Stars are people too

Wildfires are devastating. They consume more than homes. They also devour memories, history, and a sense of safety. This year, flames tore through Altadena, Malibu and the Palisades, leaving ashes where homes and lives once stood. Yet, instead of compassion, a bizarre and unjustified wave of callousness has reared its ugly head, with people dismissing the losses of celebrities and residents in these areas.

How often in the past week have you seen a post or heard someone say, “They can afford to rebuild” or “They can just move to their other house”? It’s a cavalier, ignorant, jealous, red-state, right-wing, California-hating dismissal that reveals a staggering, although sadly not surprising, lack of empathy and understanding.

Let’s be honest: there’s no faster way to show the world your heart is three sizes too small than by shrugging off someone else’s tragedy with, “Well, they’re rich.”

Not everyone who suffered a loss is rich. Sure, these communities, especially Malibu and the Palisades, are known for luxurious homes. But they’re also home to teachers, small business owners, retirees, and others who’ve built lives there. Some have lived in these neighborhoods for decades—long before they became synonymous with wealth. Losing a home is financially devastating for anyone.

And no, Karen, not everyone has a secret vault of gold coins to dive into when things go south.

Even for those who ar e wealthy, the idea their losses don’t matter is disturbingly cruel. Yes, a celebrity may have the means to rebuild, but wealth doesn’t erase the pain of losing irreplaceable items: photo albums, keepsakes from loved ones, artwork, and more. Money can’t replace that painting your kid made in first grade that held a place of honor on the fridge. Wealth doesn’t shield anyone from the trauma of displacement or the heartbreak of watching a cherished home—and all the memories it held—go up in flames.

To imply their suffering is any less valid because they’re in the public eye is to deny their humanity. And yours.

Many celebrities who’ve lost their homes are still stepping up to help others. They’re donating significant amounts to relief efforts, volunteering their time, and using their platforms to raise awareness and funds for victims. Their losses haven’t stopped them from giving back, which only underscores their humanity and generosity.

A loss is a loss. Home is more than just four walls and a roof. It’s the space where we build our lives, celebrate milestones, and find comfort. When people lose their homes to natural disasters, they’re not just losing a building; they’re losing memories and a piece of their identity. This is true whether you’re living paycheck to paycheck or have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.We reduce celebrities to their wealth or fame, forgetting that they laugh, cry, and mourn just like the rest of us.

They’re just better lit while doing it.

This mentality often extends to others perceived as “better off” than us. It’s a dangerous way of thinking. Instead of coming together to support those in need, we’ve created a hierarchy of whose suffering is “worthy” of our compassion. Spoiler alert: this isn’t a competition. There are no prizes for being the most dismissive.

Next time you see news of someone’s home destroyed by fire—whether they’re a famous actor or your next-door neighbor—think about what it would mean to lose the place where you’ve built your life.

The last thing we need is for callousness to spread faster than the wildfires.

Germ of an idea

I recently got a front-row seat (literally) to the modern marvel that is the emergency room waiting area. Or, as I now lovingly call it, the “Germ Sauna.” What began as a trip to the ER for some minor-but-concerning health scare turned into an epic 18 ½ hour test of endurance, and my butt is still recovering.

Allow me to explain.

Let me set the stage: the waiting room was packed, buzzing with the sound of people coughing with the enthusiasm of someone trying to clear a lifetime of regrets. Coughs, sniffles, and the occasional wail from a child who clearly didn’t sign up for this. It was a microcosm of humanity at its most vulnerable. And yet, oddly, no masks required. Sure, you could wear one if you wanted, but the general vibe was more “free-range germs for all!” than “let’s contain this outbreak.”

It’s like the hospital figured, “Hey, they’re already sick. What’s a little influenza sprinkled on top?”

Then, the chairs. Imagine sitting on something that combines the worst aspects of a medieval rack with the ergonomics of a brick.

Every so often, a name would be called, and someone from this suffering crowd would shuffle toward the elusive back rooms. We’d all watch them go, a mix of envy and despair on our faces.

