It's going to be a year of possibilities, and the only thing that's going to limit you is how much gas you have to get there and how hard you want to ride the pedal.
Sorry. Had a box of metaphors lying around and wanted to use them before we close.
So forget about what the Mayan calendar says. The only ones that have gone away are the Mayans. Like it or not, you're here for the long haul.
Gas up now - 2012 is going to be a spectacular year.
Ever since my daughter was a little girl, we've had our own father/daughter jokes between us. They often send us into hysterics, while innocent bystanders wonder what time we'll be taking our medicine. Some of them are quite funny and tasteful, perfectly acceptable for telling at the Christmas dinner with family gathered all around.
Some not so much.
There's really no way to explain this gift she got me for Christmas without getting into way more detail than I'm sure any of you want or need to know. Suffice it to say I laughed harder than I have in months when I unwrapped this little gem.
It's an awesome gift, based on a particular joke - one of our less savory ones - that goes way back. Maybe right there is a good place to leave it (figuratively speaking). Except to say that the three little words referred to in the title aren't the ones on the mug.
They're "neat and clean." Enough said.
We had a conference call last Friday afternoon - late afternoon - where several of their people went over the new products they wanted me to write about. Turns out it's going to be a lot more work than I expected (or wanted to do over the holidays), but of course by now you all know my motto: the checks clear.
I wasn't worried about it, because when we all got off the call, the understanding was that the work wasn't due until the first week of January.
At least that was my understanding.
So imagine my surprise when I got an email on Monday asking the status of the work and when I'd have it to them.
I wrote back, and decided truth was going to be my first tactic. I told them not only had I not started working on it, but the agreement was first week of January. Oh, and by the way, they hadn't approved my estimate.
The ones that make it worth my while to be working over the holidays instead of going to movies, spending time with my kids, eating like Oprah at the buffet for two weeks and sleeping off the egg nog and bourbon.
Just kidding. I haven't liked egg nog or bourbon since I got wrecked on several glasses of the mix in high school.
I'm still not sure the room has stopped spinning.
Anyway, the client came back to me just sorry as hell for the misunderstanding. They very politely asked if I could have a portion of the assignment done next week - if it didn't interfere too much in my holiday plans - and the remainder of it in January.
I said sure.
They also told me they'd approved my estimate, which frankly gave me just what I was looking for to start the job.
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| A Colbert Christmas: Another Christmas Song | ||||
| ||||
Seriously, when David Hasselhoff and Jessica Simpson are allowed to go into the studio, you know someone's been really naughty and they're taking it out on all of us.
What is it about the holidays that makes celebrities - and alleged celebrities - decide they have to get into the studio and record a collection of sticky, cheesy, treacly, sentimental Christmas standards?
Not that they're all bad. The classic Christmas albums by artists like Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra or Johnny Mathis have a certain timeless holiday sound.
But when it comes to the newer crop of Christmas albums, I can only listen to so many lush arrangements (insert Hasselhoff joke here) without heaving my nog. I prefer something a little more upbeat, not to mention honest.
In that spirit, for kids from one to ninety-two, please to enjoy Another Christmas Song by Stephen Colbert.
May it jingle your bells, nip at your nose and roast your chestnuts many times and many ways throughout the season.
I'm going to generalize here, but as a rule these people are very sensitive and don't respond well at all to being asked about their questionable beliefs. They don't like being cornered, and when they are usually lash out with personal insults or comments that have nothing to do with the issue at hand.
Imagine, a group of petty, thin-skinned, hard-headed people believing what they want despite verifiable facts to the contrary. Wonder who they're voting for?
When you ask them about it, why all the papers reported him dead, why there's a grave at Graceland, why he's laying in his casket in that famous National Enquirer photo, they all give the same, extremely predictable answer: conspiracy.
It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad.
Almost every major event that's happened in the last century has a conspiracy theory attached to it. And a group of people willing and ready to blindly support those theories with their ignorance. When you disagree with them, they act like Americans in Europe for the first time. They just keep talking louder and louder until you. get. it.
You can tell I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist. I have my suspicions about the JFK assassination, I think something may have landed at Roswell and it does seem interesting to me there was one news story about the discovery of over two hundred years' worth of oil in the Gulf of Mexico, and then nothing. But that's about it.
I believe we landed on the moon. I believe Challenger exploded because of a faulty "O" ring.
A healthy dose of skepticism and questioning authority is a good thing. But the reality is, for the most part, things are exactly what they appear to be. And the big events, the catastrophic disasters, the "I'll always remember where I was when I heard it" tragedies happen because they happen.
There isn't any giant conspiracy. There's nothing hiding under the bed.
Although I keep telling my kids there is. It never gets old.
The London Telegraph has a great article on the 30 Greatest Conspiracy Theories. Definitely worth reading, if only for comic relief.
For the most part, these theories are harmless rantings. But one more than the others has a deep cruelty to it. The one about 9/11. The victims families have enough pain for the rest of their lives without these "theorists" continually trying to explain what REALLY happened.
