11 is a lucky number

This won't come as a shock to anyone who knows me, but I'm not usually a cup-half-full kind of guy.

Yet as we approach 2011, I have a strange feeling about it. At first I thought it was gas. Turns out it's optimism.

I don't want to go into too much examination and analysis about it, because, you know, why kill the mood? Suffice it to say I think the coming year holds very good things for my family, my friends and myself.

So as all of us here at Rotation And Balance World Headquarters wrap up the first decade in the new millennium, I want to wish each and every one of you a Happy New Year.

Well, almost each and every one of you. You know who you are.

Nothing is something

I got nothing. And plenty of it. So here's the deal about this almost last-post-of-the-year post.

I wanted to publish one more before my New Year's Eve post (which I've already written). Problem is I don't have anything in particular I want to write about. Every time I hit this wall, an acquaintance of mine tells me to just open a new window, stare at the screen and eventually an idea will pop into my head.

I've been staring at this screen for a while now. You know what I got? I got nothing.

Then I started thinking - staring and waiting for something to write is pretty much what I do for a living. Sure, there's a strategy (such as it is) to start from. There's a subject in place. But when it comes time to actually sit down and write, there I am staring at the screen.

The difference is that when I'm being paid for it, there's always a deadline attached. And I don't get a choice. I have to come up with something. With this blog, there's no deadline. And there's definitely no money.

There's nothing but the challenge and fun of coming up with something.

In this case, that something is nothing.

Doodle Jump is so much like life

Rarely has 99¢ bought so much frustration.

Ever since I purchased Doodle Jump from the app store for my iPhone, not only have I become addicted to that little sucker jumping from rock to rock, I've also managed to squander a not insubstantial amount of time trying to get my high score past 17,326.

In meetings. In waiting rooms. In restaurants. Talking on the phone (when I'm not using free call-dropping from AT&T). I get close to that score, but have yet to tie or surpass it.

Occasionally the thought does cross my mind that maybe this maddening game is a metaphor for life. In particular, my life. I sure hope not. The fact that I only get to a certain level no matter what I do is embarrassing as well as disheartening. And the fact it's such a low score to start with is never going to have anyone accusing me of being an overachiever.

Then I think, well, okay you animated little bastard, let's take a look at how far I've gotten in my own life.

In so many ways, I'm in much better shape than a lot of my friends: financially, emotionally and psychologically (that should have them seriously concerned). I own lots of fun stuff, including my house. I have a wife and two kids who love me something fierce (love is blind, but still...). I make a lot of money doing a job that can occasionally be great fun, and isn't exactly breaking rocks. And even though I could lose a few pounds, overall I'm pretty healthy.

If I had to assign a point value to my life, I'd say it's a high score most people would have a tough time beating.

Eventually I hope to say the same about that freakin' little time waster.

Merry Christmas

Don't send me eCards for the holidays

Everyone's busy this time of year. I get it.

I also get how time consuming and tedious sending out Christmas and holiday cards can be. As an award-winning procrastinator, I usually wait until the last minute before I get mine done and out.

But I do eventually get it done.

And the last thing I'd ever do - using the clock running down as an excuse - is send an eCard for the holidays instead of a real one to someone I even remotely cared about.

At our house we have a breakfront in the entryway. You can see from the picture we put all the holiday cards we receive on it. Sometimes there are so many they overlap. They stick out. They fall off. But they also demand to be looked at, and they make the season feel special. They bring joy to each of us every time we walk in, out or by the front door.

eCard's are like the ice-queens of the greeting card world. They have no feelings and just leave you cold. Instead of giving joy, they rob you of it. And even though they usually say Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas or Happy New Year, what they're really saying is, "I couldn't be bothered."

How fast do I delete eCards? Canadian pharmacies and Nigerian lottery officials have a better chance of getting their emails read.

So if you want to send me a card, send me a real one. And if you don't, then don't.

But just know I'd have put yours right in the middle.

P.S. Unless all you have is my email address. Then you're good.

Estate planning (laughs) What estate?

It's the holidays again.

That joyful time of year when we count our blessings. Gather with our loved ones. Celebrate tradition. Exchange presents.

And plan for our own inevitable death.

Years ago my darling wife and I drew up wills and a living trust. But with the new estate tax laws coming into play the first of the year (a tax which should be abolished entirely for everyone. Don't get me started...), our estate lawyer said it might be a good time to review the paperwork.

Good thing we died. I mean did.

The thing I worry about most is who'll take care of the kids in the event of our untimely death should that occur. I actually worry about it a lot. Every time just the wife and I are driving anywhere, I can't help but think we could be taken out in a heartbeat by some driver who decides to get in a head on collision with us (not unlike Christopher Walken in Annie Hall).

Of course, it's easy (or easier anyway) to talk about in the abstract. When we really start discussing who'll take care of the kids when we're gone, there are a lot of things to consider. Not so much financially, because we've put that in place for them. But who would raise them similarly, if not exactly, the way we would? With the same values we share. Who are the ones who will offer them the kind of unconditional love they'll need after the tragedy of our passing?

Seriously, I just light up a room don't I?

The other thing is just because we've named someone to take them now doesn't mean they'll be able or want to when the time comes. That's why we have several nominees: if one declines, they move on to the next name on the list.

We're fortunate to have a lot of very good friends who would be excellent guardians of our children. Many of them with bigger houses and pools. Now that I'm thinking about it, the kids may not think we're the only ones who've died and gone to heaven.

The other part of this document is the Power Of Attorney for major health related decisions. My wife and I both hold it for each other. Which means basically we have to stay on good behavior, or the other one can choose to pull the plug if given the option.

At least that's how it was explained to me.

Believing it's best to be straight with the kids, we've told them who they could wind up with and in what order we'd like it to happen. They're good with it. A little too good. In fact I've asked them if they could act just a little more broken up at the thought we might be gone.

They said they'd think about it.

So for now, we're all up to date with our final wishes. I even got the part about dressing me in a black tee shirt and jeans, and having an iPod playing Thunder Road to take me into eternity written into the document.

In the most literal sense, we're good to go.

Ahhhh capella

See that guy leaning against the lamp post in the center of the album cover to the left? That's Jerry Lawson, formerly lead singer of the a capella group The Persuasions.

Now, not only have I leaned against a few lamp posts in my time, I've also actually sung onstage with Jerry Lawson. Yes that Jerry Lawson. More about that in a minute.

I've always been a huge fan of a capella singing. Doesn't matter where I find it - in front of the theater with the group's hat on the ground for change, on the Third Street Promenade, street corner boys singing in a movie (yes, even Take You Back from Rocky), or occasionally on an actual street corner on a Saturday night.

What's amazing to me is how not only do they hear the music that's not there, they make you hear it.

If you could measure how much I love a capella, that's the same amount I hate competition talent shows like American Idol and Dancing With The (Z-list) Stars. But this week I happened to catch a show called The Sing Off on NBC, hosted by Nick Lachey (talk about Z-list). I was reaching for the remote when I heard Nick explain that this particular competition was between a capella groups.

He had me at a capella.