Finally, after 18 ½ hours (in case I didn’t mention it before), after what felt like an eternity, my name was called. I practically leapt out of my torture chair—though I needed a second to make sure my butt still worked. I was led to a bed (which was just a gurney, but after the chair it felt like a Temper-Pedic). The ER doctor came in, apologizing for the wait. “It’s frustrating for us too,” she said. “We’re doing the best we can.”

Still, amid the chaos and discomfort, one thing stood out: the staff. These overworked heroes were doing everything humanly possible to manage an impossible situation. Despite the crushing number of patients and a room full of people who had long since run out of patience, the nurses, receptionists, and doctors remained calm, professional, and compassionate. I watched them navigate angry outbursts, soothe frightened children, and handle a parade of bizarre injuries with the kind of grace that deserves a Netflix documentary.

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that by adding some beds, capacity, staff, and one or two more doctors they could probably shave a good six hours off the wait time.

In case you were worried, I’m fine now, thanks. Whatever health issue I had magically resolved itself somewhere between hours 14 and 16. At this point, I think my body just wanted to get out of there.

In the end, my ER adventure was more than just about surviving a health scare. It was a test of patience, endurance, and my ability to avoid catching pneumonia from three dozen people coughing in my general direction for hours on end.

Would I do it again? Let’s hope I don’t have to.

But if I do, I’m bringing my own chair. And hazmat suit.

It really is the City of Angels

Los Angeles is no stranger to wildfires. But each time they rage, the devastation feels fresh and deeply personal. Over the past weeks, as flames consumed homes, hillsides, and dreams, we’ve witnessed destruction nothing short of heartbreaking. Families have been displaced, cherished memories reduced to ash, and once-vibrant landscapes scarred by fire. It’s a stark reminder of nature’s raw power and how fragile everything we hold dear really is.

The images are haunting. A charred skyline. A child’s teddy bear left behind in the rush to escape. Rows of houses burned to their foundations. Midnight darkness at noon. The smell of smoke has become an unwelcome constant, lingering as a reminder of what’s been lost. The pain of those directly affected is unimaginable, and our hearts break alongside them.

Yet, even in the midst of such tragedy, this city, known for its sprawling streets and diverse neighborhoods, has shown once again it’s more than a collection of people. It’s a community.

As the fires raged, so did acts of compassion and kindness. Neighbors turned into heroes offering shelter to the displaced. Strangers brought water and supplies to evacuation centers, filling tables with essentials and hope. Volunteers worked tirelessly, ensuring no one faced this crisis alone.

First responders—our firefighters, paramedics, and police officers—have gone above and beyond, risking their lives to save others. Their bravery reminds us that even in the darkest times, there are those who run toward the flames, determined to protect and serve. These individuals embody the resilience and the best of humanity.

To quote Fred Rogers, “Always look for the helpers.”

Communities have come together in ways that inspire awe. Social media has transformed into what its original intention was: a hub for connection, with people offering places to stay, donating proceeds to those in need. It’s a testament to Angelenos: when faced with adversity, we unite, we rebuild, and we rise.

This isn’t the first time L.A. has been tested by fire, and it won’t be the last. But history shows this city has a remarkable ability to recover. Los Angeles will rise again. New homes will be built. Hillsides will regrow. Families will create new memories to replace those lost.

And while scars may remain, they'll be a testament to survival, resilience, and the strength of a community that refuses to be broken.

Check please

There’s a trend happening at restaurants, and not just the trendy ones (SWIDT?). And I’m just going to say it at the top: I’m against it.

The table-side credit card swiper. While it seems like a convenient innovation, these little devices come with a not-so-tiny downside: the complete annihilation of your tipping privacy.

Picture this: you’re enjoying a nice dinner out. The food? Fantastic. The service? Good, but not quite stellar. Your water glass went unfilled for an uncomfortably long time. Your steak arrived a shade past medium-rare. But nothing outrageous. It’s the kind of performance that warrants a decent, yet not overly generous tip.

Enter the table-side swiper. Your server approaches with a smile that’s just a bit too eager, holding the device. Suddenly, you’re confronted with the digital tipping screen, complete with conveniently pre-selected options: 15%, 20%, 25%. The "Custom Tip" option dares you to choose it while your server watches.