By the way, good luck trying to figure out who put me up to writing this.
Years ago I was freelancing at McCann and wrote a spot for the McDonnell Douglas C-17 aircraft. Ginormous, window-rattling cargo plane. The idea of the spot was to show how the plane could be used for civilian missions, and showed it bringing supplies to an area that'd been hard hit by an unnamed natural disaster (the best kind). Since the spot required a skill with real people and emotions, I thought Elma Garcia would be a great choice to direct it. So I suggested her to my partner and the creative director: they agreed and we - including me - began talking to her.
Here's the punchline.
Early on in the conversations, when everyone started realizing the spot's potential and how much fun it would be shooting on a base in North Carolina, the creative director suddenly decided my services were no longer needed and cut my gig short. He then went on to shoot the spot with Garcia. Despite the fact he liked to rewrite everything I ever showed him, he wound up shooting this one word-for-word as I'd written it. But just for good measure, he put his name ahead of mine on the copywriting credit (and ahead of the art director's on his credit) on every awards show the spot was entered in. I found this out when I picked up the New York Ad Awards show annual where the spot had won.
At least my name was on it. On a web page I looked at for this post, and I won't say who's page, it's just his name.
I know, so what else is new? Well, that was then and this is now. The ironic part is in the intervening years, I've had many reasons to consider (and still do) that creative director a good friend of mine despite his dickish ways at the time.
Over it. Really.
The reason I even bring it up here, instead of in therapy, is that during those early conversations with Elma, somehow the fact that my Dad worked at Al's Newstand for years came up. Elma couldn't believe it, because she'd shot a print ad using my Dad at the newsstand. The picture you see here.
Needless to say I was beside myself when she sent me the picture. My dad was from Brooklyn, and to me it looked like a classic New York newsstand, instead of one at the corner of Fairfax and Oakwood in L.A.
My Dad used to go to open the newsstand at 4:30 in the morning when all the papers and magazines were delivered. I hated that the heavy metal doors covering the stand weren't on sliders, and he'd have to lift them off one by one and set them to the side. To me it seemed so unfair that Al (who was great to my father for many years) would ask a man my Dad's age to do that.
But my Dad never complained even when he should've. Yet another difference between us.
I'm at a crossroad here, because my instinct is to get sloppy in my beer and go on and on about my Dad. I don't think I will.
Instead what I'll do is just look at the picture, this picture that came to me by grace and chance, and smile while I remember how much he must have enjoyed having his moment.
And how much I enjoyed having my Dad.
The reason it's here is because it's considerably more pleasant to look at than the images I got when I Googled "nasal cauterization."
Take my word for it.
The reason I was looking that up is because I had to have it done last week. I was sitting on one of our newly reupholstered couches at home, and I sneezed. Hard. When I did, the wall of a weakened blood vessel very near the surface on the inside of my nose blew, and I started bleeding profusely.
It was like a scene out of Dexter.
Thank God I managed to get into the bathroom and over the sink so I could bleed there instead of the couch.
The same thing occurred a couple years ago, and I had to have vessels in both sides of my nose cauterized. In case you're not familiar with cauterization - and why would you be - it's a minor procedure where they burn the vessel either electrically or, as they did in my case, chemically with silver nitrate to stop the bleeding and seal the blood vessel with scar tissue so it doesn't happen again. At least in that vessel.
It works in theory. But here's the thing: once you have it done, your body says, "Hey, what the heck! How am I gonna get blood to this guys schnoz?" So it regrows the vessel(s).
The other thing is that while it heals, I can't blow my nose or sniffle too hard. And I have to sneeze with my mouth wide open, which takes the pressure off the nose, not to mention scares the hell out of anyone within earshot cause it's so loud.
That part is fun.
Then there's the Neosporin that I have to apply very carefully each night with Q-Tips so my nose doesn't dry out during the night. I'd like to take a moment to thank the Santa Ana winds for their impeccable timing.
So, all in all, it looked a lot worse than it was. And at the end of the day, I realize it could've been symptomatic of something much worse. I have a lot to be thankful for.
Not the least of which is finding that picture of the Caribbean. Trust me.
You have no idea.
Anyway, you can probably tell from the title it deals with why we can't always do what we want when we want to do it.
Or when other people want us to.
The gist of it is, no matter how good your intentions, nothing happens until you're ready.
If you've ever tried to quit smoking, lose weight, write a screenplay, ask someone out, clean the garage or whatever, despite the necessity of the task, you won't be able to complete or even start it until you're ready.
The Supremes said it best. You can't hurry love, you just have to wait.
The good news is when you least expect it, suddenly you'll find yourself doing the thing you've been meaning to do. Or well intentioned friends have been wanting you to do.
And you'll succeed because you're ready.
This shouldn't be confused for an excuse not to do anything. After all people, show a little initiative.
When you're ready.
