'm the one who's seeing her. Bye mom. Before you know it.

Things I don't need to know Part 1: See's nutritional info

2012-02-01T07:47:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the beginning of yet another ongoing running series of blog posts from all of us here at Rotation and Balance World Headquarters.

Like my Luckiest Actor Alive series, my Why I Love Costco series, my What Took So Long series and my Guilty Pleasures series, this one will deal with a specific topic - things you don't need to know.

Although it's not a competition (or is it?), it'll also make coming up with a post much easier for me. Cross one new year's resolution off the list.

So, seized by the holiday spirit, I bought a five pound box of See's candy for one of the companies we do business with. And I had every intention of getting it to them before Christmas.

Then I had every intention of getting it to them before New Year's.

Then I had every intention of getting it to them the first week in January.

Then I had the discussion with my wife about whether it was too late to deliver a Christmas gift. We both agreed it was. I felt bad about not having been able to deliver a box of candy just a few blocks from my house on time, so I did the only thing I could think of.

I ripped the paper off that sucker and drown my sorrows in chocolate.

Can you blame me?

However, inside the box was this little bit of buzz-killing reading. Really? A nutritional brochure for See's candy? Because that's what people stuffing their face with the vanilla cremes want to know?

I think not.

Internally I'm sure the fine minds at See's thought they were being informative. After all, there is that pesky law about nutritional value labeling in California. But intentionally or not, what they were really being was annoying. The last thing anyone eating See's candy wants to know is:

A. What's in it (besides chocolate)

B. How many calories it has

C. Anything besides how good it is

Maybe it'd be better if they put it under the second tier of candy at the bottom of the box. That way it wouldn't matter and you wouldn't even have to pick it up and look at it. Where it is now, at the top of the box, you can't help but pick it up to get to the candy. Your eyes can't help see the words.

And that slight twinge of guilt for having seen it is unavoidable.

But guilt is something me and my people have had a lot of experience with. And I've turned getting over it quickly into somewhat of an art form.

At least until Valentine's Day when I'll be dealing with it again.

Sign of stupidity

2012-01-31T06:30:00.000-08:00

Now how are we going to thin the herd?

Can't government just stay out of our lives? Apparently they just don't care about the small percentage of people who want to walk in front of moving cars. They've taken away that right. Now those people can't say no one told them not to.

This is obviously a bigger problem than I thought. Or that I would have thought if I thought there were people stupid enough to need a warning about waiting for cars to stop before they cross the street.

At some point, I think local government just has to roll the dice and realize they can't protect people from everything.

Especially themselves.

Cutting corners

2012-01-29T18:44:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, making the bed was an art form. Despite the fact it was a daily chore, when done right it was also a daily accomplishment.

Whether it was called hospital corners or army style, it was what my parents expected every day before I left the house.

Judging by the way my kids leave their beds, it's apparently a lost art form.

Here's the thing - no one has it easier when it comes to making their bed than my kids do. It breaks down like this: the fitted sheet, the top sheet, and either a heavy comforter with a cover for winter or a lightweight one for summer. That's it.

No tucking in sheets, no blankets to corner. Just a sheet to pull up, a comforter to straighten out, and pillows to be placed. Everything in life should be so easy.

Just to see where it clocks in at, I've made both their beds. It can be done in 90 seconds - for both of them.

You see where I'm going here. Despite the fact we've spoiled our kids by making it easier than we ever had it, and easier than it has any right to be, for some reason they still can't get their beds made before they head off to school in the mornings.

It is endlessly frustrating to me. That is until I start thinking about all the other things my kids aren't doing. Like drugs. Neglecting their grades. Being disrespectful to friends and family. Staying up past their bedtimes. Smoking cigarettes. Going on websites they shouldn't be on.

It's all relative (see what I did there?). And they're great kids. So if they're too busy getting good grades and handling more on their plates than I ever had to at their age to make their beds, I'll make a point of finding a way to overlook it.

Maybe I'll even shoot for father of the year and do it for them.

Besides, I could use a little accomplishment right about now.

Goodbye Epstein

2012-01-27T06:35:00.000-08:00

Robert Hegyes died today. He was 60 years old.

Those old enough to remember know him best from the '70's show Welcome Back Kotter, where he played Jewish-Puerto Rican student Juan Epstein.

But that's not where I know him best from.

Robert Hegyes was my neighbor when I lived in Santa Monica. I lived on the 17th floor of twin high-rise towers right at the beach (don't get me started), and Hegyes lived downstairs from me on the 16th floor. I saw him almost daily in the hallways, elevators, laundry room and by the mailboxes.

We spoke often, and he was just a great guy. High energy, always had something going - a pilot, a screenplay, a meeting.

A couple of times I saw him in the elevator with his pal John Travolta (remind me to tell you about the time my roommate brought Travolta to our apartment in Brentwood while I was sleeping and didn't wake me up - it's okay, I'm over it). Anyway it was funny because on those occasions Travolta would just look down at the floor and not say a word, and Hegyes would be just as chatty and personable with me as ever.

He always insisted on being called Bobby, and, despite the fact we weren't really close friends, was always interested in what was going on with me and what I was up to.

I always wanted Bobby to find the kind of success he'd had with Kotter. It seemed to me with all the positive energy he projected out into the world, and the happiness he'd brought so many people in the past, that he deserved it.

Over the fourteen years since we moved from Santa Monica, my wife and I have thought of and talked about him, his wife and his kids many times.

He has always been in our very best thoughts.

Which is exactly where he is tonight.

Gunning it

2012-01-26T18:12:00.000-08:00

It's been a very long time since I've gotten a speeding ticket. So I imagine the one I got this morning was not just for today's violation, but was in fact kharma for all the times in the past few years I've driven undetected just a tad higher than the speed limit allows.

I used to, well, like isn't the right word, not mind getting speeding tickets. Believe it or not, back in the days before the interwebs you actually had to go in person and spend a day in traffic school to get the ticket wiped off your record so your insurance wouldn't go up. That was the good news. The bad news is you were only allowed to do it once every 18 months.

There were many differently themed traffic schools to choose from. The reason I didn't mind so much is I always chose the Comedians Traffic School. It was taught by working stand-ups, so that made it a lot more bearable. Also it was usually held at the Improv or the Comedy Store - both former haunts of mine (remind me to tell you about the time I got up on open mic night at the Comedy Store in another post).

The other thing is it always gave me a chance to use my favorite traffic school joke.

Inevitably the instructor would say, "How many of you are here for speeding?" And I'd reply, "All of us who got here first." Alright, so it's not the best joke. These classes start early. Let's see how funny you are at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.

Anyway, here's the other thing about this morning's ticket: it wasn't my fault.

Wipe that smile off your face.

I'll have you know that both my wife and I suffer from a common affliction found in California that affects many drivers. It's supposedly a hereditary condition. We just pray to God we haven't passed it on to our children.

Car manufacturers alone hold the cure. They could make the right pedal much harder to push down. But they don't. In the same way the pharma companies are in bed with the doctors, the car companies are rolling in dough laughing with their insurance company pals.

At least that's what I tell myself. What else could it be?

The embarrassing thing about it is I wasn't even trying that hard. Apparently when it comes to getting speeding tickets, I'm just as much of an underachiever as I am in other areas.

As you can see, one of those areas is in Photoshop, trying to retouch identifiable personal information off the ticket so I could post it here.

But I digress.

The point is I was only going 51 in a 35. And since no one's under oath here - yet - the truth is I take that stretch of road much faster than 51 almost all the time. I guess all that means is I probably deserved it.

Although, again, not my fault. I have that condition.

I will say that the officer who gave me the ticket was very nice and professional about it. Not that I expected otherwise, but, you know, sometimes traffic cops are like a box of chocolates.

So I'll pay the fine, I'll go to online traffic school, and I'll be a good citizen and make a conscious effort to slow down when I'm behind the wheel and drive much more carefully overall.

At least until I'm eligible for traffic school again.

I've got an astral plane to catch

2012-01-24T18:27:00.000-08:00

My friend Rich over at Round Seventeen put up a post yesterday about an accident he was involved in years ago on the way to his mom's funeral. By his own description, it was one that should've reunited him with his mother but fortunately didn't.

Because of when it happened, and the outcome being exactly the opposite of what logic and reason would tell you it should've been, I'm of the belief it was his mom who decided to intervene and make sure Rich and his family were at her funeral. Apparently I'm not the only one who's told him this.

However, Rich doesn't agree.

When it comes to beliefs in God, angels and the supernatural, by his own admission he's simply not on board the faith train. Which is fine. All it means is that at the end of the day - and I do mean the end of the day - he'll just be packing lighter.

Hey, it's a free country and I'm not out to change anyone's mind. But one of my personal beliefs is every once in awhile there are signs of and from a world beyond that simply can't be ignored. Or explained any other way.

So I'll see your departed mom story, and raise you a departed dad story of my own.

My dad died six years after my mom. When he died, he'd been seeing a woman named Esther who rode with us to his funeral.

When we got there, my (now) wife and I wanted to be alone with my dad for a few minutes. So we went inside, and had the casket opened so we could look at him. I turned to my wife and said, "This is weird, but I feel like I want to put some money in his pocket." To which my wife said, "Go ahead."

I took out my wallet, and inside were a few different bills. I took out a few, then put them back and took out a $20 bill and put it in his pocket. After I did, I felt an immediate sense of relief. We had the casket closed, and proceeded with the service.

When it was over, we were driving Esther home. She was sitting in the back seat so I could see her in the rear view mirror. She was just casually talking about my dad, saying how sweet he was, how she'd loved traveling with him, things like that.

Then she said, "And did you know your father never went anywhere without a $20 bill in his pocket?"

Needless to say that got our attention.

I told her I didn't know that, and asked her why. She said, "Because your father was from Brooklyn, and he always thought that if he got mugged and didn't have any money on him they'd beat him up even worse. So he always carried a $20 bill in his pocket."

We were speechless.

After thinking long and hard if I'd ever heard him say that - which I never did - I finally told Esther what I'd done and told her I was pretty sure he didn't have to worry about it where he was going.

Sometimes it's easy to see the signs, sometimes it isn't. But I believe with all my heart that was a goodbye from my dad that I simply couldn't ignore. I suppose it'd be easy to chalk it up to coincidence, or say that I did hear him say it at some point and just don't remember.

But I know that wasn't it. I know, my wife knows and Esther knows what it was.

Woody Allen once said one of the things he feared most about dying is that when he got to heaven they wouldn't be able to break a twenty.

I've known for a long time that's not a worry my dad had.

Unseeing things

2012-01-22T21:19:00.000-08:00

As a parent, you always wish you could control everything your children see. It's the part of you that wants to protect them from the images of ugliness and hurt in the world that once seen, will affect them deeply as they involuntarily replay them over and over.

My daughter saw a dog get hit by a car today. Not that there was anyway it could be good, but it was particularly bad in its violence and suddenness.

We'd just picked her up from winter camp. She'd had an awesome weekend, and was riding high on the fresh memory of it. The one thing she wanted to do when we picked her up was visit her grandmother, and her grandmother's new dog Buddy. (It's been a bad week for dogs: grandma had to put down her 14-year old Andrew earlier in the week. My daughter loved him and was with him at the end.)

After that visit, as we were leaving grandma's house, we saw a smaller - and we thought younger - German Shepherd wandering grandma's block. It had apparently been tied to something, because trailing behind it was a rope that had either been broken or chewed off. We tried to get the dog to come over to us, but it was scared and looked lost. We called grandma, and asked if the neighbors had a German Shepherd. Two of them did, but the dog we saw wasn't either of theirs.

The dog was heading towards a busy main street that borders grandma's neighborhood. We tried to head it off but couldn't.

It managed to cross the street, and we thought it would stay over there. We called Animal Control and the police department to let them know.

Unfortunately, the dog decided to go back across the street. As it walked to the other side, a car in the left lane slowed to let it pass. But a car in the right lane, that was going about 50, didn't. From the opposite side of the street where the dog had just come from, my daughter and I both saw it get hit and pinned under the car.

Many, many cars stopped to help, and the police received several calls. My daughter was hysterical, with full waterworks that would not be stopped.

I'd do anything to turn back time so she didn't have to have that image in her head.

It's times like these you come face to face with the adult hypocrisies you have no choice but to perpetrate. We told my daughter help was already on the way, explained how they would lift the car off the dog and then people who knew how to move injured animals would take him to be cared for.

Sadly and cruelly, the dog was still alive when we left. I have no doubt the first thing Animal Control did is put him down when they got there. Those weren't injuries he was coming back from.

Because we have a 7-year old German Shepherd we're beyond crazy about, we got emotionally invested in this lost dog almost instantly. I can't honestly say we would've made the same effort had it been a different breed (apologies to chihuahuas, but you're on your own).

So tonight, knowing this too shall pass, our daughter will sleep with us, feeling safe in the big bed while her mind works against her and her broken heart tries to mend.

And instead of celebrating her great weekend, we'll be saying prayers hoping the dog didn't suffer long and has found peace wherever he is. We'll also be saying prayers for the driver.

Although I have to admit I might be praying for something a little different for her.

That guy

2012-01-21T21:57:00.000-08:00

Last night my son and I watched The Green Mile. It was the first time he'd seen it. It was my millionth.

From Tom Hanks to Sam Rockwell to Michael Clark Duncan, there are lots of reasons to love it. One is because of that guy. You know, the guy who plays the older Tom Hanks character at the beginning and end. The guy who's always a judge. Or priest. Cowboy. Reporter. The guy that was on every TV show when we were growing up.

Yeah, that guy.

His real name is Dabbs Greer. It's the kind of name that could've been one of the more than three hundred character roles he played before he died five years ago.

When I was growing up (no, I'm not finished yet), I remember seeing him most on the old Superman television series. He was on it all the time, as a reporter (not mild-mannered) or one of the bad guys.

It's an interesting career being a character actor. If you're lucky, like Dabbs was, you work for decades. You avoid the spotlight and glare of the tabloids. You turn in one quality, scene or movie stealing performance after another. And absolutely everyone knows who you are: you're that guy.

There are many sites like this one dedicated to all the "that guys" who've graced the large and small screen over the years.

Every once in awhile an A-list actor becomes, either by choice or a career slow down, more of a character actor. The one that comes to mind is Alec Baldwin. Of course, as an A-lister he carried some great films like Hunt For Red October, Miami Blues (a personal favorite) and The Cooler. But the problem is you have to balance the mix. When you do films like The Marrying Man and The Shadow, people tend to forget the good ones.

Taking on character parts, he's doing some of the best work of his career. We got a hint of it from his ten unforgettable minutes in Glengarry Glen Ross. Then he sealed it with roles in The Aviator, The Departed, The Good Shepherd and State and Main.

For my money - $8.50 matinee or $12.50 after 6PM - character actors are the foundation of any great film. They put craft and art before pride and ego, and they make every actor on screen who comes near them look better. It forces everyone to raise their game.

They don't get recognized nearly as often as they should. So consider this post a thank you to all the character actors that've brought joy and memories to every person who's ever seen an image flicker on the large or small screen.

Especially that guy.

My other job

2012-01-19T14:47:00.000-08:00

Working freelance, I expect sometimes I'm going to be asked to juggle a few jobs at the same time. It's one of the freelance rules: when it rains it pours.

When they're writing jobs, it's never much of a problem. But when you throw in the position of Mr. Mom, it tends to complicate things.

I guess I was asking for it. Freelancers, how many times has this happened to you? When you tell people you're freelancing, what they hear is that you're home all day doing nothing except surfing the net, eating Oreos and watching Dr. Phil.

He can be so abrasive sometimes.

Anyway, the reasoning is since that's all you could possibly be doing, then you're free to pick up the kids, do the laundry, feed the kids, fold the laundry, do the vacuuming, take the kids to music lessons, put away the laundry, take the kids to their soccer/volleyball/tennis games or lessons, then do some shopping on the way to picking up the kids from their games.

And pay the bills. Which you can't, because you haven't been able to get any writing done. Writing which, by the way, is what brings the checks in. Which you need to pay the bills.

The circle of life in action.

On the other hand, doing those chores and errands does give me a sense of accomplishment in a way that writing doesn't. Writing just goes on and on, revision after revision, approval after approval. But the other work has a beginning a middle and an end. Just like good writing.

Maybe the jobs aren't as different as I thought.

Besides, how much Dr. Phil can I take in a day.

Clock in

2012-01-18T20:22:00.000-08:00

Every clock in my house reads, acts and sounds different from the other ones.

Not unlike my high school girlfriends, some are fast, some are slow. Some are loud, some are quiet. Some are easy to read, others not so much.

My friend Kelly Kliebe posted a picture of the Word Clock on his Facebook page awhile ago (although interestingly, he didn't mention what he had for breakfast, which team he was rooting for, or how I could get free tickets on Southwest).

The minute I saw it I had to have it.

For obvious reasons, it's a real writer's clock. And if I ever run into a real writer, I'll make sure and tell him about it (who of us didn't see that one coming?). Because the time is in words, there's no mistaking what time it actually is. I don't have to make an educated guess about the proximity of the hands to the numbers. There's no annoying ticking while I'm trying to sleep. And it serves a dual purpose: it also makes a great nightlight.

I ordered it from Doug Jackson at Doug's Word Clocks in Australia. I ordered it at the beginning of December, and actually forgot that I did until it arrived today.

Time gets away from me like that sometimes.

On his page you can see some of the variations in colors and materials you can order. I know it'll come as a surprise to all who know me that I chose black. Each one is custom ordered and hand-made, which makes it even more special. And more expensive.

I can see from the clock on the wall that IT IS TWENTY MINUTES PAST EIGHT.

An excellent time to wrap this up.

Torture device in disguise

2012-01-14T08:28:00.000-08:00

The bane of agency existence is meeting after meeting after meeting. They always drag on forever.

Fortunately the agency I'm working at now has found a unique solution to the problem.

Torture chairs.

I always used to make fun of the black, cushy, faux-leather, Mad Men looking chairs around agency conference tables. That was until I planted myself in one of these hard, cold, badly designed little torture devices.

Cushy faux lether chairs, I take it all back.

These are bar none the world's most uncomfortable chairs. It's like some junior high kid taking metal shop saw an empty tin can and thought, "You know what, I could make a chair out of this."

Every time I have to sit in one for a meeting, all I think about is how much money the government could save on water, plywood and Guns 'N Roses cd's at Gitmo if they just shipped a few of these bad boys down there.

One good thing can be said for them: once a meeting starts, there's none of the usual chit-chat or preamble. Everyone gets right down to business. No one wants to be sitting in them a second longer than they have to.

It is entertaining to watch everyone constantly shifting position to try and get - not comfortable, because that's the impossible dream - but to a place that won't require a chiropractor or orthopedic surgery afterwards.