And as if that wasn't enough, one of the groups was Jerry Lawson - the Jerry Lawson - and The Talk Of The Town, his post-Persuasions a capella group that sounds exactly like the Persuasions. Go figure.

I was glued to the set. The first night ten groups sang a capella. And while they weren't all equally talented, they were all entertaining. Jerry and his group came out and sang Save The Last Dance For Me, promptly showing the young 'uns how it's done.

Towards the end of the show there was a group of college students called The Backbeats. They stole the show with their version of Beyonce's If I Were A Boy.

I have nothing but admiration for anyone who's willing to put it all out there, and risk failing on that kind of scale. Of course, they're also risking success.

Now, about being onstage with Jerry Lawson. When my wife and I were dating, we used to see the Persuasions every time they came to town. One night, they played a club that used to be in Venice called Hop Singh's. We'd seen them there a lot, but this one night at the end of the show, they invited the audience to come onstage and sing the final song with them.

If you know anything about me, you know what a shy, quiet wallflower I am.

I think I set a new land speed record for jumping onstage.

I was standing right next to Jerry Lawson, singing my little off-key, out-of-tune heart out. Fortunately an audience member who could actually sing was the one holding the mike, so no one but Jerry had to endure my vocals. And he was very gracious about it.

So even if it is a competition show, and even if Nick Lachey is hosting, I'm still glad there's a venue where a capella is being brought to the masses each week.

The best part is now I get to sing with Jerry Lawson twice a week.

Even better, this time he can't hear me.

Why I Love Costco Part 2: Giant Shopping Carts

The first thing you should know is this isn't an actual  picture of my shopping cart. I wouldn't be caught dead buying anything as healthy as  fat-free milk or celery (Janice, I didn't reach for the celery. - Inside joke).

But there are lots of other things I do buy at Costco. And the beauty of it is it all fits in their ginormous shopping carts.

I work in advertising. I know while the company line about the size of the carts might be convenience, they're actually giving you all that room so you'll buy more. Here's what I have to say about that: thank you, thank you, thank you.

I love piling gallon jars of strawberry jelly, 50-pack rolls of Charmin, a year's supply of Bic Disposable Razors and boxes of Tide large enough to wash everyone's clothes for 10 years in there.

And that's just from the first aisle.

At check out, when they collect all my items and put them in boxes so they're easier to handle when I get home, those boxes also fit easily into the carts.

Of course, oversized is Costco's theme and reason for being (joke about why I relate to it goes here). And even though I know I don't have anyplace at home to put all these boxes that look like props from Land Of The Giants, I have lots of room in the basket.

And that's all that matters.

What does it say about me?

These are my two favorite shows.

I'm five seasons into Dexter, and three into In Treatment. Which means I've been with both of them since the beginning.

In case you've been living under a rock, Dexter, played by Michael C. Hall, is about a serial killer who lives by a code. The code has a few parts to it. One is not to kill anyone who doesn't deserve it. Another is to make it really entertaining.

In Treatment, starring Gabriel Byrne, is the less flashier of the two. It's about a psychiatrist named Paul Weston and four of his patients. Three of the episodes are sessions with his patients, and the forth is Weston's session with his own shrink. Two air on Monday, and two on Tuesday.

Sometimes it's hard to tell who has the bigger issues - the shrink or the serial killer. Just like in real life, the one who seems normal has a lot of secrets, while the one who seems crazy has a lot of answers.

If you work in advertising, you're already familiar with serial killers and shrinks. They just have different titles at the agency.

The beauty of it is I can enjoy Dexter on Sunday, and then therapy with In Treatment on Monday and Tuesday.

It's a cathartic yet well-adjusted way to begin each week, not to mention great fun not to be taken too seriously.

Well, I see our time is up. Better pack up the knives and get out of here.

The hidden damage

Ever since my car crash, I've been thinking about a particular term the insurance company and body shop have been tossing around: The hidden damage.

It's the damage to the car that's not readily apparent. It's hidden beneath the surface. It's the kind of damage that can't be revealed until you do a complete tear-down. Strip away the outer layers - bumpers, panels - and see what's waiting underneath. Once that's done, light can be shed on the problem and it can be seen clearly.

Of course, they have to be willing to recognize it when they see it.

I've always been one to criticize some of my blogger friends for going all new-age whammy jammy in their writing. I try to avoid that. Still, it seems to me the metaphor is hard to escape. Everyone carries around some hidden damage. If you're alive at all, how can you not?

It comes to each of us in different forms: heartbreak, death, sickness, addiction, disappointment - with ourselves, our families, our friends - and other things, some so difficult to put into words they're almost justified remaining hidden.

I know, I just light up a room don't I?

My insurance company said once hidden damage is discovered, there are questions that have to be answered. Is it a total loss? Is it repairable? And at what cost.

The very same questions that need answers with our own hidden damage.

Some people keep driving for years until they finally break down, because either they didn't know it was there or knew but just ignored it.

The truth is there's always hidden damage that can use some attention. Often, if you're willing to put in the work, it can be repaired. Maybe not as good as new, but well enough to work.

But first, like the guy at the body shop said, you have to look for it.

The great crash of 2010

So here's what it felt like.

Remember the movie Duel?

It was a made for TV movie directed by Steven Spielberg that wound up being so good (go figure) it was released theatrically overseas.

Wonder what ever happened to that Spielberg guy? But I digress.

In the movie, an 18-wheeler, piloted by a mystery/ghost driver, decides it'd be amusing to run an unsuspecting Dennis Weaver off the road with his truck. One attempt involves rear-ending his car.

That's the image that went through my head last Monday night as I looked into my rear-view mirror a few seconds before getting rear-ended coming home on the 405 South.

Now, first things first. I didn't get hit by an 18-wheeler. I got hit by a 1999 Pontiac. I don't know which model it was, but at least it wasn't an Aztec. That would only be adding insult to injury for everyone involved.

Fortunately, unlike the truck in the movie, the Pontiac wasn't going 80 or 90. It was going about 25 mph when it hit my car. Unfortunately, I wasn't moving at all since I was stopped in rush hour traffic. Do the words "sitting duck" honk a horn?

I was taught when I stop in traffic, it's always a good idea to leave some room between me and the car in front of me. That way, if I get hit from behind, I won't get slammed into that car. Even though I didn't like the way I found out, it is nice to know that lesson actually works in the real world.

After the other driver and I pulled over to exchange information, I asked her why she hit me and how come she didn't see me. She said she was looking in the mirror and just didn't look up in time.

Now, when I heard that, two thoughts immediately ran through my aching head. I wanted to express the first one to her in two words, which I did not. The other was, looking in the mirror? Really? Why would she tell me that, even if it's the truth?

We tried to see the damage to my car, but the fact that I drive a black car and it was nighttime wasn't really helping.

I looked at her car and felt really bad. Not because it was trashed, but because it was a 1999 Pontiac.

The good news is my car was drivable, she was insured, and no one was hurt as bad as they could've been.