But God help me, I loves me a good high-speed chase.
I take it from there. I immediately leap into action. By action, I mean drop everything I'm doing, grab the remote, switch to the station(s) covering the chase, plant my ever expanding derriere on the couch then sit back, settle in and watch the chase until it reaches it's inevitable conclusion no matter how long it takes. And know this: the really good ones can go on for hours, especially if it's an SUV with a spare gas tank.
Now you might say to yourself, "How sad he has to watch his high speed chases all alone." First, thank you for your concern. But you'll be happy to hear I don't.
The other person in my house, the only other person who appreciates the extremely high entertainment value of them as much as I do is my 12-year old daughter. The apple doesn't fall far from the police helicopter.
As we switch back and forth between channels covering the chase, looking to see which news chopper has the best overhead shot, we always ask the same question: how does the guy driving think this is going to end? Does he think the police chasing him will:
A) Run out of gas
B) Get tired and go home
C) Get lost and have to pull over for directions
D) Not drive nearly as well as he can when he's that high
And by the way, what exactly does he think that bright white light shining down on him from overhead no matter which neighborhood, on-ramp or back alley he turns on to is. The sun? The angel on his shoulder?
Not so much.
The police helicopter pilots are the unsung heroes of the high speed chase. Oh sure, we all love seeing the perp narrowly avoid crashing into pedestrians, trash cans, trees and other vehicles. And what viewer doesn't get tingly at the prospect of seeing one of the several police cars in pursuit deciding to do the PIT maneuver.
By the way, only hardcore chase fans know that PIT stands for Pursuit Intervention Technique. Go ahead, impress your friends. Win bar bets. You're welcome.
Earlier I mentioned the inevitable conclusion: here's what it is, although you've probably guessed by now. After the suspect runs out of gas, crashes the car, turns on to a dead end street, drives the tires that have been flattened by a spike strip down to the wheels - which now look like sparklers riding on the cement, loses his buzz or jumps out of the car and makes a run for it, the chopper pilot just shines the light on him as a guiding beacon for the police to come and get their man (or woman - seen a few of those too).
Occasionally they won't come out of the car when asked, and that's when it gets tense. The police surround the car, guns drawn and make it very clear what they want him to do. It gets really good sometimes when the police are distracting him on one side of the car, and then more police open the door on the other side and drag him out (sometimes they just pull him through the window if he's pissed them off enough).
I've never seen a suspect get shot, which is a good thing since my daughter is almost always next to me watching. I suppose there's always the chance that could happen, and if it does I'll try to use it as a teaching moment. You want to play, you have to pay.
When it's all over, the feeling is exactly like coming home from Vegas. Everything seems a lot slower and a little duller.
The good thing is that this is Los Angeles, so high speed chases are like buses - miss one, there'll be another along any minute.
Many people think the saddest words are "what might've been."
For me, they're "we now return you to our regular programming."
I'd overpaid my overdraft account, and Wells Fargo wanted to refund my overpayment.
Instead of sending me an email, or electronically transferring it back into my account, they sent me a check. In the mail. With a 44 cent postage stamp.
Even if I was going to feel sorry for the banks - which I'm not - they're not making it easy to.
Both Michael Clayton and Up In The Air have joined The Godfather(s) as films that, when stumbled upon, must be watched to the end to pick up some line read, nuance or expression I didn’t catch the first twenty-five times I saw them.
I just finished seeing his most recent film, The Descendants. Can you guess what I thought of it? Of course you can.
I’m not going to say much because far be it from me to spoil anything. But I will say a couple things.
It was directed by Alexander Payne, who also did Sideways (merlot anyone?). It has several great moments in it, like the one where your perception of one of the characters does a complete 180 in the time it takes that character to deliver one line.
Several moments take you straight to tears, do not pass go, do not collect Kleenex. There is also one spectacular moment that reaches out of the screen, grabs your heart and squeezes as hard as it can.
For that moment alone, for me, The Descendants is worth seeing.
It’s also worth seeing for Shailene Woodley, who steals the film with her frighteningly real and effortless performance as Clooney’s older daughter.
If you have a couple hours to spare this Thanksgiving weekend, this would be a fine way to spend them.
Besides, if you're looking for a way to wash away the taste of homemade turkey, nothing does the job like a movie hot dog and a 64 oz Coke.
No, the challenge is writing a heartfelt holiday message that expresses just how thankful I really am for all the good things I have.
This year, you can read my heartfelt sentiments on my friend's blog since he's expressed exactly what I would've had I written it myself. Which I didn't.
And if you've read my other posts here, maybe that's one more thing to be thankful for.
Our thirteen year old Frigidaire refrigerator is on its last legs (last rollers?). While it still keeps things cold, you can feel a nice chill standing in front of it because the seal on the door isn't nearly as tight as it used to be.
But then whose is?