In spite of the chairs, almost every one who calls a meeting here thinks it's been a successful and productive one.

Maybe that's because they're all standing room only.

Saving me from myself

2012-01-13T15:16:00.000-08:00

No doubt about it. Sometimes, more often than I'd care to admit, I'm my own worst enemy.

Fortunately I have friends, good friends, who don't hesitate to roll their eyes, shake their heads and take action to save me from my impulsive ways.

I worked for this creative director at Chiat years ago. The operative words in that sentence are "years ago." And he was a miserable person who made my life and everyone else's he came in contact with miserable. For some reason, this individual was taking up way too much brain space with me yesterday. So I did what I almost always do when that happens.

I wrote a scathing blog post about him that I thought revealed him for the monster he was (today I'm saying "was", because yesterday the thought never occurred to me that he may have changed in the years since we worked together).

But that's not the bad part. The bad part is I posted it.

Within moments, my friend Cameron rode up on his white horse in the form of an email that read, "Wow. This is how you make enemies. And you got a family and a mortgage."

Now if you know anything about me - and why wouldn't you by now - you know that making enemies isn't a particular concern of mine. This wasn't a creative director who held me in high regard anyway, if he held me in any regard at all.

Still, it was a venomous attack on someone who, deserving of it or not, shouldn't have ever been posted. It was me spending way too much time looking backwards instead of forwards.

Two more of my friends, Rich and Rob, also let me know they thought it made me look a lot worse than the person I was writing about. My friend Dale, while he thought it was good that I got it out and down on paper (screen), agreed with them.

So instead of doing what I should've done in the first place, which was not write it, I did the next best thing. I took the post down.

I was yelling at this person and tearing his head off online while criticizing that he used to do the same thing at work. I stooped to his level. Bad move - definitely not proud about it.

Anyway, a big thank you to Cameron, Rich, Rob and Dale for having my back, and good judgement, even if I didn't. Thanks to them I'm coming away from this having learned a valuable lesson.

Don't make enemies until the economy gets better.

Bad apple

2012-01-11T13:17:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading Steve Jobs biography, and I have two thoughts: what an incredible person to work for. And I thank my lucky stars I never worked for him.

Visionary? Of course. Innovative? Without question. Son of a bitch? Absolutely.

What's revealed in the book is perhaps the worst secret in the tech community: Steve Jobs was just a miserable person to be around. Abusive to colleagues and family, his lifetime of bitterness seemed to come from the fact his birth parents put him up for adoption.

He wound up emotionally savaging virtually everyone he came in contact with. Whether it was his use of his "reality distortion field" or "the stare", Jobs only ever wanted things one way: his. Fortunately most of the time his way was the best thing for Apple and the remarkable products they make. But when it wasn't, he wasted no time blaming someone else for the failure.

He would've made an excellent creative director.

Those around him thought that after his cancer diagnosis he might soften a bit, change his ways given the limited time he had left. What he actually did was become even feistier and more determined to control everything he came in touch with.

Near the end of both the book and his life, he writes an uncharacteristically touching letter to his wife on the occasion of their 20th anniversary. And he does acknowledge people were right to think he was an a#%&@$e.

There was some speculation that Jobs had control over the content of the book. But I think if that were true, it would've been a much prettier picture of him than it is. He obviously kept his word to Walter Isaacson about not wanting to know what was in it.

It's a great read that wants to love its subject and still be truthful about him. It's a difficult balancing act the book manages to pull off.

Oh, and one more thing.

It's very clear why there'll never be a business leader like him again in our lifetime.

Not that there's anything wrong with that

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

Back in the day, when I was a lot thinner and I dressed a lot better, every once in a great while someone would ask me if I was gay. And I always gave them the same answer.

Gay? Hell, I'm not even happy.

I don't get asked that anymore, even though according to The Advocate I live in the 14th gayest city in America.

The first, surprisingly, is Salt Lake City.

Using extremely unscientific criteria and some "edgier metrics like the number of International Mr. Leather competition semifinalists and the presence of nude yoga classes", the list includes places like Little Rock and Grand Rapids.

Both of which I'm hoping aren't punch lines to gay jokes about Indian names I'm better off not knowing.

You can see the article and the entire list here. If your city, like mine, is on the list, you can take pride (see what I did there?) in the fact you live in a tolerant and diverse part of the world that probably has lots of meticulously restored Craftsman homes and drought-resistant gardens everywhere you look.

Perhaps not surprisingly, on the list of most conservative cities, none of the top fifteen line up with The Advocate's list, even though some of them are in the same states.

They're mostly red states.

Although there's no reason they couldn't be made over to be a fabulous purple and chartreuse.

A blog that actually means something

2012-01-07T19:19:00.000-08:00

In this April 13, 2011 photo, Jessica Rees, 12, of Rancho Santa Margarita, Calif. shows "Joy Jars" she delevoped. Buyers get a t-shirt inside a jar and then fill the jars with "Joy" and pass them on to someone else. The proceeds go to pediatric cancer research. Rees, 12, who started a blog and a Facebook page to raise awareness about child cancer has died of brain tumors. Her family says Jessica died Thursday, Jan. 5, 2012 after a 10-month battle with cancer.

One reason I have a tough time coming up with a couple posts a week for this blog is because of the randomness of the subject matter. I'm sure you've noticed the posts here seem to wander aimlessly from topic to topic. They lack focus. Just like their author.

This wasn't a problem 12-year old Jessica Rees had with her blog. From beginning to the sad end, it was about her brave fight with brain cancer.

The words she lived by - never ever give up - were the inspiration for the NEGU Foundation which builds awareness and support for kids with cancer.

I'm in awe of children with cancer. I've seen the TV specials with afflicted kids, some with hair but many without because of the chemo, and marvel through my tears at how positive and brave they all are. I realize you never know what you can handle until you get there, but I think the safe bet is I'd be something considerably less than a positive example of how to deal with a terminal illness.

People who know me, feel free to double down on that bet.

When I think about accomplishments, I think about the tacos, cars, packaged goods, electronics and other items I've helped sell during my career. And I think about what impact or meaning it has on anyone's life. It's a thought you shouldn't let cross your mind if you work in advertising - there's no percentage in it.

Jessica Rees accomplished more that matters in her brief 12 years than I have or will in a lifetime.

She knew it wasn't necessary to be a hero to inspire people. And she knew you could become one just by being brave and wanting to do good in the world.

I'm going to try to remember that.

So many blogs, including this one, are often so self centered. I suppose it's the nature of a blog. But it's also why it's so startling to see one so selfless.

It's not possible to know how many lives will be positively affected by her having been here. But when I read about her, and I least expected it, mine was.

Rest in peace Jessica.

Apparently child killers have feelings too

2012-01-05T09:30:00.000-08:00

The first thing I have to say is I feel sorry for the dog.

If you can stomach watching the first installment of child-killer Casey Anthony's video diary, you'll be interested to know that she adopted a dog. She says she loves the dog as much as any family she's ever had. Which of course means we're only days away from finding out Rags is missing, only to be later discovered in a ditch with a band-aid on his forehead and duct tape around his snout.

Let's all take a moment to say a big goodbye to the dog.

She also mentions at one point that she doesn't like having her picture taken. I think it's good that she brought it up, because if you looked at these pictures of her partying while her daughter Caylee was missing, you might get the mistaken idea that she's just an attention-whore-party-girl.

Which she's not. She says as much in the video.

What she never mentions is Caylee, her murdered daughter. Probably best not to bring that up. It'll only remind people that, like OJ, despite all the evidence beating a path straight to her door, she was acquitted. Doesn't matter. There's not a person alive who doesn't know she did it.

I don't know what makes me hate her more (aside from the obvious): that she was out partying while law enforcement officials and concerned citizens were out combing every inch of the countryside around the clock for her missing daughter, or the fact she completely threw the only person who still liked her - her father - under the bus at trial.

If there's any silver lining here, it's that she's so universally hated I don't think she can even pull off a reality show at this point. Or at least a reality show that isn't produced by her for YouTube.

While Casey makes all of this about her, let's take a moment to remember the reason she's even a topic of discussion: her beautiful, too soon departed daughter Caylee. If there's a YouTube in heaven - and there should be or else it wouldn't be called heaven - I'm sure Caylee is watching the video and thinking three things:

1. I can't believe I drew the short straw and got her for a mother.

2. I think I'll stop watching YouTube.

3. At least I know I won't be running into her here.

My friend Rich just started a series on his blog called People We Need To Kill.

I'd like to nominate Casey Anthony.

Bacon makes everything better

2012-01-03T06:30:00.000-08:00

Sometimes answers to the most complicated problems are sitting (sizzling) right in front of you.

Since my annual vacation to the Hotel Del in August and snowballing right through the just-ended holiday season, it's been nothing but a non-stop food fest. And along with my scale, I have to say I've been a willing participant in all of it.

To paraphrase Brad Pitt in Inglorious Basterds, "We're in the business of eating. And business is booming."

While it may seem like it, all that holiday food isn't free. The price of it all is the stress of the season, the family jousts before, during and after dinner, the shopping conundrums that never seem to end and the overall deja vu-iness of the whole thing.

But you know what makes it all better? Bacon.

I know what you're thinking. Well here's the answer: I don't care. In the fight between Judaism and bacon, in this house bacon wins. And I don't even feel bad about it. You know why?

Because bacon makes everything better.

In fact, there's an entire website - jews4bacon.com - devoted to the whole "why not?" argument.

Well, it's actually less a website than a link to a store (go figure) with funny jews4bacon merchandise.

Crispy or greasy, dry or fatty (the bacon, not me), on a plate or a paper towel - it's all awesome.

The other thing is the nutritional value: it doesn't have any. So it goes with virtually every diet (that almost sounded like it made sense).

No matter how often I wave the bacon flag, the argument persists as it has for ages: can the concept of bacon be taken too far?

Hell, I was just jokin' with you. Of course it can't. Bacon toothpaste? Bring it. And if you bring it on a plate on top of a paper towel, even better.

Now, I don't want to seem insensitive to my vegetarian, vegan and PETA-sympathizing friends. I understand your point of view. I saw the movie Babe. But I didn't invent the food chain, and I can't help it if we're at the top of it. Besides, I think Babe and friends would be happy knowing how much pleasure their sacrifice is bringing to the human race.

Like it says on the poster, "A little pig goes a long way."

The best words I heard this season weren't Merry Christmas. They were, "The house smells like bacon."

And even though you can see it coming down 7th Avenue, there's only one way I can possibly end this post.

That's all folks.

Batman used to be a LLLUUVV Broker

2012-01-02T06:00:00.000-08:00

Long before Christian Bale was making a sport out of tearing his director of photography a new one, the role of playboy-billionaire-crime fighter Bruce Wayne/Batman was played by a guy who didn't take himself nearly so seriously.

Michael Keaton had been a stand-up comedian, and a go-to guest star on sitcoms where he always stole whatever scene he was in. I know nobody remembers The Tony Randall Show where he played a judge, but Keaton had a recurring role where he'd always show up in Randall's courtroom. It was always great watching the old pro and the newcomer riff off each other.

But Keaton eventually reached the point that a lot of comedians do - the point where being funny just isn't enough (I feel their pain). They like to explore their darker side.

Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society, One Hour Photo and Insomnia. Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and 23. Bill Murray in The Razor's Edge and Lost In Translation. Steve Martin in Shopgirl and The Spanish Prisoner. Dane Cook in...oh, wait, I was talking about comedians.

Sometimes it works for them. Sometimes it doesn't. In Keaton's case it did. To this day, many people believe - myself included - that not only was he the first truly dark Batman on the big screen, he was the best.

Where Keaton made it big was his electric, manic performance as Billy Blazejowski in Ron Howard's Night Shift. If you don't know the story, take a look at this trailer (sorry for the poor quality) - it'll pretty much tell you everything you need to know. You'll also get a good idea of why Keaton was the breakout star of the film.

Keaton made something like $60 million dollars from the two Batman films he did, so now he can afford to pick and choose his projects. He's in the enviable position of only working when he wants to.

Which isn't nearly often enough for me.

Riding into the new year

2011-12-27T10:03:00.000-08:00

As all of us at Rotation and Balance World Headquarters get ready to close shop until next year (I know, many of you thought we closed shop a long time ago), we want to wish you the very best in the coming new year.

It's going to be a year of possibilities, and the only thing that's going to limit you is how much gas you have to get there and how hard you want to ride the pedal.

Sorry. Had a box of metaphors lying around and wanted to use them before we close.

So forget about what the Mayan calendar says. The only ones that have gone away are the Mayans. Like it or not, you're here for the long haul.

Gas up now - 2012 is going to be a spectacular year.

Those three little words

2011-12-25T23:24:00.000-08:00

Nothing says Merry Christmas like the subject of poop.

Ever since my daughter was a little girl, we've had our own father/daughter jokes between us. They often send us into hysterics, while innocent bystanders wonder what time we'll be taking our medicine. Some of them are quite funny and tasteful, perfectly acceptable for telling at the Christmas dinner with family gathered all around.

Some not so much.

There's really no way to explain this gift she got me for Christmas without getting into way more detail than I'm sure any of you want or need to know. Suffice it to say I laughed harder than I have in months when I unwrapped this little gem.

It's an awesome gift, based on a particular joke - one of our less savory ones - that goes way back. Maybe right there is a good place to leave it (figuratively speaking). Except to say that the three little words referred to in the title aren't the ones on the mug.

They're "neat and clean." Enough said.

Deadlines and other fairy tales

2011-12-21T20:59:00.000-08:00

Funny thing happened on the way to writing an assignment for a company I do work for.

We had a conference call last Friday afternoon - late afternoon - where several of their people went over the new products they wanted me to write about. Turns out it's going to be a lot more work than I expected (or wanted to do over the holidays), but of course by now you all know my motto: the checks clear.

I wasn't worried about it, because when we all got off the call, the understanding was that the work wasn't due until the first week of January.

At least that was my understanding.

So imagine my surprise when I got an email on Monday asking the status of the work and when I'd have it to them.

I wrote back, and decided truth was going to be my first tactic. I told them not only had I not started working on it, but the agreement was first week of January. Oh, and by the way, they hadn't approved my estimate.

About that estimate. Don't get me wrong - I'm nothing but grateful that this particular client keeps coming back to me with more work. But the holidays are the holidays. So when they asked for an estimate, I gave them one with my holiday rates.

The ones that make it worth my while to be working over the holidays instead of going to movies, spending time with my kids, eating like Oprah at the buffet for two weeks and sleeping off the egg nog and bourbon.

Just kidding. I haven't liked egg nog or bourbon since I got wrecked on several glasses of the mix in high school.

I'm still not sure the room has stopped spinning.

Anyway, the client came back to me just sorry as hell for the misunderstanding. They very politely asked if I could have a portion of the assignment done next week - if it didn't interfere too much in my holiday plans - and the remainder of it in January.

I said sure.

They also told me they'd approved my estimate, which frankly gave me just what I was looking for to start the job.

Christmas rap

2011-12-19T06:00:00.000-08:00

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You should need a license to record a Christmas album.

Seriously, when David Hasselhoff and Jessica Simpson are allowed to go into the studio, you know someone's been really naughty and they're taking it out on all of us.

What is it about the holidays that makes celebrities - and alleged celebrities - decide they have to get into the studio and record a collection of sticky, cheesy, treacly, sentimental Christmas standards?

Not that they're all bad. The classic Christmas albums by artists like Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra or Johnny Mathis have a certain timeless holiday sound.

But when it comes to the newer crop of Christmas albums, I can only listen to so many lush arrangements (insert Hasselhoff joke here) without heaving my nog. I prefer something a little more upbeat, not to mention honest.

In that spirit, for kids from one to ninety-two, please to enjoy Another Christmas Song by Stephen Colbert.

May it jingle your bells, nip at your nose and roast your chestnuts many times and many ways throughout the season.

The Elvis factor

2011-12-17T12:59:00.000-08:00

There's a phenomenon called The Elvis Factor. It's the fact that at any given time, 10% of the population believe Elvis is still alive. And of that 10%, 8% believe if you send him a letter he'll answer it.

I'm going to generalize here, but as a rule these people are very sensitive and don't respond well at all to being asked about their questionable beliefs. They don't like being cornered, and when they are usually lash out with personal insults or comments that have nothing to do with the issue at hand.

Imagine, a group of petty, thin-skinned, hard-headed people believing what they want despite verifiable facts to the contrary. Wonder who they're voting for?

When you ask them about it, why all the papers reported him dead, why there's a grave at Graceland, why he's laying in his casket in that famous National Enquirer photo, they all give the same, extremely predictable answer: conspiracy.

It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad.

Almost every major event that's happened in the last century has a conspiracy theory attached to it. And a group of people willing and ready to blindly support those theories with their ignorance. When you disagree with them, they act like Americans in Europe for the first time. They just keep talking louder and louder until you. get. it.

You can tell I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist. I have my suspicions about the JFK assassination, I think something may have landed at Roswell and it does seem interesting to me there was one news story about the discovery of over two hundred years' worth of oil in the Gulf of Mexico, and then nothing. But that's about it.

I believe we landed on the moon. I believe Challenger exploded because of a faulty "O" ring.

A healthy dose of skepticism and questioning authority is a good thing. But the reality is, for the most part, things are exactly what they appear to be. And the big events, the catastrophic disasters, the "I'll always remember where I was when I heard it" tragedies happen because they happen.

There isn't any giant conspiracy. There's nothing hiding under the bed.

Although I keep telling my kids there is. It never gets old.

The London Telegraph has a great article on the 30 Greatest Conspiracy Theories. Definitely worth reading, if only for comic relief.

For the most part, these theories are harmless rantings. But one more than the others has a deep cruelty to it. The one about 9/11. The victims families have enough pain for the rest of their lives without these "theorists" continually trying to explain what REALLY happened.

By the way, good luck trying to figure out who put me up to writing this.

Late edition

2011-12-08T14:06:00.000-08:00

This won't come as a surprise to anyone who's freelanced more than ten minutes in an agency.

Years ago I was freelancing at McCann and wrote a spot for the McDonnell Douglas C-17 aircraft. Ginormous, window-rattling cargo plane. The idea of the spot was to show how the plane could be used for civilian missions, and showed it bringing supplies to an area that'd been hard hit by an unnamed natural disaster (the best kind). Since the spot required a skill with real people and emotions, I thought Elma Garcia would be a great choice to direct it. So I suggested her to my partner and the creative director: they agreed and we - including me - began talking to her.

Here's the punchline.