So while I wait for my bumper, and any hidden damage the body shop uncovers, to be repaired, I'm driving a rented Ford Flex. It's a huge, SUV-esque car that's as long as a school bus and drives like a truck. It's way bigger than a car needs to be.

Right now, it's the perfect car for me.

The downside of freelance

I feel like crap.

When I was in Vegas earlier this month, towards the end of my trip I got sick. Really sick. Some cold/flu-y kind of thing.

But I was a good patient.

I changed my flight and got home as soon as I could, drank fluids, slept and rested for the next four days (a lot of people think that's what my week looks like on any given day).

Tomorrow, I'm going in to an agency I've never freelanced at before, to work with people I've never worked with before. And I can tell from the aching, the fever, the sneezing and coughing, that the cold/flu-y crud from earlier in the month has decided to pay a return visit.

But there's not much I can do about it. When you're freelance, the show must go on. And by show I mean day rate.

In the past when I've worked on staff somewhere and been sick, I'd just cash in a sick day, take care of myself, and then come back to work the next day feeling better. Unfortunately, when you're freelance there are no sick days. Not paid ones anyway.

I also used to get mad at people who'd come to work sick and risk infecting the rest of us with whatever they had. Obviously, both myself and my wallet have reconsidered our position on that.

So I'm going to go to bed early - and by early I mean after Dexter - get as much rest as I can, and hope I feel better in the morning.

I want to make a good first impression at this new gig. Something hocking up on your colleagues rarely does.

The 101st Post

If you know anything about me, you know I'm one of the least disciplined writers around. Even if you didn't know anything about me, you could probably tell that from the infrequency of posts to this blog.

I'm easily, very easily, distracted when I finally make the hair-pulling, angst-ridden decision to actually sit down and write something. Shiny objects. New episode of Dexter. Cold pizza in the fridge. Run to the newsstand (to see what other writers are writing). Catching up on phone calls. Changing batteries in the smoke detectors. Folding laundry. Gassing up the car.

Pretty much anything really.

Since I'm pretty sure no one expected me to get this far, least of all me, I imagine the fact I've completed a 100 posts to this blog won't be a big deal to many people.

Like my friend Rich, who's written over 366 posts since starting his blog. Or my friend, former office wife and partner in snark Janice, who's written over 312 posts since she started her blog.

Here's the difference: they're both disciplined writers who set out with a goal to accomplish a certain number of posts in a certain amount of time.

I know, crazy talk right?

But damned if they didn't. And if that's not crazy enough, now that they've both reached their goal, to the pleasure of myself and the rest of their readers, they're going to continue on with their angry, brave, humorous, insightful, intelligent, revealing, fun to read, fun to talk about blogs.

Truthfully, I'm kind of happy with my little accomplishment here. But I do realize that if I ever hope to catch up with them I'd better get writing.

Right after I get some coffee.

And iCare because?

I have an iPhone. I love it. And while at one point there might have been a time when I wanted to tell everyone I know that I had one, it doesn't matter now.

Because everyone has one.

So what exactly is the thought behind needing to brag the text or email you sent me came from your iPhone? I don't care. It was kind of a given it had to come from somewhere. When you send it from your desktop or laptop it's not signed off with "sent from my iMac." or "sent from my 17" MacBook Pro."

You want me to be...what? Impressed? Nope. Flattered? Not really. Happy you can afford an iPhone? Yes. I'm very happy for you.

What I do care about is getting a text or email in a timely manner, and having a phone conversation that doesn't drop out every ten feet.

Based on my experience, I'm pretty sure no one with an iPhone is bragging about that.

J.K. Rowling on the importance of failure

J.K. Rowling Speaks at Harvard Commencement from Harvard Magazine on Vimeo.

I didn't know it was possible to love J.K. Rowling any more than I already do. Then this comes along.

The TSA is not the enemy

Hey, air travelers, it's a pat down not a prostate exam.

All this uproar over something you don't even have to have unless you opt-out of the body scanner, is ridiculous.

Seriously, a little light frisking with a chance of having the jewels brushed, and you're going to boycott? Jam the security lines at the height of holiday travel? Have at it. You'll be the most popular person on the plane, especially to all the people forced to wait in line behind you.

That is, of course, assuming you make your flight.

Go figure, but it's a pretty safe bet the airlines aren't going to adjust their holiday schedules just so you can take your stand, without your shoes on, at the metal detector.

When I used to commute to San Francisco from Los Angeles every week, one time the pilot taxied out to the runway, then turned the plane around and took us back to the gate because he felt a vibration in the engine he didn't like. They moved us off that plane and on to another one. There was this loudmouth jackass, as there always is, complaining how late he was going to be to his meeting because the pilot decided not to take a chance of the engine failing in mid-flight. I told him to feel free to stay on the plane.

It constantly amazes me how short people's memories are. Maybe they just don't read the papers, but there's actually a reason for the increased security.

All this uninformed noise about 4th amendment rights being violated, especially by a group of people who have clearly never read the 4th amendment, is really not making you look very smart on the evening news. Here's the Cliff notes on the amendment: it protects against unreasonable searches and seizures. Not sure why it's unreasonable to search people boarding planes when some people boarding planes are trying to blow them up. Yes, I know that's not you. But if the TSA could tell that just by looking, then you'd have nothing to complain about and their job would be a lot easier.

Here's a news flash: you still have the most important right - the one not to take an airplane if you don't want to. There are lots of ways to get where you're going that don't involve scanners or being frisked.

Oh, and for future reference, as a rule it's not a good idea to call someone within squeezing distance of the jewels a lot of names. After all, accidents do happen.

My recommendation to make things go smoother for you and everyone else in a hurry to board your flight would be to step right up, go through the scanner and be on your way. The line will thank you for it. So will the TSA.

If you opt for the pat down, or randomly get pulled out of line for one, I'd suggest approaching it with a sporting attitude. Say something like, "Frisk me baby!" or "How come I feel like having a cigarette?" or "I'm not happy to see you, that's my cell phone."

Not being an obstacle in the way of people traveling safely to their families would be just one more thing to be thankful for.

Safe travel to you and yours this holiday season.

Nighthawks at the Starbucks

Friday night arrived like a bleached blonde actress late for a premiere. I was glad she showed, but wondered what took her so long.

As I sipped on a something-cino at one of my branch offices of Starbucks, I decided to put the time to good use, open my laptop and work on this post. I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to say, but if I let that stop me I’d never post anything.

I paused a minute and realized I wasn’t the only sucker in the joint with an open laptop. The difference was mine was taking dictation, and theirs were taking orders that would never be served on dreams that would never come true.

It was late. Raining. The streets were slicker than the people driving them. Even so, you couldn’t see their reflections. Vampires don’t have any.

Looking out the floor to ceiling window, I appreciated how Edward Hopper-esque the view was from the outside looking in. Outside looking in. A point of view most of these night crawlers were used to.

The difference was Hopper was an artist. I was just a guy with a blog to write.

Still, all that foam and froth and rain and false hope put me in a mood. The kind people keep telling me to snap out of.