There's also a handle missing, no doubt from years of the kids hanging from it. It's a lot noisier than it used to be (aren't we all). And because it's so old, it's whatever the opposite of energy efficient is. Whenever its motor kicks on, the lights dim throughout the house and we can actually hear the electric bill going up.
On the logo it says "Nobody Beats Howard's." I'm not sure if that means price. Or selection. Or service. Or just confusing the crap out of someone who hasn't had to think about it in years. If it means that last one, then it's definitely truth in advertising.
When we bought our current fridge thirteen years ago, it was around $800. Needless to say I was in for a little sticker shock. Apparently the cost of materials, design, new refrigerator technology and all those white plastic vegetable drawers has skyrocketed.
But I digress.
I have to admit I was intrigued by the French Door model with the extra crisper drawer. Four handles, four things to open and four things to break for those of you keeping count.
But it looks way bitchin'. And it had a decal that said, "Fresh Food on a whole new level."
Copywriters.
And it was a Maytag. Which as you can see by the sticker in the upper right corner is made with "American Pride."
Howard's has been selling appliances for a very long time. In fact we bought our current fridge, washer, dryer and dishwasher there. They're local, knowledgeable and can usually deliver and install on the same day.
So far be it from me to tell them how to do their job. Obviously they know the best way to display refrigerators on the showroom floor.
We wound up not buying a fridge that day. Instead, we came home and spent some quality time with our failing fridge. We discussed how if you take an extra minute to press the door closed tight, it actually sealed okay. And that despite being down a handle, we really didn't have any trouble opening it. There was no getting around the fact it wastes a lot of electricity. But we own a Land Cruiser. Wasteful is something we're used to.
Then we looked at pictures of all the refrigerators we'd just seen, and spent some time talking about what would look best inside our house.
We decided it was the $2299.
I understand we all have busy lives, but I'm just not buying that everyone is so busy they can't return a call. When Sherry Lansing was head of Paramount Pictures, she had every call returned the same day by someone in her office. It wasn't just PR. I know this from personal experience.
By the way, still waiting for my three picture deal.
I supposed there are better and more significant ways to take stock of a person, but for me, returning calls is high on the list. When I held associate creative director and cd positions, I always set aside time at the end of the day to return calls to reps, job seekers, friends and students.
I never forgot what it was like trying to get a call back from someone at an agency. I still haven't.
Some of the people I'm most loyal to in the business, and who I have the highest regard for are people who got back to me when they didn't have to. I know it seems like such an old school idea. But it's a simple gesture. And it speaks volumes about the person making it.
Friends are sometimes bad at calling back. There's a certain take-it-for-grantedness that comes with friendships or relationships of any length of time. For some reason, we're willing to let the unreturned call from a friend slide more often.
Although I find less so as I get older. Tick tock Clarice.
And in case you were wondering, I consider returning a call with an email the coward's way out. But only because it is.
Anyway, if you have any thoughts about this just leave a comment.
I'll get back to you.
I'd like to blame it on writer's block, but that would be too easy an out. Let's just call it for what it is: I've been a slug for the last couple of weeks.
In the time since I last posted, my friend Rich posted eight times to his blog. I'm constantly amazed at not just the quantity, but the quality of his posts. A prolific, thoughtful, humorous writer saying the many things that need to be said. That or a desperate cry for attention. You make the call.
Whichever, I should probably take a page from his book (I'd have to take a page from his book cause obviously I'm not writing any books of my own). I need to post more regularly.
I think if you start a blog, there's a responsibility to keep it fresh and interesting. Give the readers something new almost every time they visit. Of course, that pre-supposes I have readers. And now that I think about it, no one but me seems particularly upset there hasn't been a post in two weeks. Crap. That's motivating.
And the pisser is it's not like there aren't things to talk about. Penn State. Ashton and Demi. Iranian nuclear facilities that Israel is going to take out. Herman "No that's not a cigar, I am happy to see you" Cain. iPad 3. iPhone 5. Chinese spacecraft (launch one capsule and in a half hour you want to launch another one). The reopened Natalie Wood death investigation. That guy who took a shot at the White House. Justin Bieber.
Okay. Maybe not Justin Bieber.
Anyway, even if it's just for my own well-being, even if supply exceeds demand, I'm going to post more often.
It's like Lawrence Kasdan said, "Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life."
I was never very good at homework either.
Apparently there's saving face, then there's saving your face. That's what I learned last week from my dinner at Circo.
The occasion was my annual pilgrimage to the SEMA (Specialty Equipment Market Association) automotive convention with my friend Pete (which I've written about here). It'd be safe to say we probably look forward to our dinner at Circo as much if not more than the actual convention. That was especially true this year since my good friend Kathryn, who works for Kia and was also there for SEMA, made the excellent decision to join us for dinner.
We didn't know it at the time, but come to find out she couldn't have picked a more perfect year to do it.
You know what else reminds me Ocean's Eleven? Every time I look in the mirror. If I had a dollar for every time I get mistaken for Clooney, I'd have - well, never mind.