Early on in the conversations, when everyone started realizing the spot's potential and how much fun it would be shooting on a base in North Carolina, the creative director suddenly decided my services were no longer needed and cut my gig short. He then went on to shoot the spot with Garcia. Despite the fact he liked to rewrite everything I ever showed him, he wound up shooting this one word-for-word as I'd written it. But just for good measure, he put his name ahead of mine on the copywriting credit (and ahead of the art director's on his credit) on every awards show the spot was entered in. I found this out when I picked up the New York Ad Awards show annual where the spot had won.

At least my name was on it. On a web page I looked at for this post, and I won't say who's page, it's just his name.

I know, so what else is new? Well, that was then and this is now. The ironic part is in the intervening years, I've had many reasons to consider (and still do) that creative director a good friend of mine despite his dickish ways at the time.

Over it. Really.

The reason I even bring it up here, instead of in therapy, is that during those early conversations with Elma, somehow the fact that my Dad worked at Al's Newstand for years came up. Elma couldn't believe it, because she'd shot a print ad using my Dad at the newsstand. The picture you see here.

Needless to say I was beside myself when she sent me the picture. My dad was from Brooklyn, and to me it looked like a classic New York newsstand, instead of one at the corner of Fairfax and Oakwood in L.A.

My Dad used to go to open the newsstand at 4:30 in the morning when all the papers and magazines were delivered. I hated that the heavy metal doors covering the stand weren't on sliders, and he'd have to lift them off one by one and set them to the side. To me it seemed so unfair that Al (who was great to my father for many years) would ask a man my Dad's age to do that.

But my Dad never complained even when he should've. Yet another difference between us.

I'm at a crossroad here, because my instinct is to get sloppy in my beer and go on and on about my Dad. I don't think I will.

Instead what I'll do is just look at the picture, this picture that came to me by grace and chance, and smile while I remember how much he must have enjoyed having his moment.

And how much I enjoyed having my Dad.

Welcome back cauter

2011-12-04T17:41:00.000-08:00

Nice picture isn't it? It's sunrise over the Caribbean Sea.

The reason it's here is because it's considerably more pleasant to look at than the images I got when I Googled "nasal cauterization."

Take my word for it.

The reason I was looking that up is because I had to have it done last week. I was sitting on one of our newly reupholstered couches at home, and I sneezed. Hard. When I did, the wall of a weakened blood vessel very near the surface on the inside of my nose blew, and I started bleeding profusely.

It was like a scene out of Dexter.

Thank God I managed to get into the bathroom and over the sink so I could bleed there instead of the couch.

Now, the site of my nose gushing blood like the well in There Will Be Blood (no pun intended) would normally be enough to scare me into a panic. Fortunately, I knew what was happening because it's happened before.

The same thing occurred a couple years ago, and I had to have vessels in both sides of my nose cauterized. In case you're not familiar with cauterization - and why would you be - it's a minor procedure where they burn the vessel either electrically or, as they did in my case, chemically with silver nitrate to stop the bleeding and seal the blood vessel with scar tissue so it doesn't happen again. At least in that vessel.

It works in theory. But here's the thing: once you have it done, your body says, "Hey, what the heck! How am I gonna get blood to this guys schnoz?" So it regrows the vessel(s).

It's not necessarily the location that makes it happen. It's the fact the nose dries out and weakens them. Hence the small bottle of saline solution you'll see me spraying up there five times a day for the next month.

The other thing is that while it heals, I can't blow my nose or sniffle too hard. And I have to sneeze with my mouth wide open, which takes the pressure off the nose, not to mention scares the hell out of anyone within earshot cause it's so loud.

That part is fun.

Then there's the Neosporin that I have to apply very carefully each night with Q-Tips so my nose doesn't dry out during the night. I'd like to take a moment to thank the Santa Ana winds for their impeccable timing.

So, all in all, it looked a lot worse than it was. And at the end of the day, I realize it could've been symptomatic of something much worse. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Not the least of which is finding that picture of the Caribbean. Trust me.

The waiting is the hardest part

2011-12-03T10:21:00.000-08:00

This is a book my therapist wrote a few years ago. I know what you're thinking: Jeff seems so well-adjusted I can't understand why he sees a therapist.

You have no idea.

Anyway, you can probably tell from the title it deals with why we can't always do what we want when we want to do it.

Or when other people want us to.

The gist of it is, no matter how good your intentions, nothing happens until you're ready.

If you've ever tried to quit smoking, lose weight, write a screenplay, ask someone out, clean the garage or whatever, despite the necessity of the task, you won't be able to complete or even start it until you're ready.

The Supremes said it best. You can't hurry love, you just have to wait.

The good news is when you least expect it, suddenly you'll find yourself doing the thing you've been meaning to do. Or well intentioned friends have been wanting you to do.

And you'll succeed because you're ready.

This shouldn't be confused for an excuse not to do anything. After all people, show a little initiative.

When you're ready.

Cut to the chase

2011-11-30T04:48:00.000-08:00

You'd think I live in a rusty Airstream trailer, strewn with beer cans, yellowed newspapers and cigarette smoke stains on the fake wood-veneer cabinets and shag carpet.

But God help me, I loves me a good high-speed chase.

I have a system - what I like to call my personal HSC Alert Hotline. Several friends and relatives are in place near their phones at all times. When they happen to come upon a HSC as they're switching channels, they immediately call and let me know.

I take it from there. I immediately leap into action. By action, I mean drop everything I'm doing, grab the remote, switch to the station(s) covering the chase, plant my ever expanding derriere on the couch then sit back, settle in and watch the chase until it reaches it's inevitable conclusion no matter how long it takes. And know this: the really good ones can go on for hours, especially if it's an SUV with a spare gas tank.

Now you might say to yourself, "How sad he has to watch his high speed chases all alone." First, thank you for your concern. But you'll be happy to hear I don't.

The other person in my house, the only other person who appreciates the extremely high entertainment value of them as much as I do is my 12-year old daughter. The apple doesn't fall far from the police helicopter.

As we switch back and forth between channels covering the chase, looking to see which news chopper has the best overhead shot, we always ask the same question: how does the guy driving think this is going to end? Does he think the police chasing him will:

A) Run out of gas

B) Get tired and go home

C) Get lost and have to pull over for directions

D) Not drive nearly as well as he can when he's that high

And by the way, what exactly does he think that bright white light shining down on him from overhead no matter which neighborhood, on-ramp or back alley he turns on to is. The sun? The angel on his shoulder?

Not so much.

The police helicopter pilots are the unsung heroes of the high speed chase. Oh sure, we all love seeing the perp narrowly avoid crashing into pedestrians, trash cans, trees and other vehicles. And what viewer doesn't get tingly at the prospect of seeing one of the several police cars in pursuit deciding to do the PIT maneuver.

By the way, only hardcore chase fans know that PIT stands for Pursuit Intervention Technique. Go ahead, impress your friends. Win bar bets. You're welcome.

Earlier I mentioned the inevitable conclusion: here's what it is, although you've probably guessed by now. After the suspect runs out of gas, crashes the car, turns on to a dead end street, drives the tires that have been flattened by a spike strip down to the wheels - which now look like sparklers riding on the cement, loses his buzz or jumps out of the car and makes a run for it, the chopper pilot just shines the light on him as a guiding beacon for the police to come and get their man (or woman - seen a few of those too).

Occasionally they won't come out of the car when asked, and that's when it gets tense. The police surround the car, guns drawn and make it very clear what they want him to do. It gets really good sometimes when the police are distracting him on one side of the car, and then more police open the door on the other side and drag him out (sometimes they just pull him through the window if he's pissed them off enough).

I've never seen a suspect get shot, which is a good thing since my daughter is almost always next to me watching. I suppose there's always the chance that could happen, and if it does I'll try to use it as a teaching moment. You want to play, you have to pay.

When it's all over, the feeling is exactly like coming home from Vegas. Everything seems a lot slower and a little duller.

The good thing is that this is Los Angeles, so high speed chases are like buses - miss one, there'll be another along any minute.

Many people think the saddest words are "what might've been."

For me, they're "we now return you to our regular programming."

See the problem?

2011-11-28T09:04:00.001-08:00

Apparently it's pretty easy to get a job at a bank these days. Especially since a working knowledge of math doesn't seem to be part of the job description.

I'd overpaid my overdraft account, and Wells Fargo wanted to refund my overpayment.

Instead of sending me an email, or electronically transferring it back into my account, they sent me a check. In the mail. With a 44 cent postage stamp.

Even if I was going to feel sorry for the banks - which I'm not - they're not making it easy to.

The Descendants

2011-11-24T20:00:00.000-08:00

Maybe it’s because we look so much alike, but I’ve always been a fan of George Clooney.

Both Michael Clayton and Up In The Air have joined The Godfather(s) as films that, when stumbled upon, must be watched to the end to pick up some line read, nuance or expression I didn’t catch the first twenty-five times I saw them.

I just finished seeing his most recent film, The Descendants. Can you guess what I thought of it? Of course you can.

I’m not going to say much because far be it from me to spoil anything. But I will say a couple things.

It was directed by Alexander Payne, who also did Sideways (merlot anyone?). It has several great moments in it, like the one where your perception of one of the characters does a complete 180 in the time it takes that character to deliver one line.

Several moments take you straight to tears, do not pass go, do not collect Kleenex. There is also one spectacular moment that reaches out of the screen, grabs your heart and squeezes as hard as it can.

For that moment alone, for me, The Descendants is worth seeing.

It’s also worth seeing for Shailene Woodley, who steals the film with her frighteningly real and effortless performance as Clooney’s older daughter.

If you have a couple hours to spare this Thanksgiving weekend, this would be a fine way to spend them.

Besides, if you're looking for a way to wash away the taste of homemade turkey, nothing does the job like a movie hot dog and a 64 oz Coke.

I'm thankful someone else wrote it

2011-11-23T10:12:00.000-08:00

It's the same challenge every year. How to kill the turkey without traumatizing the little girl for life. Wait, that's not it.

No, the challenge is writing a heartfelt holiday message that expresses just how thankful I really am for all the good things I have.

This year, you can read my heartfelt sentiments on my friend's blog since he's expressed exactly what I would've had I written it myself. Which I didn't.

And if you've read my other posts here, maybe that's one more thing to be thankful for.

Brain freeze

2011-11-22T11:43:00.000-08:00

They look so nice don't they? Like big, chilly robots lined up just waiting to be filled with boxes of frozen food from Trader Joe's.

Our thirteen year old Frigidaire refrigerator is on its last legs (last rollers?). While it still keeps things cold, you can feel a nice chill standing in front of it because the seal on the door isn't nearly as tight as it used to be.

But then whose is?

There's also a handle missing, no doubt from years of the kids hanging from it. It's a lot noisier than it used to be (aren't we all). And because it's so old, it's whatever the opposite of energy efficient is. Whenever its motor kicks on, the lights dim throughout the house and we can actually hear the electric bill going up.

So this past weekend, since it was raining anyway, the family and I had a fun-filled afternoon walking around Howard's looking for a new fridge.

On the logo it says "Nobody Beats Howard's." I'm not sure if that means price. Or selection. Or service. Or just confusing the crap out of someone who hasn't had to think about it in years. If it means that last one, then it's definitely truth in advertising.

When we bought our current fridge thirteen years ago, it was around $800. Needless to say I was in for a little sticker shock. Apparently the cost of materials, design, new refrigerator technology and all those white plastic vegetable drawers has skyrocketed.

After opening and closing more doors and drawers than I could count, the one we zeroed in on came in at $2299 after the energy rebate. (I was going to make a joke about Doors & Drawers being a washed up country music group. But actually it's a company that makes, well, guess. Though I'm not sure they get much business with a website that looks like this).

But I digress.

I have to admit I was intrigued by the French Door model with the extra crisper drawer. Four handles, four things to open and four things to break for those of you keeping count.

The crisper drawer between the fridge on top and the freezer on the bottom doesn't actually give us any more room than the two drawers that do the same job in our fridge now.

But it looks way bitchin'. And it had a decal that said, "Fresh Food on a whole new level."

Copywriters.

And it was a Maytag. Which as you can see by the sticker in the upper right corner is made with "American Pride."

Howard's has been selling appliances for a very long time. In fact we bought our current fridge, washer, dryer and dishwasher there. They're local, knowledgeable and can usually deliver and install on the same day.

So far be it from me to tell them how to do their job. Obviously they know the best way to display refrigerators on the showroom floor.

Apparently, tons of blinding neon lights reflecting off a roomful of white and stainless steel refrigerators are an essential part of the purchase decision-making process.

We wound up not buying a fridge that day. Instead, we came home and spent some quality time with our failing fridge. We discussed how if you take an extra minute to press the door closed tight, it actually sealed okay. And that despite being down a handle, we really didn't have any trouble opening it. There was no getting around the fact it wastes a lot of electricity. But we own a Land Cruiser. Wasteful is something we're used to.

Then we looked at pictures of all the refrigerators we'd just seen, and spent some time talking about what would look best inside our house.

We decided it was the $2299.

Point of no return

2011-11-19T12:07:00.000-08:00

I have a few pet peeves (if you hadn't noticed). But one of the biggest ones of all is not having calls returned. I use the picture of an older rotary-dial phone, because apparently the idea of returning calls in a timely fashion, or at all, is a notion from the past.

I understand we all have busy lives, but I'm just not buying that everyone is so busy they can't return a call. When Sherry Lansing was head of Paramount Pictures, she had every call returned the same day by someone in her office. It wasn't just PR. I know this from personal experience.

By the way, still waiting for my three picture deal.

I supposed there are better and more significant ways to take stock of a person, but for me, returning calls is high on the list. When I held associate creative director and cd positions, I always set aside time at the end of the day to return calls to reps, job seekers, friends and students.

I never forgot what it was like trying to get a call back from someone at an agency. I still haven't.

Some of the people I'm most loyal to in the business, and who I have the highest regard for are people who got back to me when they didn't have to. I know it seems like such an old school idea. But it's a simple gesture. And it speaks volumes about the person making it.

Friends are sometimes bad at calling back. There's a certain take-it-for-grantedness that comes with friendships or relationships of any length of time. For some reason, we're willing to let the unreturned call from a friend slide more often.

Although I find less so as I get older. Tick tock Clarice.

And in case you were wondering, I consider returning a call with an email the coward's way out. But only because it is.

Anyway, if you have any thoughts about this just leave a comment.

I'll get back to you.

Around the block

2011-11-17T19:56:00.000-08:00

It's not hard to tell I'm not the world's most prolific writer/blogger. I'm also not the world's thinnest, but hey, who the f#&@ asked you?

I'd like to blame it on writer's block, but that would be too easy an out. Let's just call it for what it is: I've been a slug for the last couple of weeks.

In the time since I last posted, my friend Rich posted eight times to his blog. I'm constantly amazed at not just the quantity, but the quality of his posts. A prolific, thoughtful, humorous writer saying the many things that need to be said. That or a desperate cry for attention. You make the call.

Whichever, I should probably take a page from his book (I'd have to take a page from his book cause obviously I'm not writing any books of my own). I need to post more regularly.

I think if you start a blog, there's a responsibility to keep it fresh and interesting. Give the readers something new almost every time they visit. Of course, that pre-supposes I have readers. And now that I think about it, no one but me seems particularly upset there hasn't been a post in two weeks. Crap. That's motivating.

And the pisser is it's not like there aren't things to talk about. Penn State. Ashton and Demi. Iranian nuclear facilities that Israel is going to take out. Herman "No that's not a cigar, I am happy to see you" Cain. iPad 3. iPhone 5. Chinese spacecraft (launch one capsule and in a half hour you want to launch another one). The reopened Natalie Wood death investigation. That guy who took a shot at the White House. Justin Bieber.

Okay. Maybe not Justin Bieber.

Anyway, even if it's just for my own well-being, even if supply exceeds demand, I'm going to post more often.

It's like Lawrence Kasdan said, "Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life."

I was never very good at homework either.

I'll have what he's having

2011-11-06T18:58:00.000-08:00

Apparently there's saving face, then there's saving your face. That's what I learned last week from my dinner at Circo.

The occasion was my annual pilgrimage to the SEMA (Specialty Equipment Market Association) automotive convention with my friend Pete (which I've written about here). It'd be safe to say we probably look forward to our dinner at Circo as much if not more than the actual convention. That was especially true this year since my good friend Kathryn, who works for Kia and was also there for SEMA, made the excellent decision to join us for dinner.

We didn't know it at the time, but come to find out she couldn't have picked a more perfect year to do it.

For those who haven't been, Circo is an Italian restaurant located lakeside at the Bellagio. Our table had a spectacular view of the dancing waters in front of the hotel. It always reminds me of the end of Ocean's Eleven, where George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and the rest of the gang are watching the fountains shoot 240 ft. into the air.

You know what else reminds me Ocean's Eleven? Every time I look in the mirror. If I had a dollar for every time I get mistaken for Clooney, I'd have - well, never mind.

The other thing we had a ringside view of were the two tables behind us.

Seated at them was a rather large Chinese contingent. That was the first thing we noticed. The second was the fact the drinks were flowing non-stop to their tables. Each person was standing behind their chair, not so much talking as screaming towards each other. The drunker they got, the more they'd bump into our chairs and the more they'd apologize for it.

At one point the decibel level and chair bumps got to be too much, so Pete turned around and let them know it. When he was done reminding them they weren't the only ones out to enjoy a nice meal that night, a gentleman in their party who was apparently working on his Foster Brooks impression staggered up to us and apologized profusely. He told us that the Chinese were a very loud culture. Loud and drinking (his words, not mine). He apologized again, we thanked him for his understanding and we raised our glasses and told him to enjoy his evening. Frankly it didn't seem like advice he needed.

Eventually the gentleman in their party pictured above had enough to drink. We could tell because he went face first into the table, and remained that way until the rest of his party had finished (apologizing) eating their meals and decided to leave.

Luckily he managed to save his face by not landing on any silverware (fork tines make such uneven piercings).

Just as two of his friends started to prop him up under each arm to drag him out, I quickly paid our bill and we started to walk out. My thinking was I wanted to get us out of there before he passed by our table. I was worried that just as he was being carried next to us, it would suddenly turn into the scene from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life.

On our way out, the maitré d' apologized for the noise and the inconvenience. While he was genuinely sorry, apparently he wasn't sorry enough to make it right by taking something off the bill. I guess he figured if he did it for us, he'd have to do it for every table in the room that was being bothered by the group.

Which would've been all of them.

Afterwards the three of us agreed it had been a great night. Plus we got to do what a lot of people come to Vegas for.

Dinner. And a show.

The Wind

2011-11-04T20:45:00.000-07:00

A few times on here, I've compared and contrasted different artists doing the same song. I did it for Secret Heart, Stand By Me and not that long ago, Tracks Of My Tears.