I don't know if it was the rain or the caffeine, but I decided it was time to rattle the cage. My cage. Clear the webs out of the corners and quiet the critics in my head. It was going to be a departure, designed to have people take notice. Deliberate. Some might say calculated. I never cared what they said. Why start now?

Serious. Thought provoking. No easy jokes. No witty entendres. It was going to be a thought piece, something pining the state of the human race and it’s puny significance in the bigger scheme of things. They say write what you know. I work in advertising don’t I?

Friday night had greatness about it. Potential. I’d seen it before once when it was passing through. But this time it brought luggage. It was planning to stay for a while.

Well, did you buy it? Nah, didn’t think so. Just funnin’ with you. Thought provoking? Please. Like you come here for that.

No, it’s just going to be the usual random, Andy Rooney like crap you’ve come to expect.

Anyway, the post you’re reading right now is not the one I posted from Starbuck’s. I didn’t post it from there because out of 7,000 Starbuck's I pick the one where the free wi-fi goes out. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Gone with the wind.

This Starbuck’s was near a college (aren’t they all?), so there were a lot of laptops open and struggling to find a connection. Just like their owners. (BAM! Insight on the human condition – deal with it!).

At first I thought I was the only one who couldn’t get on the interwebs. But as I looked around, I saw the equally frustrated expressions on the faces of my late night coffee companions.

Anyway, wrote this while I was there. Then posted it today, Saturday. From another Starbuck's.

Thought provoking, no?

No.

What am I getting into?

Who among us hasn't asked themselves that ominous question? I for one have asked it any number of times in my life.

On my wedding day.

Signing escrow papers.

Buying a German sports car.

Buying a German Sheperd.

Having children (still asking).

I think the fact that I'm a freelancer just puts me in more situations where it becomes a reasonable question to ask.

For example, I find myself asking it right after I get the phone call or email inquiring about my availability. Again when I hear their reaction to my day rate. Yet again after I cave and let them negotiate my day rate down - usually in tandem with, "What the f&#% was I thinking?"

Regardless of the account, even if it's something I want to work on, when I hear what it is the question comes up again.

It's always top of mind when I hear who they want me to work with, whether I've worked with that person before or not.

And if the office is a hellish, brain-deadening, soul-killing commute to a foreign and frightening land, for example Orange County, I ask myself the question on the crawl in.

Then, just before I enter the brick building, designer warehouse, high-rise tower, faux-hip loft, converted fire station, hotel or craftsman house where the offices are located, I pause for a tentative moment outside, look at the doorway I'm about to go through, and ask it again.

But here's the thing: the question itself is a cruel tease. Because it can't be answered until you're actually there.

Of course by no means does that imply everyone won't try to answer it for you. But it's really one of those questions, like, "How much of this can I take?" "Is it worth the pain?" and "Is Super Shuttle hiring?", that only you can answer for yourself.

If I'm being honest with myself, and if you know anything about me you know that's something I hate doing, I have to say the answer I almost always arrive at is "something great".

I wonder if you asked yourself the question before you started reading this post.

It's okay. I don't need to know the answer.

The perfect gift

Christmas trees are in the stores and the holidays are upon us. And with them comes the ongoing debate I have every year with people who obviously have nothing better to debate about.

It’s the “Gift cards are not personal” debate.

Their side of the argument is a truly personal gift can only be defined in direct proportion to the misery I have to go through to get it. Hours searching for a parking space within a mile of the mall. Fighting holiday crowds. Looking for exactly the perfect gift for the person I’m giving it to.

You know the gift I'm talking about. The one that person’s had on their list all year. The one they’re hoping for with all their heart. The one they’ll be forever grateful and thankful to me for taking all that time and effort to find just for them.

There’s about as much chance of that happening as Oprah not going back for seconds.

My argument is this: I could buy you something I think you’d like, wrap it up, give it to you and hope you:

A Didn’t have it

B. Were looking for that exact thing since you first saw one

C. Know the in’s’ and out’s of a gift receipt.

Or I could just give you a gift I know you’ll love.

A gift card.

No one knows anyone well enough to make holiday gift-giving bulletproof. But there are stores – the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble, Starbuck’s, Target and Nordstrom to name a few – where everyone can find something they like.

And if they can't find it in those stores, not a problem. Every store has a gift card.

Someone in the family love Quarter Pounders? No problem. Want to treat them to a ride on Space Mountain? Couldn't be easier. Attention Walmart shoppers? You got it.

With a gift card, the one thing they never get is disappointed. Unless it’s a gift card from Kohl’s. Then, you know, why bother? Why not just send a card that says, “This is how little I think of you.”

This holiday season, be the Santa you were meant to be. Spread the joy to those you love.

Give the gift that says, “Get it yourself.”

I Got You Babe

I think people forget before there was Cher, there was Sonny and Cher.

While it's hard to remember now exactly how hugely popular they were, one thing no one can argue is that they're responsible for one of the most iconic, enduring and crowd-pleasing songs in pop music history. Bill Murray woke up to it every morning in Groundhog's Day. Mad Men just closed their season finale with it.

It's interesting to see the clip above when they were just starting out, and compare it against the one below when, many years later, they unexpectedly performed on Letterman. Despite the fact so much time and life had passed for both of them, it's a great moment.

Perhaps appropos (five dollar word - look it up) of their relationship by that point, the clip is just slightly out of sync.

And while you can argue that Cher may have moved on from Sonny, you can tell by the end of the song, and the fact he has tears in his eyes, he still holds her deep in his heart.

I admit I'm a sap. I don't mind saying I was getting a little misty myself.

The List

Here's the thing about upper management.

The guys at the top do not go down with the ship. They push people off so they can continue sailing.

They inspire a false sense of trust through breezy conversation and carefully parsed out praise. They conspire with you by whispering a risque joke, and sharing what appears to be a confidence but in reality isn't. When there's a grievance, they take you in their office, close the door, give you a well-practiced sympathetic and understanding look as they tell you how they feel your pain. Then they assure you that "if I could do something about it, I would."

Here's the lesson: despite carefully constructed appearances to the contrary, they're not your friend. But they act like it, as long as you're cost effective and the challenging comments you make or errors and stupid decisions you point out don't reflect directly on them.

As long as that's the case, then your position isn't on The List.

At this point you might be wondering what's triggered this line of thought. Don't worry, I haven't been fired (you need a real job for that to happen). Actually, someone I used to work for happened to cross my mind. Someone I believed to be my friend.

Admittedly it's a line that's easily blurred for me.

You'd think for as many times as I've seen The Godfather, I'd know by now - it's not personal, it's business. The thing is, because of the masquerade, it feels personal.

Here's the funny part: I still like this individual. Even though when given the choice, they wound up putting my name on The List. Which is the very reason I believe they're not my friend. See the conflict?

I hope this person is happy, and not in the "I hope you're happy now" sense. I mean it.

While I'm sure I'm giving this person much more brain time than they've given me since I left - or maybe even than when I was there for that matter - I can't help but feel a profound sadness that this was a person I thought was my friend, and who I counted on to have my back.

Turns out they did. Just not in the way I thought.