The other thing we had a ringside view of were the two tables behind us.
Seated at them was a rather large Chinese contingent. That was the first thing we noticed. The second was the fact the drinks were flowing non-stop to their tables. Each person was standing behind their chair, not so much talking as screaming towards each other. The drunker they got, the more they'd bump into our chairs and the more they'd apologize for it.
At one point the decibel level and chair bumps got to be too much, so Pete turned around and let them know it. When he was done reminding them they weren't the only ones out to enjoy a nice meal that night, a gentleman in their party who was apparently working on his Foster Brooks impression staggered up to us and apologized profusely. He told us that the Chinese were a very loud culture. Loud and drinking (his words, not mine). He apologized again, we thanked him for his understanding and we raised our glasses and told him to enjoy his evening. Frankly it didn't seem like advice he needed.
Eventually the gentleman in their party pictured above had enough to drink. We could tell because he went face first into the table, and remained that way until the rest of his party had finished (apologizing) eating their meals and decided to leave.
Luckily he managed to save his face by not landing on any silverware (fork tines make such uneven piercings).
Just as two of his friends started to prop him up under each arm to drag him out, I quickly paid our bill and we started to walk out. My thinking was I wanted to get us out of there before he passed by our table. I was worried that just as he was being carried next to us, it would suddenly turn into the scene from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life.
On our way out, the maitré d' apologized for the noise and the inconvenience. While he was genuinely sorry, apparently he wasn't sorry enough to make it right by taking something off the bill. I guess he figured if he did it for us, he'd have to do it for every table in the room that was being bothered by the group.
Which would've been all of them.
Afterwards the three of us agreed it had been a great night. Plus we got to do what a lot of people come to Vegas for.
Dinner. And a show.
But I don't think I've ever contrasted an artist against himself (On Tracks Of My Tears, I counted the Smokey Robinson & The Miracles performance as a separate entity from Smokey Robinson singing solo).
As you could have guessed from my post about break-ups, I'm a Cat Stevens fan. I am now, and I was back then.
It's interesting to me that for so long, his religious conversion overshadowed his music. I guess it was to be expected given the political climate, and the fact that he walked away from his former success for so long. But somewhere along the way, he decided to come back to music and performing.
It's a very good thing.
And while age has slowed the songs down a bit, it's done nothing to make them any less heartfelt.
It's also interesting to note that while he's gotten visibly older over the years, I haven't changed at all. At least that's what I like to tell myself (Note to self: get rid of all the mirrors).
So, please to enjoy The Wind as sung by Cat Stevens then. And Yusuf Islam now.
I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing. "Why doesn't he get off his fat ass (literally) and just lose the weight and quit talking about it?"
Okay. That's what I'll do.
I'll do it because I'm tired. I'm tired of the running joke I have with my daughter every time we see a morbidly obese person (the joke is "Look it's my new best friend." because by comparison, well, you get the idea). I'm tired of the other joke which is "I have to ask him where he gets his shirts." Tired of the vast wardrobe choices I have between my remaining two pairs of jeans that fit. Shopping knowing nothing is going to fit? Really tired of it. I'll do it because I'm tired of reading about my copywriter friends like Rich doing things like this.
Most of all I'm tired of being tired from carting all this lard around.
Hey, you know what I'm not tired of? That joke about Oprah sitting "around the house." Still gets me every time.
I think about organizations like Fat & Proud and Fat Liberation and the propaganda they spread about how you can live a happy life if you're overweight, and still be just as healthy as if you weren't. I imagine it's easier to spread that philosophy than lose the weight. A low-fat spread if you will (I know, but it was right there).
It would be easier to believe their company line if it wasn't being drown out by their hearts screaming bloody murder and their scales yelling at them to make it stop.
By the way, just for the record, I'm not grossly overweight. But I do need to lose a significant amount. The problem, besides constantly shoving food down my piehole, is that I can carry a lot of weight and not look like I'm carrying as much as I am.
But it's a numbers game. And I know the numbers.
So, once again, I'm writing a post about losing weight. The difference this time is I'm on it. This year, unlike too many years past, I'm not waiting for New Year's to make the resolution. I'm putting it out there for the world and my friends to see, and hopefully hold me to.
Weight gain is a slippery slope, and I don't want to wind up like Orson Welles in his later years, weighing over four hundred pounds and dressing in black all the time.
Although I wouldn't mind knowing where he got his shirts.
And Pete Caubisens, who passed away a few days ago, was a huge part of it.
Many years ago my pal Richard introduced me to a friend of his named Rémi Aubuchon. I knew fairly quickly this Rémi character was going to fast become a new best friend. What I didn't know was how important Remi's family would become in my life. In some ways, with absolutely no disrespect to my own beautiful parents who had their hands more than full with me, Rémi's would often be my family of choice.
