Goodbye Dolly

Well, no doubt about it. God picked the wrong 80-year-old.

I was sitting at a counter having lunch yesterday when I read Dolly Parton had died. I’m not gonna lie - I was gutted. I literally couldn’t hold back the tears. It felt like one of the brightest lights, and one of the few unambiguously good things in a world that desperately needs them, had suddenly gone dark.

Dolly was a country music legend, having written songs so enduring you only need to hear the title and the music starts playing in your head.

I Will Always Love You.

Jolene.

9 to 5.

Here You Come Again.

But what I loved even more than her music was her as a human being.

First, and perhaps the thing that says the most about her character, she refused the Presidential Medal of Freedom from Trump. Twice (Full disclosure: she also refused it once from Biden. She said she felt she didn’t deserve it, although I’m guessing there were very different reasons for turning down the two presidents).

There was her sense of humor. She always knew how she looked and appeared to other people, and she was perfectly happy having some fun at her own expense. Here's a sample:

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Against all odds and naysayers, she displayed shrewd business instincts and acumen, building her theme park Dollywood n the Great Smokey Mountains in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee into an internationally popular vacation destinatioin.

Despite it not being a popular point of view with many of her southern and country fans, Dolly was a vocal and valued supporter of the gay and trans communitiies, and she was never shy about speaking out on their behalf. Once on the Larry King show, she called herself the poster child for those communities, always giving them credit for supporting her and making her the star she was.

And of course, the philanthropy.

In April 2020, she donated $1 million to Vanderbilt University Medical Center, helping fund early-stage research that contributed to the development of the Moderna COVID-19 vaccine.

Through her Dolly Foundation, her Imagination Library, which the Orange Jabba cancelled federal funding for, has given more than 300 million books to children in the U.S. and around the world.

Her philanthropy has reached hospitals, libraries, schools and countless other causes. There's no shortage of lists of her generosity all over the interwebs. And they are long.

There are literally thousands of great performances from Dolly. One of my favorites is this haunting, ethereal and beautiful one with Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris.

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In a time increasingly defined by division, ugliness and greed, Dolly seemed determined to choose something else. Generosity. Optimism. Kindness. Hope.

She reminded us that being enormously successful doesn’t require becoming enormously self-important. That you can be famous without losing your humanity. And that sometimes, simply being a good person is its own kind of greatness.

I’ll miss Dolly Parton. .

Apologies for the cliché, but there really will never be another one like her. .

Maybe that’s why losing her hurts so much. We didn’t just lose a remarkable singer or songwriter. We lost one of those rare people who made the world feel a little warmer simply by being in it.

God got the wrong 80-year-old. And the rest of us got a beautiful gift, and beautifully gifted person, for 80 years.

The angels have a new member of the choir, and tonight they're singing a little sweeter.

Rest in peace Dolly.

Ashes to ashes

Goodbyes are never easy. Especially when the time comes to say one to our pets.

For some reason, pet goodbyes often land harder than people goodbyes. Maybe it’s because our pets, unlike people, never ask to borrow money. Never send it back to the kitchen. Never say, “We need to talk.”

People suck. I’ll save the rest of that rant for another post.

A while ago, a few years apart, we lost two of the world’s greatest German Shepherds-Max and Ace. They’ve been gone for years, but for the longest time we kept their remains in the beautiful wooden boxes they were returned to us in. There was something comforting about having them still with us, even if “with us” had become a couple of boxes on a shelf.

Somehow, we just weren’t ready to fully let them go. Until recently.

I’m not exactly sure what went into the decision, but one day we decided it was time for a final goodbye. The only question was where.

The ocean was immediately ruled out. Max hated water. Our big, 85-pound boy was absolutely terrified of sprinklers, which is not an especially attractive fear for a German Shepherd. Ace was more easygoing. He probably would have been fine wherever we took him. Max, on the other hand, would have filed a formal complaint.

So we chose the one place where they had both been happiest. Home.

We said a few words, then spread their ashes and remains in the garden in the backyard. The same yard where they played, slept in the sun on the hot brick, kept watch over absolutely nothing and launched themselves into full-scale zoomies for reasons known only to German Shepherds.