The unfriendly skies

Going to the airport shouldn't create the same sense of dread as, say, going to the Audi service department. Or the dentist. Or an audit.

There was an article today on Yahoo titled "America's Meanest Airlines." It listed the five surliest airlines in descending (no pun intended) order.

My question is why wasn't it a five-way tie? Are there any friendly airlines left? Does anyone enjoy flying anymore? Does anyone expect people who work at airlines to be pleasant? Can I fit anymore questions in this paragraph?

You can read the article to find out the criteria they used, but - *SPOILER ALERT* - here are the five worst offenders according to them: US Airways, American Airlines, Alaska Airlines, United Airlines (I thought they would've been a lock for first place), and finally, in the number one position, Delta.

Of those, United is the one I've flown most. I have over 375,000 miles with them I have to use before they expire. Or they raise the number of miles required for a seat. Or, even more likely, they drop the program entirely citing it as too costly.

When I used to freelance at FCB San Francisco (Foote, Cone & Belding for my non-agency readers), I commuted from Santa Monica to San Francisco. I'd fly up Monday morning and fly back Friday night. I did it for nine months and loved it. At LAX and SFO, I could get to the gate ten minutes before the flight. The gatekeepers (see what I did there?) knew me by name, and because I flew so much would often upgrade me without even asking. I know it's only an hour flight, but here's my philosophy: no flight too short for first.

Flying was actually fun back then, plus I liked the idea I could get to San Francisco from Santa Monica faster than I could drive to Irvine at rush hour.

But of course, 9/11 happened and changed the flying experience forever.

Nine years later, it's hard to figure out the astonishing lack of responsibility airlines take for their own situation. Like the stock market, lottery tickets and the Liberace Museum, owning an airline was never a guaranteed way to make money.

However, gouging flyers with fees on everything from carry ons to blankets to bathroom privileges apparently is. The airlines made billions in the last two years off these fees, whining all the way to the bank about how they need to make money somewhere because of high fuel costs, less people flying, etc.

What's the word I'm looking for here? Oh yeah. Bullshit.

The past two years, thanks to those fees, profits have soared. Airlines fly fewer planes that are more full than ever. The price of jet fuel has actually gone down. And seriously, if you can't make money in your chosen business, maybe you've chosen the wrong business.

The other thing is unruly passengers are a given. In the airline industry, you kind of know that going in. And while there's no excuse for passengers being rude, there's even less of one for airline employees to be. Things like opening the emergency door on the runway, giving everyone the finger, then jumping down the slide might make you a folk hero on Facebook, but that 15 minutes is over before you're even off the slide.

Airline employees say they're being pushed to the brink because the airlines are squeezing profits by cutting staff and trying to do more with fewer employees. Really? Name me a business that isn't.

My point, and yes I have one, is that it can be done. There are profitable airlines like Southwest and Jet Blue. There are airlines like Virgin America and Jet Blue (when their attendants aren't bailing out of the plane) that go out of their way to make the customer experience a great one.

For long cross-country and international flights, airlines know they've got us. There's no alternative. No one's going to be driving to Hawaii. But on short hauls, where airlines make a substantial portion of their income, there are plenty of options.

Unless airlines change their attitude, eventually their customers will reach the tipping point.

When that happens, all those nice profits they're enjoying now will be in a permanent holding pattern.

Why I Love Costco Part 1: The Costco Diet

Where to start. Okay, let’s start with the samples.

If I were homeless*, which could still happen – I have goals you know - I’d find myself a popular freeway off-ramp, design a really nice cardboard sign (I have art director friends, so….) and be the best gosh, darn homeless person asking for money so I could get enough to buy a Costco membership.

Then, I’d go on the Costco diet.

The Costco diet consists of walking up one big aisle in Costco and down the other, sampling all the foods they offer along the way. Yesterday two of the offerings were Hormel Chili (“Not too watery, not too salty...”) and fresh-baked Costco pumpkin pies which, as my friend Phil says, are the size of manhole covers.

The beauty of the Costco diet is the randomness of it. One day it’s frozen cheescake and Hansens Nectar. The next its Louisiana Hot Links and chicken soup.

Sampling food at Costco always reminds me of Woody Allen’s line from Annie Hall, “This food is terrible. And such small portions.” The samples are small, but the good news is the people handing them out aren’t paid nearly enough to care how many times you go back.

Especially if you wear your sweatshirt hood up the second time around. Or so I hear.

If you’re really hungry, go back a lot. If you’re on a strict “I don’t know what kind of cheese that is but they’re handing it out so I’ll try it” diet, then just make one pass through the store.

I know, you’re probably thinking virtually endless free samples of preservative-laden, packaged and canned food is its own reward. And you're right. That alone would make the visit worth the trip. But there’s also a hidden benefit: since the stores are so ginormous, not only are you getting a free meal, you’re also getting in a ton of exercise with all the walking you're doing.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Maybe their new tagline should be “Costco. It works on so many levels.”

I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea. I mentioned the Costco diet is what I’d do if I were homeless. The truth is I occasionally do it now, although not out of necessity. And not every day. I try to stick to weekends between 10 and 3 when the number of sample hander-outers and variety is the greatest.

There are many things to love about Costco (Modern Family even devoted part of an episode to it). Sampling is just one of them.

I’ll discuss more in the next installment of what I just now decided to call The Costco Files.

*I realize homelessness is a serious problem. It is not my intention to diminish it or make fun of anyone in that situation. If you’re homeless and reading this blog on your laptop, I’m sorry.

If only

If only someone would take this New Agey, best sellin', crystal readin', self actualizin', India trippin', fortune cookie sayin' book and turn it into a tale of love and desire only, you know,
with vampires and shapeshifters.

Oh, wait a minute.

Never mind.

Run don't walk

I'm a sucker for a good horse movie. Hidalgo, Black Beauty, Flicka, Dreamer, Seabiscuit, all of 'em. But for me, this latest one, Secretariat, is the best in a very long time.

The challenge of a horseracing film of course is to build suspense when the audience already knows how it ends. The other challenge is to make it about more than just a fast horse. Secretariat does both things incredibly well.

Not only does it capture the drama and miracle of this remarkable animal, it gives a moving and accurate portrayal of Penny Chenery, who literally bet the farm on this horse. There are also the requisite horse racing scenes, although here they are remarkably gritty and realistic. There's one incredible slow-motion shot of the horse running with all four feet in the air that, for me, is worth the price of admission.

I'd be saying all this even if Diane Lane, my future second wife, wasn't in the movie. But she is, and as usual turns in a solid, stoic and moving performance. John Malkovich is also his quirky, funny self, and is outstanding as the trainer who saw Secretariat's potential literally from the moment the horse was born.

The other thing I loved is there's an old Hollywood feel to the movie. A glamourous, golden-agey sensibilty. It reminds me that there's a certain genre of movie - inspirational, edge-of-your seat, lump-in-your throat, not a car crash in sight kind of film - that Hollywood can do exceedingly well when it has the right material to work with.

This is a winning example of it.