In the old days before the table side swiper, you had time to discuss the tip, the service, the server’s attitude. But the swiper is a conversation killer.

With “Under Pressure” as the soundtrack playing in your head, eventually, inevitably, you wind up tipping more than you planned because the swiper robbed you of your ability to reflect, discuss and tip in peace.

The irony is they were probably intended to make the dining experience more seamless, less stressful. In reality, they’ve introduced a new level of awkwardness to your meal.

I don’t imagine servers are thrilled about this either. They know when a table’s vibe is off. But with swiper in hand, there’s not much they can do to change that in the moment. Smile too hard, and it’s desperate. Smile too little, and they risk looking like they’re mad about the tip before you’ve even entered it.

Also, those swipers are often tracking the server’s tip averages. Some restaurants use them to keep tabs on who’s getting the big bucks and who’s scraping by. So now, it isn’t just about your tip—it’s about their performance metrics. And those earning lower tips might not be performing as well in the eyes of management.

Here’s my solution: let the servers drop the swiper and walk away. Give everyone a moment to breathe, reflect, and tip like a decent human without feeling like they’re being judged. Or worse, tracked.

And by the way, can you warm up this coffee? Thanks.

Apple is Cooked

Apple has long positioned itself as a beacon of innovation, inclusivity, and progress. For decades, it’s been a champion of privacy, diversity, and environmental responsibility. Yet, with one bone-headed decision, Tim Cook has managed to call all of that into question.

Recently Cook, the very face of Apple, made a $1 million personal donation to Cadet Bone Spurs presidential inauguration—a figure who stands in direct opposition to so many of the values Apple purports to uphold. While Cook might argue this was a personal gesture, his position as Apple’s CEO makes it impossible to separate his actions from the image of the company he leads.

The damage to Apple’s reputation is undeniable.

Apple has always been about more than its products. The company is a lifestyle and a philosophy. With progressive messaging on issues like LGBTQ+ rights, climate change, and immigration, Apple has attracted millions of loyal customers who see the company as a force for good. IQ45’s presidency was a four-year assault on those ideals: a term marked by divisive rhetoric, anti-immigration policies, trashing science and an alarming disregard for human rights.

By financially supporting Trump’s inauguration, Cook undermines the principles Apple has worked so hard to associate with its name. The message this sends is clear: The values Apple claims to hold dear are, at best, negotiable.

One of Cook’s most celebrated moments as CEO was when he publicly came out as gay, stating, “I’m proud to be gay, and I consider being gay among the greatest gifts God has given me.” For members of the LGBTQ+ community, Cook became a symbol of progress in corporate America. How can the same Tim Cook justify donating to the inauguration of a president whose administration actively sought to roll back protections for LGBTQ+ individuals?

Perhaps Tim has forgotten Trump’s transgender military ban, his appointments of anti-LGBTQ+ judges, and his administration’s blatant attacks on equality under the guise of religious freedom. Cook’s donation wasn’t just a betrayal of Apple’s values; it was a betrayal of his own.

Apple products are used by millions of people across continents, cultures, and belief systems. Many of those customers—immigrants, Muslims, women, people of color, and members of the LGBTQ+ community—were directly harmed by the Trump administration’s policies. What must they think, knowing the man leading Apple thought it was appropriate to write a million-dollar check to celebrate Trump’s rise to power?

If Apple wants to salvage its reputation, it can’t remain silent. The company needs to publicly address Cook’s actions, and reaffirm its commitment to the values it claims to stand for. Anything less will signal to its customers that those values were nothing more than marketing spin.

As for Cook, he owes customers, shareholders and the world at large an explanation. They deserve to know why he thought it was acceptable to align himself with arguably the most divisive leader in modern history.

Cook’s $1 million donation is a betrayal. A betrayal of Apple. A betrayal of its customers. And most of all, a betrayal of the very ideals Cook himself once claimed to champion.

It’s a stain on his legacy—and Apple’s—that he won’t be able to hit delete on anytime soon.