But I don't think I've ever contrasted an artist against himself (On Tracks Of My Tears, I counted the Smokey Robinson & The Miracles performance as a separate entity from Smokey Robinson singing solo).

As you could have guessed from my post about break-ups, I'm a Cat Stevens fan. I am now, and I was back then.

It's interesting to me that for so long, his religious conversion overshadowed his music. I guess it was to be expected given the political climate, and the fact that he walked away from his former success for so long. But somewhere along the way, he decided to come back to music and performing.

It's a very good thing.

And while age has slowed the songs down a bit, it's done nothing to make them any less heartfelt.

It's also interesting to note that while he's gotten visibly older over the years, I haven't changed at all. At least that's what I like to tell myself (Note to self: get rid of all the mirrors).

So, please to enjoy The Wind as sung by Cat Stevens then. And Yusuf Islam now.

The weight is over

2011-11-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

I've written a few weight related posts on here. Like this one. And this one. Or this one. Maybe this one.

I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing. "Why doesn't he get off his fat ass (literally) and just lose the weight and quit talking about it?"

Okay. That's what I'll do.

I'll do it because I'm tired. I'm tired of the running joke I have with my daughter every time we see a morbidly obese person (the joke is "Look it's my new best friend." because by comparison, well, you get the idea). I'm tired of the other joke which is "I have to ask him where he gets his shirts." Tired of the vast wardrobe choices I have between my remaining two pairs of jeans that fit. Shopping knowing nothing is going to fit? Really tired of it. I'll do it because I'm tired of reading about my copywriter friends like Rich doing things like this.

Most of all I'm tired of being tired from carting all this lard around.

Hey, you know what I'm not tired of? That joke about Oprah sitting "around the house." Still gets me every time.

I think about organizations like Fat & Proud and Fat Liberation and the propaganda they spread about how you can live a happy life if you're overweight, and still be just as healthy as if you weren't. I imagine it's easier to spread that philosophy than lose the weight. A low-fat spread if you will (I know, but it was right there).

It would be easier to believe their company line if it wasn't being drown out by their hearts screaming bloody murder and their scales yelling at them to make it stop.

By the way, just for the record, I'm not grossly overweight. But I do need to lose a significant amount. The problem, besides constantly shoving food down my piehole, is that I can carry a lot of weight and not look like I'm carrying as much as I am.

But it's a numbers game. And I know the numbers.

So, once again, I'm writing a post about losing weight. The difference this time is I'm on it. This year, unlike too many years past, I'm not waiting for New Year's to make the resolution. I'm putting it out there for the world and my friends to see, and hopefully hold me to.

Weight gain is a slippery slope, and I don't want to wind up like Orson Welles in his later years, weighing over four hundred pounds and dressing in black all the time.

Although I wouldn't mind knowing where he got his shirts.

Uncle Pete

2011-10-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

I didn't get to choose my first family. But I did get to choose my second.

And Pete Caubisens, who passed away a few days ago, was a huge part of it.

Many years ago my pal Richard introduced me to a friend of his named Rémi Aubuchon. I knew fairly quickly this Rémi character was going to fast become a new best friend. What I didn't know was how important Remi's family would become in my life. In some ways, with absolutely no disrespect to my own beautiful parents who had their hands more than full with me, Rémi's would often be my family of choice.

Living first in Brentwood then in Santa Monica when we met, I'd always look forward to driving (willing) my orange Super Beetle over the hill to the valley, then up the hill to Remi's house in Woodland Hills. It was always a welcoming, safe place, giving me many things I couldn't get in my own home.

Family, in the bigger sense of the word, was one of them.

Rémi's father Jacques was an accomplished actor. I was a theater arts major. Jacques didn't like flying. At the time I had a huge fear of flying. We'd sit for hours, talking about acting and how flight was still just a theory.

While we're here, one more thing about my major.

My parents were older when they had me, and like many parents of their era they had some old school thinking on what was a real job and what wasn't. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of love in my house for being a theater arts major (they were Jewish - doctor and lawyer were genetically programmed to be at the top of their list).

Where was I? Okay. Rémi's mom Denise, who looks like Ellen Burstyn, was an artistic, warm and welcoming presence. In my eyes she was always accepting and non-judgemental. It was like a breath of fresh air (perhaps I've revealed too much).

I was also close to his sister Danielle (the birthday girl in the picture above), and while his brother Philippe always marched to his own drummer, I constantly enjoyed his company and humor, and always loved hearing his take on things.

It was just good being around them. It felt like what a home should feel like.

Because of how I felt about Rémi's family, and the way I felt about my own at the time, for many years I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his house.

On one of those holidays early on, Denise's brother Pete was out from New York. Pete was an attorney for the airlines, so naturally with my fears I had all sorts of questions for him. I'd never met someone who knew so much about wind shear and bird ingestion (not the Thanksgiving kind, the jet engine kind).

Pete and I hit it off right from the get-go. He had a gentle brilliance and a sharp wit about him. He was funny as hell. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had a smile that lit up a room. And a laugh that let you know how much he was enjoying life.

He was New York cool.

I know what you're thinking: that he was also somewhat of a father figure to me. Is it that obvious?

The conversation turned to New York. Pete said I was welcome to stay at his place on the upper east side anytime I wanted. So I took him up on it. I was there about a week, using his place as my base camp.

I remember meeting him for lunch one day. He took me to my first real French restaurant. Escargot, rude waiters, the whole neuf yards. It was awesome.

Afterwards, as we were walking down 5th Avenue, it started to snow. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen falling snow. It was magical. It's a feeling I'll always associate with Pete.

Time marches on and everyone's life gets busier. And while I talked to Pete less and less over the years, ironically I thought about him more and more.

When Rémi (here with the coolest uncle ever) let me know Pete was gone, he said one of the reasons he wanted me to know was because he knew how much I enjoyed him and his company.

But I don't think he really did. In fact, I don't think I did until I heard he'd died.

I don't know many things for sure, but I do know that Rémi's family, New York and my life are all better for Pete having been a part of them.

The other thing I know is, as of last week, heaven is a much more welcoming place.

Case of the blues

2011-10-27T15:43:00.000-07:00

I only own one real piece of art. You're looking at it. Well, you're kind of looking at it.

The original painting, the family seated at the table, is called The Aioli Dinner by George Rodrigue. But when he added Tiffany (his corgi who passed on only to be reincarnated as the Blue Dog) to the painting, it was retitled Eat, Drink and Forget The Blues.

Despite the fact there are several of these paintings around, each one is unique. Rodrigue created a limited number of direct image transfers from the original and mounted them on masonite. Then he repainted the entire work again over them, adding nuance and variance to the colors, contrast and shadings each time. In every one, Tiffany is in a slightly different position with subtle differences in her expression.

As you can see, on the one we own she's sitting more to the right, just in front of the older blonde man looking to the left at the head of the table. And in case you were wondering, yes that is the frame the picture came in (they can't all be adman black now can they?).

This picture of the picture was taken with my iPhone 3GS. I can't believe I'm still using that relic - I need a new one if for no other reason than the 8 megapixel camera. I'm going to wait for the iPhone 5 though since it's only six months away. And I know I'd hate myself for not having the bigger screen.

But I digress.

I fell in love with the Blue Dog a year before I actually bought it. The wife and I were visiting her family (don't get me started) in Carmel. As we were strolling the quaint blocks of the seaside town, looking for Mayor Clint Eastwood and seeing if we could find a restaurant open after 9PM, we found the Blue Dog Gallery.

Among all the Blue Dog paintings on display, I couldn't stop looking at the Aioli Dinner.

We spoke with the curator of the gallery, Wendy, who wound up years later being the next Mrs. Rodrigue and the subject of many of his paintings like this one to the left. (She also has a wonderful blog called Musing's of an Artist's Wife). I asked her how much it cost, and she told me. It's probably worth noting that at this point in my life, the only things hanging on my walls were my Springsteen posters. And the Blue Dog cost way more than those.

I told her we'd think about it. So we thought about it. For a year.

When we walked in a year later, two great things happened. One was that Wendy remembered us. The other was that George Rodrigue happened to be at the gallery. Wendy introduced us and we all talked for a bit.

Then the discussion turned from art to commerce. She broke the bad news to us as gently as she could: the price of the painting had doubled in the course of a year. But because she recalled how much we'd loved it and how badly we'd wanted it, she generously offered to split the difference between the prices.

Rodrigue also happened to be in a particularly good mood, so he threw in this Blue Dog lithograph.

He put it on the counter, picked up a silver marker, and started drawing on it (I particularly like the Groucho glasses). My wife went into a panic, leaning over to me saying, "He's ruining it!" To which I replied, "Are you serious? He's just made it even more valuable. Now it's really one of a kind."

He signed it and gave it to us.

I don't know if it's still there, but at the time the Blue Dog Gallery had a layaway plan called the Kennel Club. They held onto the painting until it was paid for. No minimum payments. No time limit. I was extremely diligent about sending a check up whenever I could spare it.

I couldn't wait to see it in my home.

I waited four years to see it in my home.

But that's not the point. The point is it's here and we love it. Just like my wife, I still feel the same way about it as when I first saw it (can you say "marriage points").

One thing I particularly love is how much it's appreciated (the painting and the wife). The other thing I love is just how damn happy it makes me.

Especially when I'm the one who's blue.

Visiting Paula again

2011-10-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

It's been a little over a year since I posted about visiting my friend Paula who has Alzheimer's. Judging by the comments I received both here and on Facebook, it was a post that seemed to strike a chord with a lot of readers.

Ever since that visit I've been meaning to go back. I've thought of her often, looked for a time and day and tried to organize my schedule around a trip to that part of L.A. so I could do it. I suppose had I wanted to badly enough I would've found a way.

But the truth is that, in equal parts, I wanted to and I didn't want to.

My visit with her last September was so unsettling, I didn't know how I would bear up doing it again - even though afterwards I was extremely glad I'd been there (and, ignoring all evidence to the contrary, hoping on some level, somewhere in her failing mind, she was too).

I went to see Paula for the second time yesterday. And I have pastrami and my longtime friend Ned to thank for it.

Ned and I have been trying to get together for awhile, and we finally did yesterday. Ned suggested we meet at Langer's Deli on 7th and Alvarado right across from MacArthur Park. Langer's is "home of the world's best pastrami sandwich", and for years Ned has told me how great it is. Come to find out he wasn't kidding. I imagine it's what pastrami in heaven must taste like.

Because Langer's is about a five minute drive from the facility where Paula lives, it was the perfect time to pay her a second visit.

Walking into the place brought back a rush of memories from the first visit. The pale blue hallway walls, the locked doors of the Alzheimer's wing, the vacant eyes of the patients staring at me from the doorways of their rooms. Some smiling at me. Some screaming.

The first time I was there, Paula was walking down the hallway on her own. This time, I had to speak with the head nurse, tell her who I was there to see, and then she had another nurse walk Paula out to me.

When I saw her, it was startling for a few reasons. Despite the fact it's only been about a year, Paula seemed much more fragile than the first time. Her hair, which on the first visit had been somewhat close to the way she used to wear it when we worked together, except a little grayer, was now long, stringy and not entirely clean looking. Where before she walked fairly normally, in fact even rapidly, she now moved in slow, shuffling steps on the linoleum floor.

When she saw me, she smiled and said, "How are ya?" The disarming thing about it was I could tell it had no connection to seeing me or greeting anyone. They were just words that didn't register any meaning for her as she spoke them. In the same way longtime coma patients will suddenly open their eyes or blink rapidly, Paula asking the question was a reflex from a life and mind long gone.

As before, I took her hand and we walked in circles around the ward. The only way I can explain the conversation Paula was having with herself, even though occasionally looking at me, is that she seemed to have more strength in her dementia. Her words were clear and articulate. She'd ask a question and wait for an answer. Then follow up with a comment that had no relation to either.

There's a wooden handrail that runs on the walls between each of the rooms. As we walked, occasionally Paula would stop, turn to the handrail, and not lean on it but hold it and talk to it for awhile as if it was the one thing in the place that could really understand her.

Then we'd move on.

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: the people working at her facility are angels on earth. I can't imagine coming to work everyday knowing nothing will get better. In fact knowing it will eventually go the other way. But day in and day out, that's what these caregivers do. And while in real life it's not as neat or sensitive as it's sometimes portrayed in the movies, it is remarkable to see the affection and attachment they have to their patients.

At one point in our stroll, we met up with the activity director at the facility. We spoke for a bit about the person Paula used to be, and maybe still was somewhere neither of us would ever see. The conversation then turned to Roy, the man Paula lived with for years and who bailed on her when she started going downhill. But not before ripping her off financially. Paula, Roy and I worked together at an agency, and even back then he was riding on her coattails. He was an account guy, but in reality he was a fraud - a talentless hack who specialized in ass kissing.

Roy is a story for another post. But I will say it's going to be an extremely bad day for him if we ever run into each other again.

On this visit I spent about 45 minutes with Paula. She got tired and agitated towards the end. A nurse had joined us in our walk, and Paula led us to the locked door of the ward. She wasn't trying to get out, and I don't even know if she understands the world she's left is on the other side. I hope not.

I've promised myself I won't let so much time go by between now and my next visit. It's a promise I'm going to do everything I can to keep. Paula won't know the difference if I do or not.

But I will.

You're breaking up

2011-10-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

It's not exactly a contest, but I'm thinking this is definitely going to be an audience participation post.

I don't know why this is on my mind (Note to wife: really dear, no reason), but I was thinking about break-up songs. Not the crappy, syrupy ones that have too many strings and A minor notes (impressed aren't you?). Not the teen heartache or poppy Neil Sedaka-esque ones either.

I'm talking about the ones I listened to over and over that either perfectly captured the misery of the moment, or said what I wished I had.

Break-up songs are like fingerprints: everyone has one that's unique to them and their situation. Some are wistful. Some are vengeful. And some just kind of tell it the way it is. That's the kind I usually gravitated to because those songs were always the hardest to argue with.

So not surprisingly, here's the one that was always my favorite.

Now to the audience participation part. First of all, I don't think there's anyone who doesn't like to re-live one of the most painful times in their life over and over (Jewish, hello?).

Here's what we're going to do: let me know your favorite break-up song, and why. As they come in, an impartial panel of break-up and relationship experts here at Rotation And Balance International Headquarters will select the five most popular ones. Not only will they be posted here, but if you're the one who submitted it you'll also receive your break-up song as a gift from iTunes (I'll get your email addresses when we have the winners). That way, when the mood strikes, you'll be able to experience the excruciating pain of a failed relationship over and over again.

It'll be like you're an honorary Jew. Except without the bad wine and lackluster holidays.

You're welcome.

Big apple. Big regret.

2011-10-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

New York is the center of the universe. You can argue that point, but of course why would you? You'd be wrong and you'd lose.

Pulsing with possibility, unlike L.A. or Detroit, New York isn't a one company town. Telecommunications, fashion, commerce, advertising, movies, television, theater, finance, art, publishing and more. It's all there for the taking.

One of the great rites of passage in anyone's life is their first trip to New York. The energy, the crowds, the buildings and architecture (not counting the Trump buildings), the lights - it's unforgettable.

This past summer my son got to experience it all. That's the good news. The bad news is he got to experience it without me.

I wanted to be the one to show both my kids New York for the first time. When I found out towards the end of last year that my son was going on a class trip to Washington D.C. and New York this past June, I thought it'd be great to take him there first. For starters, he'd have a leg up on his class. I'd show him things he wouldn't see with the class (get that thought out of your head). Plus he'd know his way around when he got there with the group.

And most importantly, he would have seen the city for the first time with me.

Long story short, if that's possible at this point, is like so much in life, it came down to timing. I couldn't make the days work for everyone's schedule so the family could go together. And the days we could all go, seats weren't available (I was going to cash in airline miles for the trip before the airline took them away or told me they "expired").

So he went with his class. And without me. It may not be a big deal in the scheme of things, but it feels like it. It's like someone else taught him to ride a bike or how to shave or drive a car. To me, New York is something you learn from your dad. Maybe it's because my dad was from Brooklyn that I feel so strongly about it. Even writing about it now makes my heart hurt. It kills me. I just should've poured gas on the credit cards, yanked him out of school and gone.

Would'a could'a should'a.

Rational or not, logical or not, big deal or not, I know I'll always regret not doing it.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not exactly a glass-half-full guy. But, as many people have pointed out to me, after having said all this, there are a couple positive points to be made.

One is that I got to learn a lesson apparently I need to keep learning - only it sunk in deeper than ever before this time. That's if I want to do something, then do it. Find a way. Don't wait. I don't take no for an answer in many lesser parts of my life, I won't do it again on something that holds this much meaning for me.

Another thing is the trip he went on was an educational outing to those cities. The class was running around from sun up to almost midnight every night, and was actually only in the city for two days. Which means even though he did ride a subway, see a Broadway show and go to the top of the Empire State Building for the first time without me, there are still plenty of great New York experiences waiting for us to have together.

Ray's pizza.

Off Broadway. Off off Broadway.

Showing him Sparks Steak House where Paul Castellano got whacked (because what kid shouldn't know about that).

Taking him to a taping of Letterman.

Having a cannoli at Ferrara's (leave the gun, take the cannoli).

Seeing a show at and explaining the legendary history of the Apollo.

Seeing a show at Madison Square Garden, and showing him where I sat when I saw Springsteen. Twice.

There are also the many friends I haven't seen in so long, and who have never met my kids. We could fill up a week with that alone.

So, from now on I'll make a point of trying not to dwell on what could've been, and I'll start narrowing my focus to all the things I will get to show him.

And while I'm at it, I'll keep a smile on my face. Because I know exactly who's going to show my daughter New York for the first time.

Facebook feud

2011-10-19T11:48:00.000-07:00

I think if I'm going to be honest with myself - which so rarely pays off - I have to admit that the thrill of Facebook has been gone for some time. I still have my account, but mainly as a way of linking my fabulous, intelligent, discerning and loyal readers to this blog.

Don't get me wrong: sometimes, when the mood strikes, there's just no substitute for knowing what my friends had for breakfast, how they're feeling, what they're watching, who they're with, the latest new age quote they like, seeing pictures of their dog (cat, parrot, fish, etc.), reading which team they like/don't like, linking to their blogs, reading what they think of the weather and seeing that video clip from YouTube that's been posted to my wall ten times because, let's face it, my friends have the same sense of humor as I do.

But lately the mood for all that isn't striking very often. And after the Facebook experience I had over the weekend, I imagine it will strike a lot less.

Like most people on FB, I have different circles of "friends." There's the inner circle, the next to the inner circle, whatever the next circle is and then the one after that.