Shut up and roll

It’s that time of year again. The weather’s getting cooler (not counting the record-setting 113 degree day last week). Kids are back in school. The holidays are just around the corner. And I’m counting the days until my annual trip to SEMA in Las Vegas.

SEMA is the Specialty Equipment Market Association convention held every November at the Vegas convention center. It’s over a million square feet of intricately tricked out cars, vintage hot rods, customized paint jobs, ear-shattering tuners, chrome wheels, smiling car show models and auto executives frantically networking and handing out resumes (I don’t know if you heard, it’s been a tough couple years for those boys). At SEMA, it’s all about automotive aftermarket products and equipment.

That’s not what it’s about for me. For me, it’s about Vegas.

I have a confession to make. I love that town, and not in the nice-place-to-visit or once-a-year-is-enough kind of way. I mean really love it. Beyond reason. I’ve said this in another post, but it bears repeating here: Vegas is the only place I know where everything you hear about it, good or bad, is true.

Even if you don’t gamble, there’s still a great time to be had. Cheap (relatively) hotel rooms, great spas, amazing restaurants, headline acts, first-class shows – many of them without tigers. You can have a great time without having to spend one hard-earned cent gambling.

Of course, why you’d want to do it that way is beyond me.

Every year I go to SEMA with my friend Pete who used to be my client on a car account I worked on. He's one of my best friends, and we always have a great time. Here’s the ritual: we go to the show, walk the floor, see what’s new, catch up with his friends in the industry.  We have dinner at Circo at the Bellagio. I call my wife. Then we go to the crap tables.

Or I should say I go to the crap tables.

The tables are where Pete and I part ways philosophically. Apparently he just doesn’t enjoy having watered-down drinks brought to him non-stop while risking large sums of money on a roll of the dice. And not just my roll of the dice, but everyone else that gets to be the shooter as well.

So while Pete does whatever he does while I’m playing (and I believe what he does is humor me), I have a great time rolling the bones. I don’t even know how to describe it. What’s that? Sick? Compulsive? Not really. Just fun.

I play for a while. I set a limit. I have a system.

My system is this: I play until I’m out of money. Then I go to the ATM and get more money. Then I play some more. Say what you will, but that damn ATM pays out every time.

Eventually I start feeling bad for ditching Pete while I’m playing craps, and I leave the table to find him. We’ll have a drink, talk about the day’s events, make plans for the next day at the show. I call my wife. He goes back to his room. And I go back to the tables for a couple more hours.

Oh yeah Pete, like you didn’t know.

When I’m not in Vegas, I love talking about it to anyone who’ll listen. Especially if they feel the same way I do. I had lunch today with my friend Laura. I've worked with her at two agencies, yet didn't realize until today what kindred spirits we actually are. She told me about a recent trip to Vegas with some friends of hers. She had me at, “God I love it there."

Sadly not everyone I've gone with has felt that way. I’ve been there - usually on a business trip - with people who absolutely hate the place. Oddly enough, every time one of those people is tapping their foot impatiently, constantly checking their watch and staring at me while I’m playing craps, I lose. Then when they leave, I start winning. There’s only one logical conclusion you can come to with this information.

The Vegas table gods know who likes them and who doesn’t.

One of the best accounts I ever worked on was The Reserve Hotel & Casino in Henderson, just outside Vegas. It was great for many reasons, especially the trips to present work to the client. We saw the casino being built, watched them install  the slots, and saw the tables brought in. We were there for the fireworks-filled grand opening. I played craps with all of my agency pals, who were just as excited as I was. And we all won.

Remember the part about the Vegas table gods?

As I read this post, I occurs to me that it might be easy to get the idea I have a gambling problem. I don’t. The truth is I enjoy it when I’m there, but do realize there is a real life, and real expenses, to come back to. I don’t go expecting to win. That way when I do, it’s a nice surprise. Don’t worry about me. My savings accounts are intact, the bills get paid, and the kid’s college accounts remain untouched.

The real truth of the matter is I wouldn’t go to Vegas as often as I want even if I could.

It wouldn’t leave me any time for the track.

The Dog Walker

I have an 80 lb. German Sheperd named Max. Short for Maximillan (that's the German part). That's not him in the picture. It's not me either. Max can't walk on a tightrope, and I couldn't catch him. Although if it were us, and the situation were reversed, I have no doubt he wouldn't hesitate to try and catch me.

Then he'd be a German Pancake.

Here's the thing about dogs: like so many relationships in life, all you have to do is feed them and clean up their poop, and in return they give you unconditional love. On days when I don't have to suffer the embarrassment of being seen carrying that steaming little plastic bag, it's not a bad deal.

The problem is a lot of the time, no one's around to take Max out for a walk. The good news is his bladder is pretty sizable. The bad news is so is his water bowl. Realizing this was going to be an issue, I carefully considered all the options.

Doggie door? Nope. If I was going to install one for a dog his size, I may as well hang a sign over it that says, "Burglars welcome. Enter here. Watch your head."

Have Grandma walk him? Don't get me wrong - I love seeing an 83-year old woman dragged down the street hanging on to a leash and screaming for dear life as much as the next guy. But not when she's my wife's mother. Well...no.

Finally I got to the option that made me the most nervous, but also made the most sense: dog walker. Now, where I live there's no shortage of professional dog walkers. But you have to be careful you don't hire someone who's just doing it as a hobby, or between classes.

Fortunately there are a few telltale signs to look for that let you know you're dealing with a professional.

First, make sure they're members of the National Association of Pet Sitters, or Pet Sitters International. Then, they need to have a glossy business card with a silly but cute illustration of an adorable dog smiling, wagging his tail or smiling disturbingly with a mouthful of human teeth. Bonded and insured are also good things to see on the card, although they don't have to actually be that to print it. Finally, there has to be a groaner of a business name. Dogdo Dog Walkers. Fur Their Sake. Wedo Fur You. Petropolis. Or my personal favorite, Dog Bless America.

The lifeblood of their business is referrals. I always check them out, and I've been very lucky. My first dog walker, Desiree, was with us five years (Max is 6, so she was as much a constant in his life as I am). Sadly, she got an offer to run a canine agility center in Seattle.

She referred me to Heidi, another dog walker who was modeling her business and training skills after Desiree. Heidi was there three weeks when her parents in Europe fell ill and she had to leave the country to go care for them.

Tonight, I interviewed Mary Ellen, our third dog walker. She was great. Her references were impeccable. Most importantly, Max loved her. Well, actually that's the second most important thing. The first is I didn't get the vibe this stranger who I happily handed my house key and alarm code to is going to rob me blind and sell my laptop and Xbox on Craigslist.

So tomorrow, Max starts walking with a new friend. I'm hopeful everything will work out fine. I want it to.

Because what I really don't want is to be left holding the bag.

On the street

I have a few loves in my life. One of them is roller coasters.

After all, what’s not to love about being strapped in the front car of a coaster by an indifferent, minimum-wage earning attendant, whiplashed up a 10-story hill by a rickety chain, then hurtling downhill at a face-flattening 75 degree angle with the ground coming at you at 65 mph.

I know, right?