It felt right. It also felt strangely peaceful.

We did, however macabre as it might seem to some, keep a little bit of both of them. They liked being in the house. And honestly it seemed only fair. They had spent years following us from room to room, supervising our every move, staring at us while we ate, standing guard for us when were in the bathroom and making sure no suspicious squirrels crossed the property line.

The least we could do was let them keep a small place here.

Maybe that’s the thing about saying goodbye to a pet. You never really do.

You let go of the part you can’t hold, but you keep the rest. In the stories. In the photographs. In the habits you still expect to see out of the corner of your eye. In the empty spot on the floor where they used to sleep. And sometimes, in a little wooden box tucked away somewhere in the house.

Max and Ace may be in the garden now, but they’re still home.

And I think, in one way or another, that’s where the ones we love are always supposed to be.

Seein' Cena

I’ve never been much of a wrestling fan. And I never wrestled in high school. In fact, the only wrestling I’ve ever done has been with tough steaks and bad life decisions.

The last time I paid any attention to wrestling was as a kid, watching Bobo Brazil on TV from the Olympic Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles. Look it up.

So I was more than a little surprised to find myself becoming a fan of one of wrestling’s biggest stars and best ambassadors: John Cena.

I honestly don’t remember when I first came across Cena, but it wasn’t in the ring. It was as an actor, and he was genuinely good. Not only does he have real acting chops, he also has terrific comic timing, as anyone who watched him play Sammy Fak on The Bear can tell you.

Whenever I saw him on late-night talk shows, he also came across as refreshingly humble. No oversized ego. No "look at me" energy. Just a guy comfortable enough in his own skin to laugh at himself.

But what impressed me most, and I think it’s because it’s in such short supply these days, was his heart.

Cena has granted more wishes through the Make-A-Wish Foundation than anyone in history: more than 650 for critically and terminally ill children. Watch a few clips online and you'll see he always makes time for fans, especially kids. He's built like a superhero, but he's never been afraid to show vulnerability or admit he's still a work in progress.

What really sealed it for me was a video from a fan convention. A cancer survivor told Cena his "Never Give Up" mantra is what helped him through the darkest days of treatment, then asked if he could have a hug. Cena didn't hesitate for a second.

It wasn't staged. It wasn't performative. It was just a genuinely kind human moment.

At a time when the loudest voices like Pete Kegsbreath (please pass the testosterone), alledged alpha males and dipshits in the manosphere are selling toxic masculinity and seem to think compassion is a character flaw, it's refreshing, bordering on revolutionary, to see someone like Cena set a different example. Strength doesn't have to mean arrogance. Confidence doesn't require cruelty. Young men could do a whole lot worse than looking up to someone who treats kindness as a strength instead of a weakness.

Of course, if I'm being completely honest, there are still a few people in Washington, D.C. I'd happily pay to see him body slam.

My Fire-versary™

Traditionally the first anniversary gift is paper. And a year ago, I was one of the lucky ones who was on the receiving end of one of those special paper gifts.

It was a pink slip.

Last week was what I like to call my first Fire-versary™ when myself, along with 499 other employees, got laid off from a leading cybersecurity company. See if you can guess which one from the picture.

After having their best year ever according to last year’s Wall Street report, they apparently decided the only thing better than record profits was fewer people to share them with.

It's the corporate version of Ozempic.

So how did I celebrate the special occasion? Well since I left, I haven’t thought about it that much. Of course, I miss almost all the people I worked with (you know who you are). And I definitely miss the stock options.

But, like they say at Boeing, when one door closes another one opens. I’ll be here all week.

I don’t know how my fellow ex-colleagues are celebrating theirs, but in the year that’s transpired, as I wrote about here, in addition to peddling my copywriting and creative directing skills, I’ve fallen into a second career as a book editor. In fact I’m working on editing my seventh book as we speak.

I’ve also been catching up with my life, having done and continue to do things around the house I had to put off when I was employed full-time. You probably know this, but I'm able to do all this because I'm so handy and mechanically inclined. Remind me again, which end of the hammer do I use?