Living first in Brentwood then in Santa Monica when we met, I'd always look forward to driving (willing) my orange Super Beetle over the hill to the valley, then up the hill to Remi's house in Woodland Hills. It was always a welcoming, safe place, giving me many things I couldn't get in my own home.
Family, in the bigger sense of the word, was one of them.
Rémi's father Jacques was an accomplished actor. I was a theater arts major. Jacques didn't like flying. At the time I had a huge fear of flying. We'd sit for hours, talking about acting and how flight was still just a theory.
While we're here, one more thing about my major.
My parents were older when they had me, and like many parents of their era they had some old school thinking on what was a real job and what wasn't. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of love in my house for being a theater arts major (they were Jewish - doctor and lawyer were genetically programmed to be at the top of their list).
Where was I? Okay. Rémi's mom Denise, who looks like Ellen Burstyn, was an artistic, warm and welcoming presence. In my eyes she was always accepting and non-judgemental. It was like a breath of fresh air (perhaps I've revealed too much).
I was also close to his sister Danielle (the birthday girl in the picture above), and while his brother Philippe always marched to his own drummer, I constantly enjoyed his company and humor, and always loved hearing his take on things.
It was just good being around them. It felt like what a home should feel like.
Because of how I felt about Rémi's family, and the way I felt about my own at the time, for many years I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his house.
On one of those holidays early on, Denise's brother Pete was out from New York. Pete was an attorney for the airlines, so naturally with my fears I had all sorts of questions for him. I'd never met someone who knew so much about wind shear and bird ingestion (not the Thanksgiving kind, the jet engine kind).
Pete and I hit it off right from the get-go. He had a gentle brilliance and a sharp wit about him. He was funny as hell. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had a smile that lit up a room. And a laugh that let you know how much he was enjoying life.
He was New York cool.
I know what you're thinking: that he was also somewhat of a father figure to me. Is it that obvious?
The conversation turned to New York. Pete said I was welcome to stay at his place on the upper east side anytime I wanted. So I took him up on it. I was there about a week, using his place as my base camp.
I remember meeting him for lunch one day. He took me to my first real French restaurant. Escargot, rude waiters, the whole neuf yards. It was awesome.
Afterwards, as we were walking down 5th Avenue, it started to snow. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen falling snow. It was magical. It's a feeling I'll always associate with Pete.
Time marches on and everyone's life gets busier. And while I talked to Pete less and less over the years, ironically I thought about him more and more.
But I don't think he really did. In fact, I don't think I did until I heard he'd died.
I don't know many things for sure, but I do know that Rémi's family, New York and my life are all better for Pete having been a part of them.
The other thing I know is, as of last week, heaven is a much more welcoming place.
The original painting, the family seated at the table, is called The Aioli Dinner by George Rodrigue. But when he added Tiffany (his corgi who passed on only to be reincarnated as the Blue Dog) to the painting, it was retitled Eat, Drink and Forget The Blues.
Despite the fact there are several of these paintings around, each one is unique. Rodrigue created a limited number of direct image transfers from the original and mounted them on masonite. Then he repainted the entire work again over them, adding nuance and variance to the colors, contrast and shadings each time. In every one, Tiffany is in a slightly different position with subtle differences in her expression.
This picture of the picture was taken with my iPhone 3GS. I can't believe I'm still using that relic - I need a new one if for no other reason than the 8 megapixel camera. I'm going to wait for the iPhone 5 though since it's only six months away. And I know I'd hate myself for not having the bigger screen.
But I digress.
I fell in love with the Blue Dog a year before I actually bought it. The wife and I were visiting her family (don't get me started) in Carmel. As we were strolling the quaint blocks of the seaside town, looking for Mayor Clint Eastwood and seeing if we could find a restaurant open after 9PM, we found the Blue Dog Gallery.
Among all the Blue Dog paintings on display, I couldn't stop looking at the Aioli Dinner.
I told her we'd think about it. So we thought about it. For a year.
Then the discussion turned from art to commerce. She broke the bad news to us as gently as she could: the price of the painting had doubled in the course of a year. But because she recalled how much we'd loved it and how badly we'd wanted it, she generously offered to split the difference between the prices.
Rodrigue also happened to be in a particularly good mood, so he threw in this Blue Dog lithograph.
He signed it and gave it to us.
I don't know if it's still there, but at the time the Blue Dog Gallery had a layaway plan called the Kennel Club. They held onto the painting until it was paid for. No minimum payments. No time limit. I was extremely diligent about sending a check up whenever I could spare it.
I couldn't wait to see it in my home.
I waited four years to see it in my home.
But that's not the point. The point is it's here and we love it. Just like my wife, I still feel the same way about it as when I first saw it (can you say "marriage points").
One thing I particularly love is how much it's appreciated (the painting and the wife). The other thing I love is just how damn happy it makes me.
Especially when I'm the one who's blue.
Ever since that visit I've been meaning to go back. I've thought of her often, looked for a time and day and tried to organize my schedule around a trip to that part of L.A. so I could do it. I suppose had I wanted to badly enough I would've found a way.