Forehead expansion project

I thought about calling this post "Hair today, gone tomorrow." But I decided not to. You're welcome. Okay, even though I've tipped my hand as to where this is going, and it's definitely going, let's go.

It’s always sad when it happens, but whether I like it or not, there’s a reckoning coming. A once-trusty companion, a lifelong friend, something I relied on and was always there for me has taken the first step towards the long goodbye.

We’ve been through so much together. The great bowl cut fiasco of ‘95. The gel overdose incident of ‘05. Even a brief flirtation with a color not found in nature.

It’s sad but true. My hair, like my father’s hair before me, has begun a slow retreat.

It started innocently enough. Just a slight thinning in the front (at least something on me is getting thinner). “Nothing to worry about,” I thought. “It’s just my forehead... stretching.”

But as the years roll on, it’s becoming clear to me my hair is saying, “Shecky, get the limo—we’re outta here!”

Some men might panic at this development, and turn to desperate measures to turn back time: toupees. Miracle creams. Snake-oil cures. Dyes. Plugs. Transplants. Baseball caps. Combovers. The Hair Club for Men. Thanks, but no thanks.

I’ve decided to go the dignified route (I know, so uncharacteristic) and embrace my very slowly receding hairline with open arms. After all, why fight a battle I’m destined to lose?

In the meantime, I’m trying to stay focused on the positives. My time at the barber shop—don’t really need a salon at this point—will go a lot faster. Showers are definitely quicker. Shampoo expenses are down. I’m sleeker, more aerodynamic and move through the world just a little easier.

And the silver lining—literally, fortunately—is the pace of the retreat seems to be happening exceptionally slowly. I’m not even close to the Lester Holt/Jude Law/Nic Cage/Sting loss leaders yet. In fact if I hadn’t brought it up, you might not have even noticed. So, time is on my side. Even if my hair isn’t.

To anyone else facing the issue, my advice is own it. Laugh about it. And if you’re entrepreneurial like me, monetize it. My once-full head of hair might just be my next big business venture.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to measure my forehead for ad dimensions. Super Bowl Sunday is just around the corner, and I’ve got prime real estate to sell.

New Year's Eve and keeping hope alive

New Year’s Eve promises so much—a fresh start, a blank slate, a chance to look at the tangled mess of our lives and say, “This year, I’ll get it together. No, really.”

But before we pop the champagne and make resolutions we have no intention of keeping, let’s pause a moment to honor the often unappreciated beauty of a quiet New Year’s Eve, where glitter and champagne are optional.

We’ve all been there. Midnight strikes, and suddenly, you’re promising to quit carbs, learn French and train for a marathon. It feels exhilarating in the moment, but then reality smacks you in the face and calls you Sally. And through your champagne haze you remember croissants are delicious, French is exhausting, and running hurts.

But this annual exercise of overpromise is actually an act of hope. A reminder we can still believe in the power of change.

Maybe it’s naive. Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s the champagne talking.

As in years past, the wife and I will definitely not be spending New Year’s Eve out on the town. We’ll have an early-ish dinner at a restaurant we love in Newport Beach, and be back home with plenty of time to spare before the ball drops. Because for us, the true magic of NYE is staying in and not participating in the demolition derby that happens on the roads one minute after midnight.

Also, neither of us look good in gold party hats.

While we try to remain optimistic, sadly we face challenges guaranteed to wreak havoc in the coming year. Cadet Bone Spurs incoming administration—back for a sequel no one wanted but we’re all forced to watch—feels like a cruel cosmic joke.

But New Year’s isn’t just about personal resolutions. It’s about collective resolve. Whether you’re marching, organizing, donating, or simply staying informed, every action matters. Progress is messy, slow, and sometimes heartbreakingly incomplete. But always worth fighting for.

So let’s take the spirit of New Year’s Eve—the hope, defiance and determination to do better—and channel it into something bigger than ourselves.

Because while resolutions come and go, resistance is evergreen.

Here’s to a New Year filled with small victories, big dreams, and the strength to face whatever comes our way.

Happy New Year.