Also, my binge-watching has become both more sophisticated and medically concerning. Between new seasons of Hacks, Your Friends & Neighbors, For All Mankind, Shrinking, Euphoria, Running Point and From, to new shows like Widow’s Bay, Rooster and American Classic, my eyes are in a perpetual state of bloodshot. The price I pay for being Hollywood conversant and a joy at dinner parties.

Honestly the year has flown by. Every once in a while, I still wake up with the instinctive urge to check Slack or log in before remembering nobody’s waiting for me to update a job ticket anymore. And that’s probably the strangest part.

For something that felt so seismic at the time, the world barely paused. The coffee still brewed. The dog still needed walking. TV kept auto-playing the next episode. Eventually the old job stops feeling like an identity and starts feeling like a season finale that might've gone on one episode too long.

Which is fitting.

Because the traditional first anniversary gift may be paper. But apparently the modern one is perspective. Folded neatly into an envelope I never asked for.

Editing myself

I've been doing the same thing for a long time. I'm not talking about avoiding writing these blogposts — although since the last one I posted was November 11, 2025 I suppose you could make an arguement for it.

What I'm talking about is copywriting. Creative directing. Endless meetings. Town halls. You know, the ad game. I used to tell the wife if I was still writing commercials when I was forty to just shoot me. Clearly I had blown past that deadline.

So last year, when a certain leading cybersecurity company I'd been a creative director at for three years, and I'm not naming names — CrowdStrike — after having several years of outstanding growth and financial reporting with Wall Street, unexpectedly laid off 5% of its staff, which if you're keeping count came out to 500 people (apparently the only breach they couldn't stop was trust), I found myself in an interesting position. Was I going to take my newly found expertise and look for another job in the cybersecurity world? Head back to an advertising agency after five years on the client side (yes the math adds up - before CrowdStrike I was at Epson for two years)? Do nothing, or do something completely different.

The answer about the next step building a future version of me came in the form of my great friend and writer extraordinaire Cameron Day. For reasons I will never know and will always be eternally grateful for, Cameron asked me to edit the second volume of his wildly entertaining, brutally honest advertising survival guide trilogy pictured above, Spittin' Chicklets.

Then he asked me to edit the third one.

And a book about his f*@ked up adventures from the ad trenches.

And his wild ride as an AI anarchist in his book co-authored by AI.

I happened to mention to my former client and close friend Pete Wendy how much I was enjoying this new endeavor thanks to Cameron, and come to find out Pete was writing a book his own self and asked if I would edit it.

I love it when momentum decides to do its job.

This is the book Pete wrote. I think you'll find it well written and extraordinarily edited.

As The Fixx like to say, one thing leads to another. You're welcome Jim DeCorpo (inside joke, don't even try).

Cameron referred me to his friend John Long, who, you guessed it, was in the process of writing a book about legacy brands and what they need to do to survive.

The book is called Zombie Brands, and is packed with exceptional writing, insights and solid advice for older brands looking to survive in the new world.

The thing about this newfound career is the pressure is on and off at the same time. I don't have to come up with the idea and write it. I get to shape it, and work with writers who care deeply about their work, but who don't want to suffer while improving it.

So what am I saying? I guess it's be open to things you haven't tried before. You never know where they'll lead.

Looking at that last line, I think I may have a future writing fortune cookies. Do you know anyone?

Fade In

Once upon a time, “going to the movies” was an event. You’d meet your friends, smuggle in snacks and debate whether to sit front and center or all the way in the back row. Occasionally there’d be a fight for the aisle seat (my favorite).

Now, the only event is deciding which streaming service hasn’t raised its price this month.

Theaters are hurting. Attendance is down. Popcorn costs more than a car payment. Meanwhile, the audience has evolved into restless, multitasking creatures who can’t watch a movie without checking their phones, Googling the actors, and texting every five minutes.

In case you were wondering if that trailer asking people not to talk, text or post works – spoiler alert - it doesn’t.

The challenge for theaters is why should the audience leave home when their living rooms offer parking, 4K resolution, sweatpants and the pause button?