Another one is Las Vegas. I love that town because everything you've ever heard about it, good or bad, is true. Name one other place like that. I already hear you tsk tsk-ing. But you know what your problem is? You’re just not focused on the right things.

Color me romantic, but I can’t get enough of daylight depravation, cigarette smoke permeating my clothing from walking through the casino, cocktail waitresses serving watered down mixed drinks 24/7, the feel of dice in my hands, crap table bets I know nothing about but make anyway, parents with 8 month-old babies slung over their shoulders walking through the casino at 3 in the morning, a one-third scale Statue of Liberty and Eiffel Tower right there in the desert where they belong, the intoxicating smell of desperation and bankruptcy.

The real question is what’s not to love?

So when my friend Janice (more about her in a minute) presented me with the idea of participating in the perfect mix of both those worlds – the stock market – I jumped on it.

After all, what could possibly go wrong?

It’s not like I haven’t dabbled in the market before. Years ago, a month before Close Encounters of the Third Kind came out, my friend Ned told me to buy Columbia Pictures stock. I did. The movie came out, made a ton of money and the stock took off faster than the mother ship. I held on to it for about two weeks then sold it for a tidy return on my investment.

I remember thinking, “I could get used to this."

My next dive into the investment pool was off a recommendation from my Taco Bell client at the time, Bob McKay. Bob started Taco Bell with Glenn Bell, and as you might imagine, had more money than God. Two things were true about Bob: he was an architect who actually designed the original mission-style Taco Bell restaurants, and became a multi-millionaire selling cheap tacos and burritos to the masses. And, he became a gazillionaire when Pepsi bought Taco Bell. Overnight he was one of the biggest Pepsi stockholders in history.

He seemed to be doing well. Why wouldn't I take a stock tip from him.

The tip was a company called Birdview Satellites. Seems they had this futuristic idea of satellites broadcasting television signals down to 18-inch satellite dishes they’d build and sell. You’d be able to mount these dishes on the patio, the roof, the backyard, wherever. Bob made a convincing case, and the idea sounded good to me. I bought a hundred shares at $20 each (I’ll save you the trouble - $2000).

It turned out as good as their idea was, it was just too ahead of its time. People - and by people I mean banks, investors, networks and the general public - thought getting crystal clear TV signals from space on small, inexpensive satellite dishes was just crazy talk. One telltale sign it was going south was when I got the statement from Paine Webber listing the stock value as “worthless.”

I remember thinking, "who needs this?"

About seven or eight years ago, I bought some shares of Apple at $52. The very next day, Apple had a press conference saying they’d overestimated earnings, and the stock value was sliced in half to $26. Yeah, I was feeling pretty street savvy right about then. The decision was whether to cut my losses or hang on to the Apple stock. I hung on to it figuring at the very least IBM would buy Apple and buy back the stock for something closer to what I paid for it.

Needless to say, I’m glad iHung on to it.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was iChatting with my aforementioned friend Janice, an awesome author, blogger and artist in her own right. As I discovered, I need to add “investor” to the list. Come to find out Janice is an E-Trade preferred customer. She’s online every day checking the stocks, buying and selling, and, as we like to say, building the empire.

I hadn’t thought about stocks in a long time, but after a little convincing from her about how much fun and rewarding buying and selling online was, it was all I was thinking about.

Today I logged into my dormant Schwab account and saw I had around 4 large sitting in a cash account. So I bought 10 shares of one stock, and 12 of another. Not many, but they were expensive shares.

I’d like to think otherwise, but I know Monday I’ll be online first thing seeing how the stocks are doing. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. You see where I’m going here. It may already be too late, but I really am going to try not to become too obsessed with it.

There are two things I know for sure. First, since I'm back in the market I'll probably be too nervous to see the sequel to Wall Street anytime soon.

And second, if these stocks tank, I’ll be having another chat with Janice.

The Event

I usually don't pay much attention to my speedometer (I have plenty of traffic school graduation certificates to prove it). I also don't care that much when particular dates line up - for example 8/9/10. Or when license plate numbers randomly wind up in sequential order.

Over the weekend I was driving with my son who always makes a point of telling me how much over the speed limit I'm going. I tell him it's the angle he sees the speedometer from the passenger seat (it only looks like 85), but he doesn't buy it. Smart boy.

Anyway, thanks to his policing of my lead foot, he pointed out something I might have otherwise missed. My mileage had reached a certain visual milestone. And while initially I didn't think much of it, the more I looked at it the more interesting I thought it was.

Not the fact I had it pointed out to me, but that thanks to my son, I recognized it as a slightly special moment that wouldn't happen again. At least not on this car.

It also made me kind of sad to think I had four chances before this to notice something similar, but either hadn't paid attention or hadn't looked down at the odometer in time.

I liked seeing all the fives in a row like that. It was neat. Orderly. Crisp. I have kids, so I appreciate those things more than the average individual.

Then, just as I'm really enjoying the fact I got to see it, this happens:

The moment was gone.

If you've read this far you're probably thinking, "Here it comes. He's going to start shoveling some New Age crap about his stupid odometer being a metaphor for life, and how you have to be aware of the little moments that are happening all around you, all the time, every day, because they won't come around again and you'll be sorry you missed them."

So not me. Nope. Not going to do that.

But I will say that when a moment somewhat out of the ordinary happens - no matter how small - and you're aware of it, there probably is something to be learned from it.

For example, I learned two things.

I need to dust my dashboard more often. And I better unload this rustbucket before it hits 60,000.

Doesn't matter if it's black or white

There are two truths here. Yes, I'm allergic to chocolate. And no, it doesn't stop me from having it.

Usually.

It's not like I go into shock, or my throat closes, or I break out in a hideous, angry red rash (that hasn't happened since I dated Susie Harding in high school, and I'm pretty sure chocolate had nothing to do with it). Anyway, if that happened every time I'd never have it. But fortunately, my reaction is on the mild side. All that happens is I sneeze and get stuffed up for a couple of days.

So the decision I'm faced with is how important is quality breathing versus the chocolate.

What I usually wind up deciding is that it's a small price to pay, especially for the good stuff - which is what I try to limit myself to. After all there's no sense in going through it for a Tootsie Roll or a Hershey Bar. Now Milky Way, that's another story.

My friends who know this about me somehow always seem to conveniently forget it until they're holding a plate with a thick slice of chocolate cake right in front of my face. Then, just as the rich fragrance of the chocolate reaches me, they snap it away, saying, "Oh, I forgot. You're allergic." My reply, in my head, is, "Oh, I forgot. You're an a#%&*(@."

You'd think since I've had to involuntarily take chocolate off my plate that I'd be thinner. But sadly there's no shortage of substitutes to satisfy my sweet tooth.

Not too long ago I read that if you keep exposing yourself to the thing you're allergic to, eventually you build an immunity to it.

I don't know if that's true. But I'm definitely willing to find out.

The Pep Talk

Courtesy Getty Images®

Endless meetings. Bad coffee. People judging your ideas who should be paying for the privilege of watching you work.

These are just a few of the things advertising agency creatives have in common.

Another is The Pep Talk.