Then on the very last ring, way out on the periphery, are the acquaintances. People I've met once or twice, and in a casual trying-to-be-nice way, either invited or accepted their invitation to be friends. They're not the problem. The problem is they have friends I've never met who occasionally like to chime in on one of my comments.

One of these outer ring people, a very nice person I met once, decided to post this poster on her wall. I had an issue with the use of Steve Jobs image, and the implication of his responsibility for the starving and famine-stricken children in Africa. It didn't seem fair or accurate and I said so.

A friend of my acquaintance took strong exception to what I was saying, and we proceeded to get into a fierce, fiery, name-calling back and forth on her wall about it. During the course of the "discussion", this person made the point that she had a doctorate from Johns Hopkins and was a world history teacher.

Both impressive accomplishments. But she was still wrong.

Yet late into the evening she was still writing columns about why she disagreed. I admit for a good part of the day I couldn't wait to look on FB and see what babbling rant she'd posted so I could reply. I got sucked into the ramblings of a crazy person I didn't know.

With a doctorate from Johns Hopkins.

After she started calling me a sexist because I disagreed with her, it really became clear to me what I was dealing with. I'd given more than enough effort and time I'll never get back to this person. I decided it was time to stop the insanity. I said, "Wow, you're an angry elf. I wish you nothing but the best." Then for good measure, I blocked her on my FB account, and unfriended my acquaintance.

Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.

So while I'm not done with FB entirely, I am done with getting so carried away I waste most of a weekend day waiting to respond to someone I don't know and couldn't care less what they think about the Steve Jobs poster or anything else.

I know she learned a lot at Johns Hopkins, because she told me she did. But apparently they don't teach the one bit of wisdom and advice that could've helped her avoid sounding like a raging lunatic to a complete stranger.

Shatner said it best in that famous Saturday Night Live sketch:

Get a life.

Know when to fold 'em

2011-10-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

The man on the left is Kenny Rogers. So is the man on the right.

I'm not quite sure why I'm doing a post about Kenny Rogers' botched plastic surgery. I've never had any done myself (not counting that penis reduction procedure - it was just so freakishly huge I had to do something), and neither has anyone in my family. Maybe it's on my mind because I just did a post about Terri Hatcher and couldn't help but mentioning the work she's had done.

He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces, And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes. - lyrics from The Gambler

Rarely has a singer been so identified with a song in the way that Rogers is with The Gambler. And yet I'm going to go out on a limb here and say if anyone were trying to read Kenny Rogers face or eyes now, they'd have a tough time doing it.

There's an awesome website called Men Who Look Like Kenny Rogers. I used to think only a few of them were dead on, but the more the real Kenny's face changes, the more people on that site look like him. I guess bad plastic surgery (seriously, buck teeth? How does that happen?) leaves more room for interpretation.

When Kenny sang Ruby Don't Take Your Love To Town, years before he ever had his first nip or tuck, I'll bet he never knew he was predicting his own future:

And yes, it's true that I'm not the man I used to be...

The stupidest thing anyone's ever said to me in advertising

2011-10-12T06:30:00.000-07:00

It doesn't matter whether they're just starting out or seasoned pros, every copywriter and art director I know has a "stupidest thing anyone's ever said" story. In fact, there are a bunch of websites like this one devoted entirely to stupid things people in the business say.

People more frightened, more practical and more employed than me have said I shouldn't name names, because "You never know where you'll wind up and who knows who and blah blah blah..."

So I won't name names. I'll leave clues. See if you can get in touch with your inneR Colombo and figure out the genius who said it to me.

Here's the thing. I was freelancing at this big agency that prints money off its one main automotive account. I'm tempted to tell you the name of the agency, but those same people who say I shouldn't name names also say I shouldn't name agencies, so I won't.

Saatchi.

I was writing the brochure for the 2007 Toyota Matrix. Now brochures aren't something that put a big smile on any copywriter's face. However they do put a big deposit in their bank account, so thank you very much and I'm available for any and all of your automotive brochure needs.

I mean I don't want to sound mercenary about it, but it is freelance. What do you need, a roadmap? Anyway, it's kind of the same way I feel about agency tItles. They're pretty useless. I really don't care if you call me creative director or janitor. As long as you say it with cash.

But I digress.

The person who'd hired me and another freelance writer named Lori neglected to tell us he'd given notice. So the second week we were there, he was gone. Which was fine. Lori and I are both senior people, and we just carried on creative directing each others work and getting the job done. One part of the job was that Matrix broChure. I'd written it, it'd been routed and was virtually on its way out the door.

Right at that point, a freelance associate creative director (speaking of useless titles) was brought in to oversee the work until someone permanent was hired.

Again, not naming names, but I Hope you're reading closely.

This acd (lower case intentional) stopped the presses and wanted to review all the Copy.

This is where it gets good.

In the brOchure I talked about the cargo space in the Matrix, mentioNing all the different kinds of things you could carry in it. It was something along the lines of three mothers-in-law, two surfboards and eighteen wiener dogs.

The wiener dogs are what did me in.

The project manager told me that the freelance acd, who'd been on the job and immersed in the culture of Toyota and Saatchi for a staggering total of two days, wanted to talk to me about the copy. I asked what the problem was, and she rolled her eyes and said I'd better speak to him myself.

So I called him. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, what's up?

Him: I wanted to talK to you about the Matrix copy.

Me: Okay.

Him: Here, where you say "wiener dogs", you're talking about dachshunds right?

Me: Yep.

Him: Well there could be some confusion between that and hot dogs. (by the way, that wasn't the stupid comment, although definitely a close second).

Me: I don't think it'll be a problem. Look - you're a bright guy, you figured it out.

Him: Well, the other thing I'm really worried about is that PETA might come after us. (THAT was the comment.)

I couldn't help myself - it just came tumbling out.

Me: Are you f#$&ing kidding me?!

Him: Well you know Toyota is a big target with deep pockets, and I'd hate to have PETA all over us for this. (Third runner up.)

Me: First of all, driving small dogs in a car isn't animaL abuse. And second, I'm pretty sure PETA has better things to do than go looking through Matrix brochures for things to sue over.

Him: Alright, I'm still worried, but go ahead and use your best judgement.

Me: I already did, but thanks.

Now I know I sounded a little hostile. But the stupid needle was way in the red, and, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have a low threshold. Especially when it's coming from the new kId on the block.

Funny thing is apparently the new kid had a low threshold for my hostility, and the next day, out of the blue, my services as well as Lori's were no longer needed.

So there you go. It would've been nice to finish the gig, but judging from this one conversation we both had sized up each other pretty quickly: he was going to continue to say unbelievably stupid, chickens#&t comments, and I was going to keep calling him on it.

I don't know if this person is a good writer or not. I know he's had a lot of automotive experience. I may have just been on the receiving end of one incredibly stupid comment in an otherwise brilliant career. And now that some time has goNe by, even though I know there's no chance he's reading this, I want him to know I wish him luck no matter where his journey takes him.

Unless it takes him to an agency I'm working at.

Then I wish he just shuts his trap and gets out of the way.

Why I love Costco Part 3: Trail Mix

2011-10-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

When I think of trail mix, I usually think of some puny plastic bag of it hanging on a rack at 7-11 or a mini-mart (I really need to start shopping at better places).

But not when I'm at Costco.

Like everything else there, their house brand Kirkland trail mix is super-sized. For extra snackin'.

I'm not saying everyone needs a bag of trail mix bigger than their head, but Costco does make it hard to resist. It's a salty snack the way God intended.

Sure it has the things you'd expect in a trail mix - nuts, more nuts, that other kind of nuts, those nuts. But it also has soft, chewy raisins. And m&m's. Lots of them.

And even though I'm allergic to chocolate ( you can see how it stops me..), I always try to mine that section of mix that has the most m&m's in it. Maybe I don't breathe for a day or two. Well worth it.

The bag itself isn't bottomless, even though it feels like it when you're sitting on the couch grazing while a few hours of mindless television go drifting by.

Or so I hear.

You know one reason shopping carts at Costco are so huge?

So they can hold all my trail mix, that's why.

Pen and tell her

2011-10-08T06:00:00.001-07:00

This post lent itself to yet another in a series of interactive blog post titles that are fun when said fast (remember this one?).

Fun wasn't it? On to the post.

In the same way listening to an audio book isn't really reading it, a written letter isn't the same as email.

I read today that for the typical American household, two months will go by before a personal, handwritten letter arrives. And the time between them is getting even longer. It's been coming for a while. It's not a shock.

But it is sad.

I know we're all about efficiency and fast, but with the slow disappearance of the written word, the handwritten word, there are two other casualties of the electronic age.

Grace. And impact.

No matter how hard it wants to be when it grows up, an email will never be as personal as a letter. It will always be cold and detached.

It will also never be permanent. It isn't something you'll pick up and read every few years, or keep in a trunk as a memory that can instantly take you back to a time, a place and a feeling (forgive me for going all Don Draper on you).

With the touch of a key - by you or someone else - the email is altered, or deleted. Gone.

Also, and this is a lesson I seem to keep learning over and over, with a letter you actually have time to consider whether you should send it. With some emails I've sent, before my finger is off the send button I wish I hadn't.

The impact of the idea that someone takes the time, makes the effort and gives considered thought to exactly the words they want to say to you, then puts them down on paper, can't be overestimated. Or duplicated.

As a result of email, I believe we've cheapened the currency of the written word. We now have the ability to yammer on about any trivial thing back and forth, all day long. There's no picking your fights. Choosing your battles.

With hands on the keyboard, you think it here, it comes out there.

The art, skill and thought required to compose a letter is being lost, as so many things are when an easier way is found. (Can you name three kids who can drive a stick shift? Didn't think so.)

Even though the postal service is faltering, mail won't disappear entirely. The bills, supermarket flyers, Land's End catalogs and election year propaganda will always find a way to the mail box.

But I seriously doubt you'll be looking forward to any of it.

Goodbye Steve

2011-10-05T19:40:00.000-07:00

Is it possible for a circuit board to have good intentions? It is if it lives in an Apple product.

Every one I own sets out to do the same thing: make my life better in some way. Unlike any other brand I own, Apple consistently makes good on the promise.

Ironically, the way I found out Steve Jobs had died today was while I was searching for information about Apple's newest release: the iPhone 4S. I went to the Apple site, and on the home page was the above image.

I know how silly it sounds, but it knocked the wind out of me. I've lost family members before. It feels the same.

It's not just the man, but the idea of the man that's so powerful. A visionary, often compared to people like Henry Ford and Ben Franklin. The kind of person that only comes along once in a lifetime. Regardless of what people who have accomplished much less with their lives and their companies will tell you, it's a valid comparison.

Tonight there'll be plenty of coverage of his passing, with smarter people than me paying tribute. I'm sure I'll be watching it all.

So, as I sit here writing this on my MacBook Pro, listening to iTunes, with my daughter watching Toy Story 3 in the other room and waiting for a call on my iPhone, I just wanted to say goodbye Steve.

Thank you for thinking different.

Terri Hatcher has big ones

2011-10-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

How can you not see them? She's practically shoving them at you. And they're staring you right in the face. Besides, she's an actress. She knows you're looking at them. Plus when skinny girls like her have a pair that big, you really can't help but notice.

I'm talking about her ears.

I caught a bit of Desperate Housewives last night (okay, first, my macho self-esteem is not threatened. And second, I'd already seen the east coast feed of Dexter), and there was a shot with her hair pulled back in a pony tail and oh my God look at the size of those ears!

It's probably not the first feature she wants viewers focusing on. But being an actress, you'd think she'd know her good angles from her bad. And this was bad.

I think one of the reasons those ears are so prominent is all the plastic surgery she's had. Her cheeks (and lips, and forehead) are pulled so tight, her ears slant forward at an angle not usually found in nature.

I don't mean to pick on her. I've always liked her. She was great in a small film called The Big Picture, starring Kevin Bacon and directed by Christopher Guest. I also liked her a lot in Lois & Clark.

It's a tough business to get older in, especially for women, and I don't begrudge her doing what she needs to do to stay competitive in it.

All I'm saying is if you have as much money as she does, and you're going to get as much plastic surgery as she's had, the question you probably want people asking at the end of it all is "How does she still look so great?"

Instead of "How many channels you get on those things?"

The most important meal

2011-10-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

That part about no guarantees in life? So not true. Especially when it comes to an awesome breakfast.

This morning I had a long overdue breakfast with my pal Mardel at The Coffee Cup Cafe. I've been going there fairly regularly for a couple years now.

Not bad for a place that was an accidental discovery.

The family and I were looking for a place to eat that we hadn't been, and the wife went on UrbanSpoon. The Coffee Cup came up, and we've never looked back.

Great breakfast. Great vibe. Great location right in the arts district in Long Beach (I know, it's all an arts district, but still...).

As you might imagine, the line to get in on Sunday mornings is just the nature of the beast, but worth the wait. The good news is because you are where you are, you can watch all the Prius owners driving silently around the block looking for parking. It's like a little eco-friendly Hot Wheels convention happening right in front of you.

And for environmentally friendly fun, you can always do what I do - make fun of them. They're asking for it, and it makes the wait go faster. (By the way, just so you know, some of my very best friends drive a Prius, bless their gas-sippin', statement-makin', environment-savin', Earth Day-celebratin', diamond lane-takin' little hearts.).

Like the Apple Pan, the Coffee Cup Cafe is so good you wonder why they don't open more of them. But of course if they did, it wouldn't be nearly as good. Or local. Or fun.

Besides the Coffee Cup Cafe, I've only posted once before about an awesome restaurant I've been to. When I find 'em, I'll let you know in case you're in the area.

And in case you have something funny to say about a Prius.

Ron Paul got it wrong on this one

2011-10-01T12:44:00.000-07:00

Despite what some of my friends think, it's been a very long time since I've been a liberal Democrat. In recent years, I've been much more of a centrist.

I've always liked Ron Paul. And I find myself agreeing with many of his libertarian points of view. Often times, especially with the debates he's been involved in, he's the only one making any sense (although it's not hard to look that way standing next to Rick Perry or Michele Bachmann).

Every time I've ever listened to Ron Paul, whether it's been in this election or the last one, he seems to come from two places other politicians fear to tread.

The truth. And common sense.

But with this week's killing of Anwar Awlaki, I'm afraid Ron Paul got it wrong. Here's what he said about it:

I can't decide whether to take his statement line by line or overall, so I'll do a bit of both.

He starts by saying he doesn't think it's a good way to deal with our problems. I agree with that. For things like urban blight, water shortages, disaster relief, unemployment, the recession, poverty and most of the other problems the country faces, a Predator missile probably isn't the go-to solution.

But the killing of Awlaki wasn't symbolic of how we handle everything. The action was only designed to handle one problem. Which it did exactly as intended.

Paul goes on to naively say Awlaki was never tried or charged, and no one knows if he killed anybody. This is disappointing because it seems so self-serving. He could've said the same about Bin Laden. The truth is there actually are people who know that Awlaki killed and orchestrated the killing of innocent Americans. And since Paul sits on the House Foreign Affairs Committee, he knows it.

The part about how sad he thinks it is if Americans blindly and casually accept a practice of the president assassinating people he thinks are bad guys is pure manipulation. I don't think Americans blindly or casually accept the killing of anyone.

But Awlaki wasn't just anyone. He was and has been an immediate threat to the country for years. These weren't the first missiles we fired at him.

Ron Paul is a brilliant man. He knows Obama takes the fight against terrorism extremely seriously (just look at the scorecard). If by "bad guys" he means international terrorists intent and dedicated to destroying American interests and killing as many innocent Americans as possible anywhere in the world, then I have some bad news for Congressman Paul.

I have no problem accepting that. According to the polls, neither do most Americans.

There also seems to be a lot of outcry about the fact Awlaki was American-born, and we shouldn't be assassinating American citizens. Truthfully, I haven't noticed a sudden rash of American citizen assassinations being ordered by Obama. One of his good qualities is that he's pretty selective about who to pull the trigger on.

As far as I can tell, so far it's been pirates and terrorists.

But, you know, every job comes with occupational hazards no matter where you're from. When you list international terrorist at the top of your resume, the risk of Predator missiles just comes with the territory.

Especially if the territory is Yemen or Pakistan.

So, I'm glad we got Awlaki. I'm disappointed in Ron Paul, although I still believe much of what he says is dead on.

By the way, while I do think there are easier ways to get it, it's worth noting that Obama received support from both sides of the aisle on this decision.

Ron Paul is certainly entitled to his opinions. But the idea of the presidency is to represent the majority of Americans.

And on this particular action, I don't think Ron Paul does.

Stumped again

2011-09-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase Joyce Kilmer:

I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as my neighbors trash cans

In front of my tree.

Yes, (sigh), those neighbors. There's no reason they can't put their trash cans in front of their house, or for that matter any other house but mine. But then they wouldn't get to annoy the living piss out of me once a week. And what fun would that be.

However as of today, they'll have to find another landmark to situate their cans by.

That beautiful tree in front of my house - the picture doesn't do it justice - has been dying for a long, long time. You can't see the top of it here, but half of it had no leaves, and there was this very unpleasant fungus growing around the bottom.

And I think we all know how painful that can be.

Since it's on our parkway, we called the city to come out and have a look at it. Before the city arborist even closed the door getting out of his car, he said, "Oh yeah, that one's dead. It's gotta come out."

So as of a couple days ago, the tree leaves at the top that we've peered out at for over 13 years through the transom windows in our bedroom are gone.

All that's left is the stump, which the city will come back and grind down in a couple weeks.

Our homeowner's association, which I've dealt with several times (don't get me started), has a rule: if a tree comes out, the homeowner replaces it.

So that's what we'll do. In fact, we've already chosen the variety of tree we want.

It's called a ginkgo. Our neighbor across the street has one in front of his house. Every fall when the kids were younger, we'd take our Christmas card picture with them playing in the yellow leaves that dropped from it around November.

It's a gorgeous tree.

Of course, it'll be a few years before it's filled in and mature enough to start dropping leaves. But once it is, it'll be magnificent.

With or without trash cans in front of it.

For a few dollars more

2011-09-29T06:30:00.000-07:00

Times are tough. Everyone I know - including me - is doing everything they can to keep their bank accounts from hitting an iceberg.

Because I write this blog, this fabulous, random, not too personally revealing, often funny yet thought-provoking blog on Blogger, I'm eligible to use Google's AdSense.

It's a program where Google gets to place ads on my posts, and I get to cash the checks they send me.

On the surface, not a bad deal.

All I have to do is write posts with words that will trigger targeted ads to magically appear on this site. And then, to make the kind of scratch I'm hoping to, people have to click on them. A lot of people.

My friend Janice tried this for awhile on her blog. I think she made enough for a small latte at one of her Parisian coffee bistros.