Netflix, Disney+, Prime, Apple — the new moguls of Hollywood. They don’t release movies anymore. They release content. Mountains of it. Every week brings at least a dozen new titles, and yet somehow you still end up rewatching The Office. Or in my case Breaking Bad.

We spend 40 minutes scrolling, 10 minutes deciding, then fall asleep five minutes in. It’s not movie night anymore. It’s movie roulette.

But here’s the thing: when something really special drops — a Barbie here, an Oppenheimer there — we crawl out of our favorite television-watching chair, put pants on (I mean instead of sweatpants – get your mind out of the gutter), go to the theater and think to ourselves “Cinema is back.”

Theaters aren’t dying quietly. They’re rebranding: reclining chairs, gourmet popcorn, flavored pretzels and cocktails with names like Director’s Cut and Final Edit. Some are becoming mini-cultural centers again — showing indies, hosting filmmaker Q&As, and creating vibes no streaming algorithm can replicate.

When the experience feels like an event again, people show up. Because deep down, in places you don’t want to talk about (name the movie – never mind, I’ll name it: A Few Good Men), we want to sit in the dark with strangers, feel the collective gasp, and hear some guy three rows back say, “Whoa.”

The movie industry isn’t dead. It’s just in another reboot. Streaming and theaters will coexist — like divorced parents who’ve learned to be civil for the kids’ sake. Theaters will handle the big moments. Streaming will handle the everything else, from Oscar bait to background noise while you’re folding laundry.

Hollywood’s been declared dead at least five times — when TV arrived, when VHS hit, when DVDs took over, when streaming began, and when TikTok made people prefer 12-second punchlines to two-hour epics.

And yet the lights always come back on. The projector still hums. Someone still cries in row G.

The reason is simple. Movie always find a sequel.

So long social media

As the kids say, it’s not me. It’s definitely you.

The day has come. I’m leaving social media for good. Not a “break,” not a “digital detox,” not a “see you when I feel less angry.” No, I’m deleting my Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter accounts (I will never call it X). Gone. Deleted. Vaporized.

It’s been entertaining. I’ve spent years showing the world how clever, insightful, caring, and occasionally maddeningly opinionated I am. And frankly, if you don’t know that about me by now, I don’t know what to tell you.

But let’s be honest: nothing good is coming from doom-scrolling myself into a sleep-depriving tailspin every night. On these platforms, we’re not the audience — we’re the product. Every click, every like, every second of our attention vacuumed up and monetized. Knowing that, even passively, is exhausting.

Then there’s the rest of it: the bots, the MAGA morons, the performative outrage, the endless, joyless churn of noise and nonsense. It’s all gotten so depressingly predictable. Social media has become like junk food for the brain — cheap, addictive, and guaranteed to make you feel worse afterward.

So I’m cutting the cord. Not deactivating — deleting. Accounts gone, apps deleted, notifications silenced.

This is going to probably take a few weeks. I want to archive my accounts, take a last look around and make sure everyone who wants to stay in touch has a way to. I used to think that because I was in advertising I had to be on these accounts all the time to have my finger on the pulse of what was going on. But as I see what’s going on online, I have the undeniable feeling I might be better off not knowing.

Besides, I’m sure somehow the news will filter down to me in other most likely more reliable ways.

So I’m taking back my time, my focus, and possibly my last remaining shred of optimism.

To everyone who’s followed, commented, shared, or stuck around through the chaos — thank you. You’ve been the bright spots in an otherwise bleak digital landscape.

But don’t worry, assuming you were. I’m not disappearing. I’m just moving to a quieter neighborhood. You’ll still be able to find me here at RotationandBalance.blogspot.com. Since I won’t be losing hours scrolling through other people’s hot takes, I might actually post more of my own. I’ll still be reachable on LinkedIn and by email — if you know my first name, my first and last name, and how to add a dot com, boom! Look at us, we’re talking. And like I said earlier, this process will be a long goodbye over a few weeks.

Take care of yourselves, and if you can, give your own screens a little break too. There’s a lot more life outside the algorithm.

As they like to say in the Senate, I’m reclaiming my time.