Unlike many aspects of agency life that are unforeseeable, The Pep Talk is actually one of the more predictable ones. Because certain events are bound to trigger one, you can usually see it coming.

The agency's biggest account is "in review." Or walking out the door. Your boss gets fired. The lead creative team is opening their own shop. There's a new VP of Marketing. The agency gets bought.

The irony of The Pep Talk is while its intended purpose is to reassure, comfort, energize and instill a sense of camaraderie and teamwork, it usually has exactly the opposite effect.

And if you've been through more than one of them, like anyone who's worked ten minutes in an agency, you already know that apparently there's only one script for The Pep Talk.

By no means a complete list, here are a few telltale things you'll hear that let you know you're in the middle of one:

I know you've all heard about (person's name/account/other agency).

We're sorry to see (person's name/account name) go.

It was a mutual decision, and we wish them well.

We're restructuring the department.

Nobody else is going to be leaving.

Everything is going to be fine.

You'll all be fine.

Now more than ever we need to pull together.

We'll keep doing the great work we've been doing.

You have nothing to worry about.

When we lost (account name) it was the same situation, but we came through that and we'll come through this.

Everything is fine.

We're going to come out of this stronger.

Onward and upward.

And no Pep Talk would be complete without the classic "I don't have the answer to that, but I'll get back to you."

What happens next is almost as predictable as the talk itself.

People go back to their desks, call their friends at other agencies, tell them the ship is sinking and ask if they're hiring. Flash drives go into overtime saving years worth of work.

Predictably, everybody gets together and talks about how predictable The Pep Talk was.

I don't envy the people that actually have to give the talk. It's a tough position for them because they know that you know that they know it's all a crock.

And nobody really knows what's going to happen next.

The whole ritual would be less insulting if they could just weave in a bit more of the truth. Not even the whole truth, just a little more. For example, they could say "Well, didn't see that coming." Or "Yeah it's going to be strange." Or "I was as shocked as you were. Who knows how the hell this is going to turn out?" Or "We are so screwed."

It wouldn't be any more reassuring, but at least it'd be honest.

The funny part is that once The Pep Talk is over, and the aftermath dies down, everyone gets back to work doing what they do. Because we're all professionals, and we all know the work has to get done. We also know that while some agencies live or die by one account, none of them live or die by one person. Agency life goes on.

And why shouldn't it? After all, everything's going to be fine.

Job Security

The ad agency I'm freelancing at, like every ad agency, has lots of nice, shiny things lying all around the office.

Laptops. Monitors. DVD players. Speakers. Headphones. iPads. iPods. Cameras. Things like that. Tools of the trade.

There are also the things people who work there bring in and leave in plain sight.

Family pictures in pricey frames. Open, wide open, purses casually tossed on to a desk or the floor. Giant backpacks, filled with all kinds of confidential information and personal I.D. in virtually every one of the 67 zippered pockets.

All things thieves looking for a quick, easy score are drawn to.

There are security cameras throughout the agency. Everywhere you look, they're looking back. It's like being at Macy's. Or the casino at the Bellagio.

The eyes in the sky are supposed to provide a sense of security. After all, they're for our protection. But no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling there's something a little more sinister at play.

For example, the camera outside the bathrooms. Really? Even though people going in say they're going to take something, usually what they do is leave something. I wonder exactly what the company thinks is going to get stolen out of the men's room.

Or the one hiding in the corner of the tiny kitchen that's aimed at the cabinets. Just try and make off with those decaf packets that don't work on any other machine. In. The. World.

I'm usually extremely slow to jump on the conspiracy theory bandwagon. But here's what I think: the cameras are there to keep tabs on us.

Being placed where they are, whoever is monitoring them can see how much time we spend in the bathroom. Or the coffee room. (I suppose if you spent less time in one you'd spend less time in the other).

It's not as if we're in an office you can easily stroll through. You need a roadmap and an experienced tracker to find the front door and elevator. Once you're there, you have to have a key card to ride up the elevator and get in and out of the office. And the stairwells. And the parking lot. Our office is spread across three buildings. You can't get from one to the other without the card.

And while nothing's impossible, it's just not an easy place for someone to get into unnoticed and stroll through stealing things.

The cameras are an additional layer of security, but the layering is suspiciously thick. There are more cameras than there are points of entry.

There's something murkier at play here.

Don't get me wrong. If my laptop ever goes missing, I'd definitely feel better knowing there's a chance they got a picture of whoever took it.

And if the thief has to pee before he leaves, he's really screwed.

Judgement day

There's an odd sort of posturing people do when they make a judgement about someone or something.

They dig their heels in. They don't like to be questioned about it. And they really don't like to be told they're wrong, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that they are.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess we all have friends who are like that. I know I do. They know what they know, even if what they know isn't right. Their patience for giving someone a second chance or admitting they might have been wro...wro....wrong about something is non-existent.

If you work in advertising, you know agencies are lousy with people like that. People who feel that just the act of making a decision is more important than the decision they make.

It's frustrating as hell.

But sometimes they really do believe that a bad idea is a good idea. That's even more frustrating.

I've already written here about the fact I have trouble cutting people slack sometimes. The good news is I keep learning the lesson over and over.

Not going to go into details, but there was a person I'd made a decision about. Based on a few things, I viewed them a certain way, put them in a certain box.

Come to find out that wasn't all there was to this person. I even wound up having a day of email exchanges that were funny, interesting, welcome and most of all unexpected.

I feel like I'm rambling a bit here (so what else is new?), but the bottom line is maybe once in awhile it pays to put the brakes on, attach the filter and think a little more before I dig my own heels in and make a decision or a judgement about something or someone with such brazen certainty.

This is good advice. Trust me, I know I'm right about this.

Yul love this movie

Okay, first of all, sorry about the title. I couldn't help it. I was scrolling through the cable guide, and this little gem caught my eye.

Westworld was made in 1973. Before Arnold terminated anything. Before Captain Picard even knew what a borg was.

It's about an amusement park with three different "worlds": Roman world, Medieval world, and the scariest one: Westworld.

Yul Brenner plays a robot gunslinger. For an insanely expensive admission ticket, guests can pretend they're cowboys. They can ride horses into town. They can sidle up to the bar for whiskey. They can have their way with the dance hall girls. And the best part is they can challenge the Gunslinger to a gunfight at high noon all day long, killing him over and over. This is exactly what he's been programmed for.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, a funny thing happens. Seems there's a computer virus that starts spreading from robot to robot, world to world. During a sword fight in Medieval world, a guest is suddenly stabbed. In a shootout with James Brolin, Yul Brenner shoots and kills him. For real. Then chases his friend through the park trying to kill him as well.

A few years back they were going to remake this film with Arnold in the Yul Brenner role. It seemed like pretty good casting, even if it wasn't exactly asking Arnold to stretch as an actor. But then that pesky governors race came up, and suddenly he had another day job.

Probably better anyway. Westworld is another one of those movies that doesn't need to get remade.

It was written and directed by Michael Crichton.

Hmmm, wonder if he ever wrote anything else about an amusement park where things go horribly wrong?