Oddly enough, that's not what Google would lead you to think.

They like you to see pictures like the one of this guy holding a check from them for almost $133K. That's a lot of clicking going on.

By the way, if that's a real check, more power to him.

I'm in advertising. I've written plenty of web banner ads. I don't know anyone in or out of the business who's ever clicked on one of them for non-work related purposes. They've certainly never clicked on one to buy anything.

So after careful thought and consideration, I think I'm going to opt for keeping this site uncluttered and ad-free. I see enough of them at work.

I know there will be lean times when I'll be filled with regret for not having done it. Times I'll think how nice it would be to have that money in my pocket.

Like for example when the kids need school supplies or new shoes.

It's okay. Besides, that's what crap tables are for.

Hello I must be going

2011-09-27T15:03:00.000-07:00

I don't usually drop names. Don't get me wrong, I could. I could drop a lot of them ok? I was born and raised in L.A. I'm a Hollywood brat. I know people.

And my people know people.

But because of a film I saw, I am going to drop one: Groucho Marx.

From the minute I first saw Night At The Opera I was hooked on the Marx Bros. It won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me that the brother I related to most was Groucho. Cynical, sarcastic, biting, brilliant, a ladies man.

When I was growing up, the Marx Bros. films were having a resurgence. There were festivals, retrospects, screenings of long lost footage. My friend David Weitz and I used to slather on the black moustache and eyebrows, slip into the cut away tuxedo jackets and impersonate Groucho at the festivals they used to have at the Universal Amphitheater, back when it was a real amphitheater (look it up). There was also a theater on La Cienega and Waring Avenue called the Ciné Cienega that played Marx Bros. films all the time. David and I would show up there too.

One day, we had the bright idea that we wanted to meet Groucho. So we got in my car - a 1965 Plymouth Fury, the first and last American car I'll ever own (don't get me started) - and drove up to Sunset Blvd. Back then, there was a guy on every corner selling "Maps To The Stars Homes". We bought one and found out where Groucho's house was in Trousdale Estates.

As I write about it now, I realize it reads kind of stalker-esque. It wasn't. Well, maybe it was. But a different time you know?

There used to be a costume shop on Melrose next to Paramount Studios. David and I decided to buy an old cutaway coat like Groucho wore in the movies and give it to him as a gift. It never occurred to us he probably had several of them gathering dust already.

The first attempt didn't go well. We drove up to Trousdale Estates, sat in the car awhile, then finally found the courage to knock on Groucho's door.

His assistant and companion Erin Fleming answered.

We told her we were huge Marx Bros. fans, and we had a gift for Groucho. She thought it was sweet.

From behind her, we heard an elderly but recognizable voice say, "Who is it?" Erin said, "It's two of your fans and they want to give you a gift." To which Groucho replied, "Tell them to go away and never darken my doorway again."

Not exactly the welcome we expected.

Erin told us to come back the next day when Groucho would be in a better mood, and she'd get us in to meet him. So we did. And she did.

David and I wound up having lunch with Groucho. We talked about everything from the movies, to the Israeli athletes who'd been killed by terrorists, to Sandy Koufax. The real life Groucho spoke slower and softer than the one in the movies, but the brilliant mind was working just as fast.

Many times after that first meeting, Erin invited me up to the house. She even had me watch Groucho a few times when she'd have to go out.

When another Groucho fan, Steve Stoliar, organized the Committee to Re-release Animal Crackers (CRAC) - a Marx Bros. film that hadn't been seen in thirty years - and staged a protest at UCLA, Groucho wrote a note excusing me from my theater class to be there (Groucho included a copy of the letter in his book The Grouchophile). And when Universal finally re-released it, Erin had the studio hire David and I to impersonate him at the premiere.

She also had us impersonate him and greet arriving celebrities at a live performance she'd convinced him to do, An Evening with Groucho at the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion (I still remember David opening the car door for George Burns. As Burns was getting out he said, "That's very nice of you." David said, "Certainly. Age before beauty." Burns said, "You're not kidding."). Thanks to Erin, we were also at the pre-release party for the soundtrack of the show at the Bistro in Beverly Hills (star-studded affair. Nicest celebrity: Tommy Smothers. Biggest jerk: Carroll O'Connor). She also had us front and center in the audience, in full costume, when Groucho appeared on the Merv Griffin show.

To say the least it was a heady time.

After Groucho died, I lost touch with Erin. I know she went through hard times, with accusations of being a golddigger and abusive to Groucho.

These accusations came from Groucho's son Arthur, who although an author and playwright, primarily made a career of being Groucho's son.

The many times I saw them together, at the house and at studio events, I never saw any indication that any of Arthur's accusations about Erin were true.

Nevertheless, Arthur sued Erin for all the money Groucho had paid her, and the house he'd bought her, and eventually bankrupted her with attorney fees and debt. Sadly she wound up committing suicide years after Groucho was gone.

I'm blessed to have had the chance to meet one of my heroes. It could never happen today, certainly not the way it did then.

Although if anyone has Springsteen's address, I have this guitar I'd like to give him.

"You want them to what?"

2011-09-25T16:39:00.000-07:00

Every good copywriter I know, and I know a lot of good ones, has at one time or another been on the receiving end of the comments I got a couple days ago.

It's not the first time I've heard them. And, sad but true, it won't be the last. It never ceases to amaze me that someone can actually have such a lack of situational awareness that they say them out loud in front of other people.

The comments usually come from an account person, more often than not a junior one (although in my case it was a senior person. The definition of "senior" can range anywhere from surviving the last round of lay-offs to going to the same college as the client's wife).

I presented an ad with a headline I liked a lot. Clever. Unexpected. Something different for the brand, yet still in character.

First, with a straight face, the account person said, "I don't get it."

I'll wait while every copywriter reading this nods their head in recognition.

Fortunately for account people, when a headline's cleared for takeoff over their head, and they don't like the glare of the spotlight for being the only one in the room who doesn't get it, they have a go-to follow up comment they can always take refuge in.

"People might have to think about it for a minute."

Well, we wouldn't want that would we? Thinking bad.

Since this particular shop is an account driven agency, can you guess how the story ends? Of course you can. Since the account person "didn't get it", she generously offered up a suggestion as to how it might read.

Let's just say it wasn't exactly a "why-didn't-I-think-of-that" moment for me.

So she got her way. Thanks to her suggestion, the headline got dumbed down. Way down. But at least she can take comfort in the fact that now there's absolutely no risk of anyone having to think about it.

In fact, there's no risk of anyone reading it.

Guilty pleasures Part 1: The Final Destination movies

2011-09-24T11:52:00.000-07:00

Developing a blog post that can be turned into an ongoing series is not a new idea. My fellow blogger at Round Seventeen has a series of posts called Things Jews Don't Do. And I've done it as well with a couple posts, like Why I Love Costco, and The Luckiest Actor Alive. Now I'm doing it again with Guilty Pleasures. It's like what Hollywood does over and over. Take one idea, recycle it, and wait until people are sick and tired of it.

Then do it again.

So here we go. First up, the Final Destination movies. I’ve seen them all. I'm not proud. But I sure am entertained.

I'm the first to recognize that the money I spend on tickets for these movies could be spent on better things. Like books. Or dry cleaning. Or the college fund (just kidding: what college fund?). But then I wouldn’t have the pure joy and satisfaction of watching a bunch of snotty teenagers who're just asking for it get what’s coming to them.

And by that I mean death. Dead as disco.

Seriously, who doesn’t like to see that?

Every Final Destination movie has the same group of four or five kids. You know the ones: the brainy guy. The smarmy guy. The good girl. The slutty girl. The nerd.

Somehow, they all manage to avoid dying in a plane crash, or a roller coaster derailing, or a race car crashing into the stands. You know, everyday stuff.

Well apparently Death has a quota to make and a timecard to punch. And he gets pissed when people don't die when they're supposed to. So he has to track the kids down and off them one by one.

The great part about these movies for me is the Rube Goldberg way the killings are done. Intricate, clever and way over the top. I don't know which I liked better - the girl stuck in the car wash with her head out the sunroof that won't open, or the guy getting acupuncture who winds up falling off the table and impaling himself on the needles.

I know I'm not doing these scenes justice. You have to see them for yourself. Or not.

On the New Rules segment of his show, Bill Maher had a joke about all these movies. He said the producers of Final Destination need to look up the meaning of the word "final."

For my sake, I hope they don't.

Flush with pride

2011-09-18T17:04:00.000-07:00

This isn't an actual picture of my house. But it might as well be.

When I woke up this morning, the trees on my front lawn and the street-side parkway were green, and the toilet paper was in full bloom.

For the second time in three weeks, one of my son's or daughter's friends thought highly enough of them to get together with even more of their friends, find someone with a driver's license and drive over here at 2:30 in the morning to TP our house.

I know it was 2:30 because before they sped off, one of the little f..darlings came up and rang our doorbell a half dozen times.

Is there a higher compliment? Apparently not.

I keep being told by my wife, and neighbors who don't have to clean up the aftermath, that it's a sign of fun and affection. They don't do it to houses of kids they don't know or like. That wasn't the case when I was growing up on the mean streets of west L.A. (north of Wilshire).

Where I lived, when a house got TP'd it was because people didn't like you. It was a "let's get 'em!" kind of thing.

A junior high lynch mob with Charmin instead of torches.

I keep getting told it'll probably happen again, usually runs through the school football season and I should just lighten up about it and ride it out.

I'll try to remember that in the coming Friday and Saturday nights, when I'm sleeping on the living room couch with baseball bat in hand, German Shepherd at my side, and the garden hose unkinked and set on jet spray just outside the door.

A game of tagline.

2011-09-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

My pal Rich writes a cripplingly funny blog of his own called Round Seventeen. And more than once, he's posted on the always fun, highly debatable subject of taglines. For example here and here.

All copywriters approach taglines with mixed feelings of excitement and possibility, as well as pain and frustration. The pressure is always on trying to come up with that elusive combination of 2 to 7 words that will perfectly, humorously/dramatically, instantly and memorably encapsulate the essence of a brand.

We're all hoping for the next Think Different. Just Do It. Got Milk. And we've all written thousands of lines looking for it.

Eventually, we hit the wall at one point or another.

That's why I'm so excited to share what will inevitably be a valuable resource.

I've discovered a man, nay, a guru, we can now turn to for the tagline help we all so desperately need now and again.

He calls himself the Tagl!ne Guru. I can tell he's excited about that title because he put an exclamation point right there where the "i" should be (Get it? Like an upside down "i").

You don't do that if you're not excited about something.

I know what you're thinking: what's the Tagl!ne Guru's tagline? I had the same question. Obviously, anyone who's narrowed down their copywriting expertise to such a specific aspect of the craft, and who positions themself as a guru, clearly isn't going to go for a cheap, smarmy, punny line any junior copywriter fresh out of ad school with a book and a dream could come up with.

Gurus don't settle for that.

Instead, I'm guessing the Tagl!ne Guru will have a pithy, memorable, awesome line that will have every copywriter reading this slapping his/her forehead and wishing he/she had come up with.

But I could be wrong about that.

The end justifies the mean

2011-09-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

Even with the Tea Party and the Republicans, apparently mean spiritedness isn't as in vogue as it used to be.

Yesterday I did a post about Jonah Hill. I said I didn't think he was either funny or a good actor. And I might have made some slight reference to his former weight.

While I was writing it, apparently one thing I didn't take into consideration was his big, fat fan base.

More than any other post I've done, this one has resulted in my being deluged with all kinds of comments saying how mean spirited it was. How it was so unlike me. That it was a cheap shot. A side of me people hadn't seen before.

Let me say this in all sincerity: Don't you people have better things to worry about?

Here's the thing. If you've followed this blog at all, or even if you haven't, I make it pretty easy to navigate. You can tell what direction my posts are going from the get go (unlike M. Night Shyamalan's blog. His posts always have that surprise ending). One paragraph in, and the road ahead is perfectly clear.

Nonetheless, I can tell the outrage is genuine (something I find disturbing in it's own way, but still).

So first, let's all take a big cleansing breath. Innn...and out.

My suggestion would be this: if after reading the first paragraph you don't think you'll like the rest of the post, stop. Click to another page. Click the link at the top that says "Next blog." That was easy wasn't it? After all if you don't like what's on one TV channel, you change the channel. Maybe something you like will be on the first channel tomorrow.

Also, and I really mean this, don't shed too many tears for Jonah Hill. I'm pretty sure he doesn't read this blog, so his feelings are probably still intact. If his career ended today, he'd still have made more money than I'll ever make. He'll still weigh less than me, even though he used to weigh tons more than me (see what I did there?).

Jonah Hill will live to screw up another film. He'll be fine.

Now of course, the one thing all bloggers want more than readers is readers' comments. We love getting them and we love reading them, even the ones that don't agree with us. I don't want you to think I'm being dismissive or cavalier about the ones I've received regarding Jonah.

I'm sincerely concerned what my readers think. You're the reason I do this. That and the love.

The very last thing I'd want to do is upset or offend anyone.

The luckiest actor alive Part 1: Jonah Hill

2011-09-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the first in a series of "luckiest actor alive" profiles, highlighting actors that ought to drop to their knees and thank God every day for studio executives who have even less taste than they have talent, and who for some inexplicable reason continue to give them work.

I decided to start with someone I think we can all agree on: Jonah Hill.

In what alternate universe is he funny? It's not because he's fat: there have been plenty of fat, funny guys. John Goodman. John Candy. Oliver Hardy. James Gandolfini (well, it was funny when he whacked Ralphie). Kevin James. Chris Farley. John Belushi.

I'm not going for the fat jokes. First, they're too easy. Second, I could stand to lose a few myself. And third, he's not fat anymore.

Well, he's not that fat.

He's still as grotesquely out of proportion as he was, only in a different way. Look at his upper torso. That tucked in shirt and jacket isn't fooling anyone. He's still plenty wide, only now he has thinner legs that presumably don't chafe nearly as much when he makes his midnight runs to the refrigerator (alright, maybe one fat joke).

Let's put it this way. I still wouldn't want to try to catching him when he flies over the bar and out of the coaster at Magic Mountain.

With the vibe he puts out, he needs to come out with a line of men's cologne.

Off-putting. By Jonah.

It wouldn't sell. No one wants to smell like a bad actor.

The good news is that people are already tired of how bad and unfunny he is. Even though there's less of him to see, a few more movies like Cyrus and Funny People and we'll be seeing a lot less of him.

Pretty soon he'll be doing more voice over work than on camera, just like his pal Seth Rogen.

Ooops. May have just spilled the beans on the next installment.

Closure. When will it end?

2011-09-09T10:28:00.000-07:00

I'm going to tell you something and you're not going to like it.

But it's the truth.

And sometimes, like flu shots and Ryan Reynolds movies, the truth hurts.

Here it is: there's no such thing as closure. Not in the truest sense of the word.

Pardon my French, but it's a bullshit, new age-y word imposed on you by people who'd be more comfortable if you just "moved past" whatever pain it is you're in.

The tenth anniversary of 9/11 is upon us, and all around are talking heads reminding us about everything that should give us closure about it. The rebuilding at ground zero. The killing of Bin Laden. The resilience of survivors. The bravery of first responders in the way they've carried on since.

I can't tell if they want us to forget the images of that day or just feel better about them. Either way it seems obscene.

Apparently, back in the day, the word closure had value. That's why all the pundits, journalists, shrinks and new age authors bought boxes of it at the height of the closure market. But it's easy to see the word's lost it's value, and now they want to unload it as fast as they can.

Truth is it hasn't been worth anything since the Kennedy assassination (by the way, still waiting for closure on that).

It seems cynical to say, but we don't really get over anything. Anything that matters.

Which is okay in my book (well, more of an outline really), because there are some things we shouldn't get over.

Collective tragedies like 9/11, the shuttle explosion, Katrina and the murder of (pick a name). To apply the word closure to these events, to say we've come to terms with them, is absurd. To even imply it means we've diminished our capacity to be shocked and moved by them.

Here's another example. On a more personal note, both my parents are dead. They've been dead a long time. In fact, I just checked a few minutes ago - still dead. They're going to be dead for the rest of the time I'm alive. If you've ever lost a loved one, and I hope you haven't because it just sucks, you know the idea of closure is fiction in its purest form. It never goes away. It gets better, more bearable over time, but it's never really gone.

Remember that boy or girl who broke your heart? Your pet you had to put down? Losing your grandmother's wedding ring? Failing your final? Crashing the car? Still stings doesn't it. It should. That's the point.

Just because you finish a chapter in your life doesn't mean you can't hold or revisit the book every once in awhile.

This whole concept of closure betrays a society that places an unreasonable amount of importance on "getting past it" and "getting on with it." You hear phrases like "get over it" and "put it behind you" an awful lot, always from people who aren't looking out for your well-being, but who are uncomfortable around your sadness.

No matter how small the incident or how long the time, we don't handle displays of grief well. We're uncomfortable around it. It makes us feel weak.

What it really should make us feel is human.

The client your client could smell like

2011-09-07T21:25:00.000-07:00

No one's more cynical about advertising than people who create it. We're like comedians sitting at the bar in back of the the Comedy Store while the other acts are on, daring you to make us laugh.

But when a creative team manages to run the gauntlet of junior account executives, account supervisors, the management supervisor, the acd, the gcd, the ecd and actually get their awesome idea made, it's an inspiration to everyone trying to do the same thing.

You earn our loyalty and appreciation. You took a renegade "what if?" idea, hopped the fence and escaped the compound. You won the lottery by getting it produced and at the same time raising the bar for the rest of us.

You understand you either get busy living or get busy dying (yes, I went Shawshank on you).

Whenever a spot breaks through creatively and culturally, it instantly becomes the example clients point to and say, "Where's MY (insert Apple/BMW/Old Spice/Other great spot) commercial? Why can't you guys do one of those?"

Here's why.

It's because of you. Your lack of vision and aversion to risk. Your fear of failure intertwined with your ego. Your overall cowardice and inherent stupidity that makes you think you're protecting your job when you're guaranteeing your expiration date.

I believe deep down you really want a spot that smells like Old Spice. The problem is you'll only approve ones that smell like Olive Garden.

The great ideas, like great clients, aren't bound by rules. And lest you get the wrong idea, I know and believe there are incredibly visionary, unfrightened and bold clients out there. I've worked with some of them. And I see the work others approve.

They're clients who not only want the Apple spot, they embody the philosophy of it.

Did I have an idea I loved shot down? I'm not saying I did, but I'm not saying I didn't. Anyway, it's just the mood I'm in tonight. From the cleaning lady on three to the client's wife to a creative director who won't let it out the door, there are a million ways for an idea to die.