But the truth is that, in equal parts, I wanted to and I didn't want to.
My visit with her last September was so unsettling, I didn't know how I would bear up doing it again - even though afterwards I was extremely glad I'd been there (and, ignoring all evidence to the contrary, hoping on some level, somewhere in her failing mind, she was too).
I went to see Paula for the second time yesterday. And I have pastrami and my longtime friend Ned to thank for it.
Ned and I have been trying to get together for awhile, and we finally did yesterday. Ned suggested we meet at Langer's Deli on 7th and Alvarado right across from MacArthur Park. Langer's is "home of the world's best pastrami sandwich", and for years Ned has told me how great it is. Come to find out he wasn't kidding. I imagine it's what pastrami in heaven must taste like.
Because Langer's is about a five minute drive from the facility where Paula lives, it was the perfect time to pay her a second visit.
Walking into the place brought back a rush of memories from the first visit. The pale blue hallway walls, the locked doors of the Alzheimer's wing, the vacant eyes of the patients staring at me from the doorways of their rooms. Some smiling at me. Some screaming.
The first time I was there, Paula was walking down the hallway on her own. This time, I had to speak with the head nurse, tell her who I was there to see, and then she had another nurse walk Paula out to me.
When I saw her, it was startling for a few reasons. Despite the fact it's only been about a year, Paula seemed much more fragile than the first time. Her hair, which on the first visit had been somewhat close to the way she used to wear it when we worked together, except a little grayer, was now long, stringy and not entirely clean looking. Where before she walked fairly normally, in fact even rapidly, she now moved in slow, shuffling steps on the linoleum floor.
When she saw me, she smiled and said, "How are ya?" The disarming thing about it was I could tell it had no connection to seeing me or greeting anyone. They were just words that didn't register any meaning for her as she spoke them. In the same way longtime coma patients will suddenly open their eyes or blink rapidly, Paula asking the question was a reflex from a life and mind long gone.
As before, I took her hand and we walked in circles around the ward. The only way I can explain the conversation Paula was having with herself, even though occasionally looking at me, is that she seemed to have more strength in her dementia. Her words were clear and articulate. She'd ask a question and wait for an answer. Then follow up with a comment that had no relation to either.
There's a wooden handrail that runs on the walls between each of the rooms. As we walked, occasionally Paula would stop, turn to the handrail, and not lean on it but hold it and talk to it for awhile as if it was the one thing in the place that could really understand her.
Then we'd move on.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating: the people working at her facility are angels on earth. I can't imagine coming to work everyday knowing nothing will get better. In fact knowing it will eventually go the other way. But day in and day out, that's what these caregivers do. And while in real life it's not as neat or sensitive as it's sometimes portrayed in the movies, it is remarkable to see the affection and attachment they have to their patients.
At one point in our stroll, we met up with the activity director at the facility. We spoke for a bit about the person Paula used to be, and maybe still was somewhere neither of us would ever see. The conversation then turned to Roy, the man Paula lived with for years and who bailed on her when she started going downhill. But not before ripping her off financially. Paula, Roy and I worked together at an agency, and even back then he was riding on her coattails. He was an account guy, but in reality he was a fraud - a talentless hack who specialized in ass kissing.
Roy is a story for another post. But I will say it's going to be an extremely bad day for him if we ever run into each other again.
On this visit I spent about 45 minutes with Paula. She got tired and agitated towards the end. A nurse had joined us in our walk, and Paula led us to the locked door of the ward. She wasn't trying to get out, and I don't even know if she understands the world she's left is on the other side. I hope not.
I've promised myself I won't let so much time go by between now and my next visit. It's a promise I'm going to do everything I can to keep. Paula won't know the difference if I do or not.
But I will.
I don't know why this is on my mind (Note to wife: really dear, no reason), but I was thinking about break-up songs. Not the crappy, syrupy ones that have too many strings and A minor notes (impressed aren't you?). Not the teen heartache or poppy Neil Sedaka-esque ones either.
I'm talking about the ones I listened to over and over that either perfectly captured the misery of the moment, or said what I wished I had.
Break-up songs are like fingerprints: everyone has one that's unique to them and their situation. Some are wistful. Some are vengeful. And some just kind of tell it the way it is. That's the kind I usually gravitated to because those songs were always the hardest to argue with.
So not surprisingly, here's the one that was always my favorite.
Now to the audience participation part. First of all, I don't think there's anyone who doesn't like to re-live one of the most painful times in their life over and over (Jewish, hello?).
Here's what we're going to do: let me know your favorite break-up song, and why. As they come in, an impartial panel of break-up and relationship experts here at Rotation And Balance International Headquarters will select the five most popular ones. Not only will they be posted here, but if you're the one who submitted it you'll also receive your break-up song as a gift from iTunes (I'll get your email addresses when we have the winners). That way, when the mood strikes, you'll be able to experience the excruciating pain of a failed relationship over and over again.