So let me apologize for the rant. And the lecture. So uncharacteristic, I know. Maybe it's time to lighten the mood with a little comic relief from the spot your spot could be.

The Perfect Storm

2011-09-05T08:44:00.000-07:00

Looking east

Looking west

Not usually one to post about the weather, but I must admit the way the sky looked on my block at sunset yesterday has brought out my inner Al Roker (yes, all of you who thought I was actually a bald, black man with glasses were right).

As you can see, the contrast between clear skies to the east, and the gathering, nuclear-glow looking storm to the west was quite spectacular. It was hard to tell whether to break out the deck chairs or the lead shields.

While the family and I were having dinner on our patio, it started to rain. Warm weather, crisp, fresh rain.

Not only the perfect storm. The perfect dessert.

My unlikely friend Mel

2011-09-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

My friend Mel - short for Melissa - had the can tied to her at Yahoo this week, along with the rest of her department. I felt a literal pang of sympathy when I heard about it. Everyone in advertising has been through it and we all know what it feels like.

If you get laid off in advertising all it means is you showed up.

Anyway, it was interesting to me for two reasons: first, now there might be freelance work at Yahoo (see what I did there?). And second, sympathizing with Mel for this or any other reason isn't something I would've ever pictured myself doing not that long ago.

I always read my close, personal friend Janice's blog. I noticed on virtually every post she'd get a comment from someone named Mel, who I'd never heard of and she'd never mentioned despite the fact she was my office wife at Y&R. Come to find out Mel was a friend she used to work with.

Anyway, Mel would constantly leave comments on Janice's posts. Comments I'd often disagree with. Comments I'd almost always be compelled to comment on, usually in that subtle and tactful way anyone who knows me has come to expect. (btw, still waiting for that "unsend" button.)

Suffice to say it wasn't always the most positive or friendly feedback.

Eventually this back and forth got so heated, the three of us decided to meet for dinner so we could each see who was behind the comments. Needless to say, I approached the dinner cautiously (insert joke about me "approaching food cautiously for the first time in my life" here).

Long story short - although I have a feeling it may be too late for that - is that we all had a great dinner and Mel and I hugged it out.

Now I read her blog regularly, and we're pals online, through the occasional email and probably in real life if and when our paths cross again.

It's amazing what you can discover about a person once you give yourself and them a chance. Since I've gotten to know Mel a bit I see how many great things she has to offer.

In fact, there are two things in particular I really like about her: how often she reads my blog, and how often she comments on it.

Ironic ain't it.

It's showering money

2011-08-31T11:19:00.000-07:00

There are shower people and there are bath people. For the most part, all of us here at the Ponderosa are shower people. That's because not only is it easy to take a shower, it's easy to take a shower for granted.

Right up until something goes wrong.

Back in June my wife opened a door to a closet in the back of the house that we don't use very often. When she did, not only was she hit with a musty, mildewy smell, she also stepped onto a soaking wet carpet that made a very unpleasant squishing sound. She yelled to me down the hall, "Do you know where this water is coming from?" I replied, "Narnia?"

Sometimes she doesn't think I'm so funny.

Now I'm no stranger to household flooding. I've had experience with it before. Which is why I was able to figure out the problem was the shower in my son's bathroom on the other side of the closet wall.

I immediately leapt into action to fix the problem by grabbing the one indispensable tool every Jew is a master at. The telephone.

I called the plumber.

It didn't take long for him to figure out it was a cracked shower pan. And judging by the damage, it'd been cracked for a long while (I told you we don't use that closet often).

So the first order of business was to dry out everything back there: the walls, the items in the closet and the carpet. The good news is I found out there are people for that.

The Servpro team stormed our house like the beaches at Normandy, and came in with four giant fans that sounded like a 747 taking off, plus three giant dehumidifiers. We had to close off the back part of the house for four days while all of them ran 24/7.

That is until the circuits blew.

Our house was built in 1949, and the wiring has always been a little sketchy. If we run the washer, dryer and dishwasher at the same time the circuit blows. Sure, we could rewire the place so the electrical load is more evenly distributed. But where's the fun in that?

Besides, resetting the circuits is one thing I actually know how to do.

The next thing was to call my insurance company and have a very long, unrewarding conversation with my agent. Here's the funny part: if this had been a sudden accident - like a pipe bursting and flooding the place - we would've been covered. But since this was a cracked shower pan, they wouldn't cover the repair, although they would cover the water damage.

So I was happy about that, at least until I found out how much our deductible is.

Seems in my attempt to be a shrewd negotiator, and let State Farm know exactly who they were dealing with, I tried to save a few bucks on my homeowner's policy. Somewhere along the line I said okay to a $5,000 deductible. Which is not a bad thing if you have $50,000 in damage. We weren't even close.

Also turns out there are two ways to replace a shower pan. The cheap way, and the right way, which as you'd expect costs considerably more.

Guess which one we went for?
Of course when you're involved in any kind of big home project, one thing inevitably leads to another. Since we're also replacing the tile floor, we had to take out the vanity - the cabinet and sink - to get to the tile underneath. If there was a cheap and wrong way to do it, that's how the former owners of this house did it. The vanity is no exception. When the contractor went to remove it, it literally crumbled.

So last night the family and I had a romantic evening at Lowe's plumbing and bathroom section, picking out a new vanity. And moving ever closer to our deductible.

Anyway, enough about this. Suffice it to say at the end of it all, my son will have an awesome, newly tiled bathroom with an updated vanity. And he'll be able to enjoy his newly subway tiled, leak-proof shower.

The same shower it turns out I'm going to take a bath on.

My dermatologist is Dick Cheney

2011-08-25T18:45:00.000-07:00

You know how some things are never as bad as you think they are? Like bad hair days for example. You're the only one who really notices, and if not, the only one who really cares.

Unless it's a really bad hair day.

Then everyone's laughing behind your back and making Nick Nolte jokes.

Here's the thing: I went to my dermatologist this afternoon to have a few dark spots removed from my face. But that's not what it looks like.

It looks like I went hunting with Dick Cheney.

The way it works is the dermatologist freezes the spots with liquid nitrogen, the same stuff they store fertilized embryos, bull sperm and Walt Disney's head in. Then the spots they've treated blister, then scab.

Then the scabs fall off (aren't you glad I chose this graphic instead of a more graphic graphic?). Then you have beautiful new skin when it's done.

There are a few problems. First, the liquid nitrogen feels like it's burning even though it's actually freezing your face. Secondly, the dermatologist seemed like she was enjoying it a little too much. And finally, the time it takes to heal is somewhere between five and ten days. Which is way too long to look like I've been cleaning my gun.

Or hunting with Dick Cheney.

So I'm going nocturnal as much as possible the next few days. Thanks to my little procedure, not only will I be able to finish a few things I've been meaning to get to in the Batcave, it's also shaping up to be a great movie-going, star-gazing, moonlight walk week.

The good news is when I emerge from the darkness, my skin will be smooth and radiant with even tones.

Why go through all this pain for a few blemishes? Because when L'Oreal calls, I want to be ready.

And besides, I'm worth it.

Thank you Steve

2011-08-24T16:54:00.000-07:00

It'll be all over the news and the internet tonight. Steve Jobs has resigned as CEO of Apple, and has been named Chairman of the Board.

While it's a nice title, judging by his resignation letter it's probably more symbolic than real.

There's no arguing what he's done for Apple. For technology. For retail selling. For movies, music and cell phones.

While all the business pundits will have their "What does this mean?" fifteen minutes tonight, I'd just like to thank Steve.

For the awesome products you envisioned and then brought to life.

For the coolest phone ever.

For the excitement and anticipation of every new product announcement. Or old product improvement.

For the laptop that I make my living with.

For the tools that allow my kids imaginations to soar.

For never wearing a suit.

For your exceptionally inspiring graduation address at Stanford.

As you enter this next chapter, I hope you have the time to heal, the energy to continue doing what makes you happy and the desire to keep bringing your unique and incomparable vision to the world.

Thank you for everything you have done. And will do.

Hard to say no

2011-08-23T23:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, like almost everyone who works in advertising, I think about going client side.

While driving today, I heard a radio spot for this company. And it sounded like a good place to work.

For starters, it seems like fertile ground for new thinking. A place where every single employee counts. Where management understands that sometimes you have to swim upstream to get where you're going.

It sounded like an exciting place where explosive ideas happen on a daily basis.

It's obviously the kind of company that wants to make a splash in the marketplace. And because it's such an innovative environment, you never know when the next great idea is going to come.

So maybe I'll go to their website and fill out an application.

And if I make a mistake, I'll wait 15 minutes and then fill out another one.

No, they don't

2011-08-22T19:53:00.000-07:00

It'd be one thing if you saw 18-year old college cheerleaders wearing these shirts. But you never do.

You know who's always wearing them? Old guys.

It reminds me of those license plate frames you see every once in awhile that say, "Damn I'm good!"

I guess "Damn I'm insecure and my self-esteem and self-worth are non-existent but I'll cover it up with this bold statement that has nothing to do with who I really am." wouldn't fit.

The other obvious contradiction is the image on the shirt. A golfer, really?

For starters, if the golfer is an old guy then why is he carrying his own clubs? In a game known for having people to carry your clubs, or a cart to drive them around in, if you're an old guy carrying your own clubs then by definition you don't rule.

The t-shirt company probably realized that not all old guys want to project the image of a failed golfer. So they came up with this biker version of the shirt. Here's the funny part: you know who's wearing these?

Not bikers.

Not real ones anyway.

The old guys you usually see wearing the biker version are the yuppie bikers. The ones you see sitting outside at Starbucks on Sunday afternoon, with their yuppie Harley's all lined up in front.

The kind of guys real bikers just love to beat the shit out of. And for that reason, old guys wearing this version don't rule either.

Somewhere along the way, the t-shirt company decided images of golfers and bikers weren't iconic enough for their old guy demographic. And I'll admit that in a world full of iconic images, they did come up with not only a great one, but a classic.

It's the timeless shot of Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston, who he's just knocked to the mat. An image that at once projects power, strength, confidence, beauty, skill and defiance. All qualities that understandably any old guy would want to project.

Except, you know, old guy golfers and yuppie bikers.

Here's the problem with it.

Ali and Liston had two classic and controversial fights. The first time, Ali was 22 years old. The second time he was 23. So an old guy wearing that shirt is kind of like a young guy wearing a shirt that says, "Young Guys Rule" with a picture of Hume Cronyn in Cocoon. I use Hume Cronyn because old guys will know who he is. I was going to go for John McCain, but too easy.

I think we've all learned a few things here today. I know I have. To sum up then: most old guys don't rule. And the few that do don't need a t-shirt saying it. They also shouldn't carry their own golf bags, or buy yuppie Harley's.

And maybe, just maybe, the most important thing we can all take away from this post is that no matter how old you are, where you're from or what year it is, that enduring picture of Muhammad Ali is always going to take your breath away.

Which by the way is another thing that's not so good for old guys.

The market rate

2011-08-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

I think it's safe to say most of us don't appreciate the skill and nuance involved in being a supermarket grocery worker.

For example, the grocery store check-out cashier. Sure, they make it look easy. But clearly there's so much happening we "civilians" just aren't aware of and don't understand.

First, several times an hour they have to move their bodies several degrees forward, leaning into a bar in front of them activating a conveyor belt which brings the groceries conveniently within arm's reach. Then, as if bar-leaning wasn't difficult enough, the job requires them to actually pick up the groceries, with their hands, one at a time, and run them over a scanner which automatically records the price.

But there's more to it than that. Much more.

As any pro will tell you, they can't just continue on unfettered after having run the item. It's simply not that easy. They have to wait until they hear the beep confirming the item has been scanned before they can move on to the next item. Then they have to physically push the scanned item down the counter to their left, where another valiant grocery worker manually lifts it up, then places it in either a paper or plastic bag.

Child labor sweatshops in Thailand have nothing on these supermarkets.

It should be apparent to even the most casual observer these highly skilled professionals are doing God's work by doing a thankless job that clearly chimpanzees or the mentally challenged could never be trained to do.

You can see the difficulty factor on the faces of those brave shoppers going it alone at the automatic check out counters, and getting out of the store and on with their lives way ahead of the rest of us in those understaffed, slow-moving check out lines.

Yet day in and day out, these checkers do it all with the smile, friendliness and great attitude we see on display every time we go to the store.

Knowing how deserving these selfless servants are makes it much easier to support them in their vote whether or not to strike. The reason for the vote is the companies they work for have the audacity, the nerve, the unmitigated gall to ask them to contribute to their own healthcare costs.

The stores - and when I say stores I mean the customers in the form of higher food costs - now pay full fare for employee healthcare. But due to increasing health care costs, they want the employees to pay a monthly bank-breaking $36 for individual and $92 for family coverage.

Apparently all that time scanning groceries doesn't leave them much time to see what the rest of the world pays for healthcare. In the real world, the one outside the automatic doors, those rates would be a godsend.

Their union spokesman, Mike Shimpock, said here that by authorizing this strike they're sending a message to corporations "...for us and for everybody."

First, I don't need your union sending messages for me, but thanks for the thought. And secondly, what exactly is the message they're sending?

The one I'm getting is grocery workers consider themselves some sort of privileged class that should be immune from the rising healthcare rates the rest of us have to pay for the simple reason they haven't had to pay them in the past.

Note to grocery workers: things ain't the way they used to be.

No one wants to be paying the exorbitant healthcare prices we pay, prices by the way that are hundreds of dollars a month more than you're being asked to pony up.

I'm not a union-buster. I belong in good standing to two of them. But I have to say they are way out of step with reality here. Sadly this isn't rare for unions, which historically hold onto unrealistic positions like striking for raises during a recession, while at the same time not offering any concessions. They must think it makes them look brave. It actually just makes them look stupid, uncompromising and out of touch. And it gives ammunition to the real union busters, political and otherwise, that are out to get them.

In '03 and '04 there was a grocery workers strike that went on almost six months, wiped out most of the employees savings and cost the supermarkets 1.5 billion. The winners of that strike were stores that weren't being picketed like Trader Joe's and Bristol Farms.

The grocery union leadership needs to come to the table and negotiate with both the reality of healthcare costs and the interest of their membership in mind.

If they don't, they'll be the ones left holding the bag.

When the death penalty isn't enough

2011-08-15T11:46:00.000-07:00

For those of you who doubt the existence of evil, or believe that it doesn't walk among us, you might want to have a seat and alter your thinking.

I don't have a term strong or accurate enough to describe the piece of white trash pictured here. His name is Jeremiah Lee Wright. What did he do to stir all this negative emotion? He decapitated his 7-year old son, then for good measure cut off his hands and feet.

His son had cerebral palsy and heart problems, and was confined to a wheel chair. And 'ole Jeremiah just got tired of taking care of him. (If you want more details, you'll find them here).

This isn't the first time I've posted about human garbage. I did it before for another animal equally deserving of being wiped off the face of the earth. The frightening thing is that psychopaths like this are like ants - you can never really get rid of them all.

As a parent writing this, and I'm sure if you're a parent reading it, the size of the unimaginable sadness is only matched by the desire to lock our kids away and protect them from everything, and everyone, bad in the world.

Which of course we can't.

I don't often do this, but I'm going to quote myself from that other post on the death penalty:

Here's the thing: I don't buy the argument that putting him to death brings us down to his level. It's a false analogy. Murdering innocent adults and young children, then executing the murderer as a consequence of their crime are two completely different things. They are not morally equivalent.

While it would be nice if the penalty worked as a deterrent, I don't really care whether it does or not. What does matter to me is that by putting him to death, one less monster walks among us.

A little bit of evil bites the dust.

So that's how I feel. And in this case in particular, I hope the way this guy eventually gets taken out causes him to feel as much pain and terror as he caused his innocent son.

For starters.

Tracks of my tears

2011-08-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

If you follow this blog - and really, shouldn't you be out in the fresh air and sunshine? - you know every once in awhile as a public service I take time to contrast and compare the same song performed by different artists.

Did I say public service? I meant when I can't think of anything to write.

I've done it for Stand By Me and a song called Secret Heart. Today, for your listening pleasure, Tracks Of My Tears. Smokey Robinson wrote it and made it a hit. The first and last videos are of him singing it.

Please to enjoy.

A day at the races

2011-08-11T09:47:00.000-07:00

For years I've always been told to bet the gray horse. No idea why. Maybe it's because there aren't that many of them. Or that they're so beautiful.

So that's what I've always done.

The family and I spent yesterday at Del Mar Racetrack, where the turf meets the surf. A beautiful track that sits on a spectacular section of the California coast, it was built by a partnership that included Bing Crosby, Jimmy Durante and Oliver Hardy. As racetracks go, it has a much higher class of gambling degenerates than, say, Hollywood Park. Everyone seems to clean up a little better. There were a lot of hats that looked like they'd be right at home in the royal wedding party.

Preferring not to sit with the riff-raff in the general grandstand section, we sat with the riff-raff in the clubhouse section. You can buy reserved seats in the clubhouse section, but there's really no need to. There are plenty of empty seats to sit in until someone who's paid for reserved seats comes and throws you out (which didn't happen to us). And if it did, we'd have just moved to other unoccupied seats.

I used to go to the track quite a bit when I was in college. Santa Anita, Hollywood Park, here at Del Mar. And I used to bet on the ponies quite a bit as well. I'd bet things like my rent money (which didn't make my roommate happy at all), my paycheck, my savings - you see where I'm going here. If I'd been better at it, it wouldn't have been any big deal. The problem was my skill at picking horses was just as good as my talent for hang-gliding, barbecuing and car repair.

The one time I actually won back the rent money I'd lost I took it as a sign I probably should stop going to the track. So I did. For a long time.

But now that years have gone by, and I have kids, I thought it was time to show them the fun of racing. The splendor of the track. The grandeur of these stunning animals (the ones on the track, not in the stands). After all, it is the Sport of Kings. And seriously, aside from a smoke-filled casino, what better place for impressionable young children than a racetrack filled with drunken gamblers.

I know, right?

Oh, and about that gray horse I bet on? In this picture he's just out of frame to the left.

Along with his walker and oxygen tank.

What a putts

2011-08-03T19:49:00.000-07:00

I don't play golf. I've tried, but I can't. It seems like a monumental waste of time. And land. And money.

Besides, if I want to wear plaid shorts with striped shirts there are plenty of other places I can do it.

The picture to the left is part of the route I take when I'm out walking with my German Sheperd. Have a closer look at it. I'm fortunate to live in a neighborhood with some pretty nice manicured lawns, but even this struck me as a little much. See the cups?

Apparently what my idiot neighbor (and if you've been following this blog you know the place is lousy with them) did was go out and spend money to have a miniature golf course/putting green put on his front lawn.

I know what you're thinking: at least he didn't put flags out. You know what I'm thinking?

Let me direct your attention to exhibit B.

On the lawn immediately in front of his house, he has two holes with flags. I don't know what to make of any of it.

My first thought is I wonder if he followed the same procedure every other resident has to follow and cleared it with the homeowner's association. Come to find out he didn't (which would also explain the dolphin sculpture and the flagpole that aren't pictured here).

On the heels of that I think, well, it's his house and if he wants to he can. Which of course he can't. That's why there's a homeowner's association.

Then I think, wow, at least this guy didn't do something so stupid and boneheaded like putting in a sand trap.

Oh, wait a minute.

Let me direct your attention to exhibit C.

If the guy wanted to put a miniature course on his property, he should have put it on his property. Technically the street-side parkway belongs to the city, and they get really pissy when they don't have a say in what you do to their property. Or when they don't get paid a waiver fee so you can do it.

They're just funny that way.

I have a lot of friends, good friends, intelligent people that I respect that play golf often and enjoy it. But they have the good taste to do it on a course at a club, not on their front lawn.

I think I have to agree with Robin Williams: golf is a giant joke being played on everyone who plays it.

So I'll keep walking my dog past this house, smiling to myself at the idiocy of it all.

And taking a small bit of satisfaction in the fact that even if my dog can't play golf, there are other things he can do on this guy's course.

This clip has language that may not be suitable for the youngsters.

Door to door

2011-07-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

Knock knock.

Who's there?

Another.

Another who?

Another a&%$@*e at my door trying to sell me something.

It always surprises me when door-to-door salesmen show up on my doorstep. For one thing, it seems like such a throwback to a more innocent time. For another, I can't believe these people really think that by showing up unannounced and unwanted, I'm actually going to buy what they're selling. I don't buy anything from the many daily cards and flyers for house-cleaning services and lawn maintenance that get left on my step. I'm not going to buy anything from them. And finally, I was born at night, but it wasn't last night - I know they're just here to case my house, and then come back when no one's home and rob me blind.

I don't care if they're not. In my mind they are.

When I pulled up to my house last night, there was this guy standing in front of my neighbor's house (the good neighbor, not the other one). He was on his cell phone, and as I walked into my house he waved and said, "Hey." Well "hey" right back pal. I was fine being friendly to him at this point, because he wasn't on my property with his brochure about a new home security system. Yet.

A few minutes after I got in the house and settled in, there was the knock at the door. I knew right away it was him. So I immediately jumped into action, and did what I always do when someone suspicious I don't know comes to the door.

I called my German Sheperd into the living room.

I went to the door, my hand on my dog's collar looking like I was holding him back. The truth is, I was holding him back - but only because he would've licked the guy to death.

My dog hasn't read the German Sheperd manual.

Holding the dog with one hand, I opened the door with the other, but just the minimum amount so that he couldn't see into my house, but could see that I had a large dog with sparkly teeth that looked like he wanted to have a nice sales guy with steak sauce for dinner.

He started in with a hard sell about Skyline Home Security Systems. I said, "Oh, to keep out people you don't want on your property." It was lost on him.

I know times are tough and everyone needs to work, but I decided to save this guy some time by telling him we were happy with our system and not planning on replacing it. He said okay and left.

When I told my wife who it was and what he was selling, she was immediately concerned. Her father had been in the security/alarm business for years and had always told her that door-to-door alarm salesmen are always casing your house.

Even though the door hadn't been open enough for him to case anything, I ran up the street after him. I got one of his brochures, and a phone number to contact him. Then this morning, I called Skyline to find out if he was really one of their sales reps, or a guy trying to avoid a third strike. Turns out he was one of theirs.

Maybe next time instead of saying "Hey" when I see a door-to-door salesman loitering outside on his cell phone, I'll say, "Hey, don't bother going to that house."

It won't be as much fun for the dog. But then that's what pizza delivery guys are for.

The Con

2011-07-26T19:42:00.000-07:00

This isn't the first time I've written about Comic Con. The last time was a post about the difficulties of playing hotel roulette and getting the one I wanted.

Fortunately, after writing a Jeff-letter to the Chairman and CEO of Hilton, that wasn't a problem this year. We were at the Hilton Bayfront, right across the street from Hall H at the San Diego Convention Center. Which was perfect, because we spent most of our days there holed up in Hall H.

For those who haven't been, Hall H is where all the major studios hold their movie panels. They parade the stars and directors out, show exclusive footage from upcoming films, then have a discussion led by a moderator before taking questions from the audience. The hall seats 6500 people. When they like what they hear you know it. Same when they don't.

There's way too much craziness, geek love, celebrity, craziness, fun and craziness at Comic Con to put into one post. So instead, I'll just put up a few pics from the weekend to give you a little taste.

And yes, since you asked, we're pre-registered for next year.

Kevin Smith interviewing fans dressed up in costumes

Francis Ford Coppola with Val Kilmer

Our tickets to the world premiere of Cowboys & Aliens. That's right, you heard me.

Andrew Garfield, the next Spiderman.

Nic Cage wore his bad hair costume for the panel.

Colin Farrell was funny and charming. Bastard.

Team Twilight.

The most surprising and one of the best panels this year, Pee Wee Herman.

Gulliermo Del Toro

Some guy named Spielberg.

Penn & Teller. Yes, Teller spoke.

Justin Timberlake & Amanda Seyfried pretending not to look at me.

My hotel across the street from Hall H

Lack of discipline

2011-07-25T21:18:00.000-07:00

Yeah, whatever.

I joke a lot about being the least disciplined writer you know. The only reason I do this is because I'm the least disciplined writer you know.

My friend Rich, an excellent, prolific writer and blogger in his own right recently reprimanded me for not posting more often to my blog. To which I think, "Hey hey, slow down there Shakespeare, we can't all do four posts a week."

I know he means well, and he's paying me a compliment by wanting to read more of my posts. But the truth is, well, the truth is I'm the least disciplined writer you know. Yet when I'm working at a real job, I always deliver.

That's because all the zeros on those checks sure are pretty. And I've always been a sucker for a check that clears. Don't get me wrong, I don't just do jobs for money. I do them for the love. The love of the money.

So, I'll try harder. I'll start posting more. I'll tear down this wall (Reagan would be so proud) and stop censoring myself. I will post the things I don't think I should post.

I'll get right on it. Tomorrow.

The Fredo of cars

2011-07-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

Remember the scene in The Godfather where Fredo tells Michael, "I'm not dumb. I'm smart, and I want respect." That should be the tagline for SMART cars.

It doesn't take a government study to know that the SMART car is maybe one of the stupidest ideas ever. Of course, the only thing more stupid than the cars are the people who buy them. Yeah, I said it.

If you're really willing to put your life on the line by driving a Hot Wheels car to get 5 or 10 more miles to the gallon, you're really not getting enough oxygen.

Why not just take your recliner out for a spin next time you have to go on the freeway? At least you won't have to pay extra for the leather and you'll have about the same amount of protection.

Don't get me wrong. I do appreciate SMART cars as comic relief. I like pulling up real close to them in my Land Cruiser at red lights and see the beads of nervous sweat start to roll down the drivers face. I'm not proud, but there it is.

Most SMART car owners are understandably defensive about their vehicles. They'll quote safety studies, talk about how good the cars are for the environment. I suppose if they mean that in the sense of reducing the population then they're right.

Hey, you know who's happy about these little painted golf carts? Cows.

The pressure's off them now. SMART car tipping is a lot more fun. You don't need as many people to do it, and they're a lot easier to find.

Remember that other scene in The Godfather, the one where Michael is talking to his brother-in-law Carlo. Things don't go well for Carlo. Michael says to him, "Don't lie to me. Because it insults my intelligence, and it makes me very angry."

That's pretty much how I feel about SMART cars.

Taking the high road

2011-07-09T12:24:00.000-07:00

Here's something I don't tell a lot of people: occasionally - very occasionally - I watch the Weather Channel.

Fine. Use it against me. But I know more about tornadoes and typhoons than you ever will. And I'm sure that and the algebra I had to take four times will eventually come in very handy.

When I'm watching and see all the hurricane footage they show, I always think the same thing: I'll take our earthquakes over their hurricanes any day (although I'd like that day to be a Monday, because why ruin a perfectly good weekend).

With a hurricane, everything it touches is blown to smithereens. Houses become splinters. Cars become airborne as if they were the same size and weight as Hot Wheels. Everyone's life resets to zero and they have to start over.

I'm born and raised in L.A. I've been through a lot of earthquakes. And as a rule, about 98% of everything is still standing afterwards. Cosmetic damage, sure. But this is L.A. We have lots of people who know how to take something that's fallen apart on the outside and make it look better.

When it comes to earthquakes, the news is a cruel tease. Whether it's L.A. or Japan, the coverage would make you believe that entire cities or countries have been destroyed. Simply not true.

All of this brings me to Hermosa Beach.

I was down there walking around with my son last Tuesday, and we saw the sign you see above. Truthfully, tsunamis, or tidal waves, had never really been on my radar (that would be my Doppler radar). Unless the Weather Channel was doing a special on them. This sign immediately brought back images of the footage from Thailand in '04, and the tsunami in Japan after the most recent earthquake.

And as I looked at the sign, I just had one thought. Say goodbye to Hermosa Beach.

If you look just to the right of the sign, that's where the ocean is. Close isn't it?

And Hermosa is the quintessential sleepy beach town with all that implies: narrow streets, too little parking and too many cars, and a beachy little attitude that just screams, "Why the rush?"

They're goners.

So, as I sit in my house three miles inland on a small hill, I'd like to take a minute to say goodbye to Hermosa Beach, and let them know how sorry I am they spent good money on tsunami evacuation signs that aren't going to do jack when surf's up - way up.

I hope they at least made them waterproof.

Secret Heart

2011-06-25T11:44:00.000-07:00

Here's the deal. It's Saturday, and time for a new post. But I got nothing.

So instead, I'll share this poignant, beautiful, haunting song by Ron Sexsmith - yes, that's his real name.

Here are two versions: him performing it acoustically, and Feist rocking it.

For today, two hearts are better than one.

The new apathy

2011-06-22T18:38:00.000-07:00

Is it possible to care too much about your work? How would I know. That's never been my problem.

Sure, I'm paid and paid well to care enough to do the best possible job I can for my clients. And I do, because I'm just that professional.

So maybe the right word isn't care. Maybe it's "serious."

Here's the thing: on the big, long list of things in the world worth taking seriously, advertising just isn't one of them. In fact, advertising is on that other list - the one that includes hybrid cars, Justin Bieber and guys who wear their pants below their ass.

Everyday I work with people who could sell ice to eskimos. But the one thing they can't sell me on is taking the business I'm in too seriously.

Don't get me wrong: I'm a firm believer that there's a reason, purpose and tangible benefit to marketing communication. The impact it can have on defining a brand, engaging the consumer and shaping a business when it's done right - I'm looking at you Apple - is nothing less than remarkable.

The part I don't take seriously are the people who take themselves so seriously.

It's always amusing to go into a meeting and see how serious everyone is. They're straightening their notepads, setting their iPhones within arms reach (you know, for that very important call that could come. At. Any. Minute.), and sitting up attentively in the chairs they've adjusted to just the proper height. Wait a minute, is that image on the screen coming wirelessly from that iPad? Is that a Powerpoint presentation? Man this is getting serious.

The other thing I've found is that the main contribution from people who are too serious is riding the brakes and slowing the process. They bring up issues and detours that aren't salient to either that process or the outcome.

And I believe all that seriousness belies a lack of trust, often in themselves.

For all the efforts they make to stay steeped in pop culture and the trends of the moment, apparently one thing they don't do is read the papers (alright, some of them read the paper on their iPad during those meetings, but still...).

There are bigger things happening in the real world that actually matter and impact lives. It's true all those ads that butt their big, fat noses into your tv watching, radio listening, online surfing, magazine reading and automobile driving also impact lives. But it's also true most of them don't do it the way those very serious faces in the conference room want them to.

Some of the funniest, most brilliant, most creative people I've ever met work in advertising. So do some of the tightest butt-clenchers and people with sticks where they shouldn't be. Maybe they could lose the sticks if they didn't clench so hard. Just a thought.

I understand everyone's doing their job the best way they know how. I just think they could do it a lot better if they didn't take themselves so seriously.

Besides, just because you take yourself seriously doesn't mean anyone else does.

It also doesn't mean you're good at your job.

In what I thought had to be a joke but wasn't, a colleague of mine actually had a Facebook post saying he loved advertising so much it made him cry. Well, it makes me cry too. Just not for the same reason.

Anyway, I hope you can forgive my little rant here. I just had to get it off my chest. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't care.

I know I don't.

The change was made uptown and the Big Man joined the band

2011-06-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

One night my wife and I were sitting second row at a Springsteen concert at the L.A. Sports Arena. It wasn’t an unusual place to find us.

As Bruce and the E Street Band were playing, she leaned over and asked me who I’d want to be onstage. Naturally I said Bruce. Then I asked her the same question. She took a beat, looked up onstage at Clarence, then replied, “Mrs. Clemons.”

I cried tonight when I heard Clarence had died. Not only for the fact of his passing, but for the end of any hope he might recover from the massive stroke he had almost a week ago.

For anyone who saw the last tour, it was easy to see it was a painful time for the Big Man. After two hip replacements, two knee replacements, major spinal surgery, and the wear and tear of carrying his larger than life frame around for 69 years, the Clarence of old – the one who danced with Bruce, jumped down to the runner of the stage, acted in sketches when Bruce was hamming it up (which was often) – was already gone.

His movement was limited to standing up from his ornate, throne-like chair at the side of the stage that he spent most of the concert in, and playing those unimaginably soulful, powerful, moving and profound sax solos as if it were the first time.

He was almost as much a part of the show as Bruce.

It’s virtually impossible to imagine E Street without him. And I guess in the larger sense, he'll always be onstage with them whether he's there or not.

Lots of chatty local news anchors have been wondering if it's the end of E Street. I'm here to tell you it's not. I believe Bruce and the band will tour again, sooner rather than later.

Because in the same way Bruce chose Charlie Giordano as keyboardist after Danny Federici passed away from cancer, he'll eventually choose another outstanding sax player to share the stage with him.

It goes without saying that whoever that turns out to be has some big – really big – shoes to fill.

And while Bruce fans will never be able not to think of Clarence at Bruce's side, they’ll graciously welcome whoever it is because Bruce chose them.

They're good like that.

Together my inner circle of Bruce tramp friends - Kim, Al, Jessie, Chris - have seen hundreds of shows here and around the world. And at every one of them, we talk about how people who aren't there have no idea what they're missing.

I’m so very grateful for all the times I got to see Clarence perform. I’m grateful my children got to see him on E Street.

And I’m especially grateful that Bruce knows continuing to play the songs Clarence loved and lived to play, and to keep rocking it hard, is the best and most lasting tribute he can pay to his dear friend.

Tonight, heaven is blessed.

And Gabriel is thinking he's never heard a horn sound so sweet.

The Big Man is in the house.

Clarence Clemons 1942 - 2011

2011-06-19T00:02:00.000-07:00

I'll have a post of my own about Clarence as soon I can regain my composure and collect my thoughts. In the meantime, the post from Bruce:

It is with overwhelming sadness that we inform our friends and fans that at 7:00 tonight, Saturday, June 18, our beloved friend and bandmate, Clarence Clemons passed away. The cause was complications from his stroke of last Sunday, June 12th.

Clarence lived a wonderful life. He carried within him a love of people that made them love him. He created a wondrous and extended family. He loved the saxophone, loved our fans and gave everything he had every night he stepped on stage. His loss is immeasurable and we are honored and thankful to have known him and had the opportunity to stand beside him for nearly forty years. He was my great friend, my partner, and with Clarence at my side, my band and I were able to tell a story far deeper than those simply contained in our music. His life, his memory, and his love will live on in that story and in our band.

Hollywood's other Clint

2011-06-18T11:48:00.000-07:00

You’ve heard the saying - you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. All you need to do is take a good look at your family, especially after Thanksgiving dinner, at Christmas time or the reading of the will to know it’s true.

But if I could choose my family, I’d choose Ron Howard to be my older brother. Look how well it’s worked out for Clint.

In case you’re not familiar with Clint Howard, he’s the freakishly ugly, bald brother of Ron Howard who looks nothing like him, and appears in virtually every one of his movies.

But he wasn’t always that hideously ugly.

He started his career on a tv show called Gentle Ben, about a boy and a bear. He played the boy. He was a cute kid back then, but time and God both have a sense of humor, and what he grew up to look like wasn’t exactly leading man material.

Ironically, in a business consumed with looks, his haven’t been a handicap. Neither has having Ron Howard as his brother.

He’s become kind of a cult Where’s Waldo/Spot His Brother figure in Ron’s films. When his face appears onscreen (and by the way, seeing it in 70mm does nothing to improve it), there’s always laughter and a smattering of applause.

Here’s a list of the movies Ron Howard has directed. The bolded ones are the ones Clint has appeared in:

2013
The Dark Tower (announced)

2012
The Dark Tower (TV series) (pre-production)

2011
The Dilemma

2010
Presidential Reunion (video short)

2010
Heidi Montag Says No to Plastic (video short)

2009
Angels & Demons

2008
Frost/Nixon

2006
The Da Vinci Code

2005
Cinderella Man

2003/I
The Missing

2001
A Beautiful Mind

2000
How the Grinch Stole Christmas

1999
Edtv

1996
Ransom

1995
Apollo 13

1994
The Paper

1992
Far and Away

1991
Backdraft

1989
Parenthood

1988
Willow

1987
Take Five (TV movie)

1986
Gung Ho

1985
Cocoon

1984
Splash

1983
Little Shots (TV movie)

1982
Night Shift

1981
Through the Magic Pyramid (TV movie)

1980
Skyward (TV movie)

1978
Cotton Candy (TV movie)

1977
Grand Theft Auto

1969
Cards, Cads, Guns, Gore and Death (short)

1969
Deed of Daring-Do

1969
Old Paint (short)

Years ago I had a close encounter with Ron Howard when he was first starting out. He was directing a film called Grand Theft Auto for Roger Corman, and through some connection I don’t even remember, I got a job as a production assistant on the film.

My big break lasted two days until I came down with a horrible case of the flu and had to bow out. Come to find out I was extremely easy to replace on a moments notice – a lesson I’ve learned many times since.

Anyway, more power to old Clint. He's carved out a career for himself, he's a cult figure and he loves his big brother. How many show biz siblings - not counting the Bridges, the Afflecks, the Baldwins or the Coens - can you say that about?

Besides, as Damon Wayans says, “This town is built on nepotism.”

He should know. He has five brothers to prove it.