It'll be like you're an honorary Jew. Except without the bad wine and lackluster holidays.
You're welcome.
Pulsing with possibility, unlike L.A. or Detroit, New York isn't a one company town. Telecommunications, fashion, commerce, advertising, movies, television, theater, finance, art, publishing and more. It's all there for the taking.
One of the great rites of passage in anyone's life is their first trip to New York. The energy, the crowds, the buildings and architecture (not counting the Trump buildings), the lights - it's unforgettable.
This past summer my son got to experience it all. That's the good news. The bad news is he got to experience it without me.
I wanted to be the one to show both my kids New York for the first time. When I found out towards the end of last year that my son was going on a class trip to Washington D.C. and New York this past June, I thought it'd be great to take him there first. For starters, he'd have a leg up on his class. I'd show him things he wouldn't see with the class (get that thought out of your head). Plus he'd know his way around when he got there with the group.
And most importantly, he would have seen the city for the first time with me.
Long story short, if that's possible at this point, is like so much in life, it came down to timing. I couldn't make the days work for everyone's schedule so the family could go together. And the days we could all go, seats weren't available (I was going to cash in airline miles for the trip before the airline took them away or told me they "expired").
So he went with his class. And without me. It may not be a big deal in the scheme of things, but it feels like it. It's like someone else taught him to ride a bike or how to shave or drive a car. To me, New York is something you learn from your dad. Maybe it's because my dad was from Brooklyn that I feel so strongly about it. Even writing about it now makes my heart hurt. It kills me. I just should've poured gas on the credit cards, yanked him out of school and gone.
Would'a could'a should'a.
Rational or not, logical or not, big deal or not, I know I'll always regret not doing it.
Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not exactly a glass-half-full guy. But, as many people have pointed out to me, after having said all this, there are a couple positive points to be made.
One is that I got to learn a lesson apparently I need to keep learning - only it sunk in deeper than ever before this time. That's if I want to do something, then do it. Find a way. Don't wait. I don't take no for an answer in many lesser parts of my life, I won't do it again on something that holds this much meaning for me.
Another thing is the trip he went on was an educational outing to those cities. The class was running around from sun up to almost midnight every night, and was actually only in the city for two days. Which means even though he did ride a subway, see a Broadway show and go to the top of the Empire State Building for the first time without me, there are still plenty of great New York experiences waiting for us to have together.
There are also the many friends I haven't seen in so long, and who have never met my kids. We could fill up a week with that alone.
So, from now on I'll make a point of trying not to dwell on what could've been, and I'll start narrowing my focus to all the things I will get to show him.
And while I'm at it, I'll keep a smile on my face. Because I know exactly who's going to show my daughter New York for the first time.
Don't get me wrong: sometimes, when the mood strikes, there's just no substitute for knowing what my friends had for breakfast, how they're feeling, what they're watching, who they're with, the latest new age quote they like, seeing pictures of their dog (cat, parrot, fish, etc.), reading which team they like/don't like, linking to their blogs, reading what they think of the weather and seeing that video clip from YouTube that's been posted to my wall ten times because, let's face it, my friends have the same sense of humor as I do.
But lately the mood for all that isn't striking very often. And after the Facebook experience I had over the weekend, I imagine it will strike a lot less.
Like most people on FB, I have different circles of "friends." There's the inner circle, the next to the inner circle, whatever the next circle is and then the one after that.
Then on the very last ring, way out on the periphery, are the acquaintances. People I've met once or twice, and in a casual trying-to-be-nice way, either invited or accepted their invitation to be friends. They're not the problem. The problem is they have friends I've never met who occasionally like to chime in on one of my comments.
A friend of my acquaintance took strong exception to what I was saying, and we proceeded to get into a fierce, fiery, name-calling back and forth on her wall about it. During the course of the "discussion", this person made the point that she had a doctorate from Johns Hopkins and was a world history teacher.
Both impressive accomplishments. But she was still wrong.
Yet late into the evening she was still writing columns about why she disagreed. I admit for a good part of the day I couldn't wait to look on FB and see what babbling rant she'd posted so I could reply. I got sucked into the ramblings of a crazy person I didn't know.
With a doctorate from Johns Hopkins.
After she started calling me a sexist because I disagreed with her, it really became clear to me what I was dealing with. I'd given more than enough effort and time I'll never get back to this person. I decided it was time to stop the insanity. I said, "Wow, you're an angry elf. I wish you nothing but the best." Then for good measure, I blocked her on my FB account, and unfriended my acquaintance.
Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.
So while I'm not done with FB entirely, I am done with getting so carried away I waste most of a weekend day waiting to respond to someone I don't know and couldn't care less what they think about the Steve Jobs poster or anything else.
I know she learned a lot at Johns Hopkins, because she told me she did. But apparently they don't teach the one bit of wisdom and advice that could've helped her avoid sounding like a raging lunatic to a complete stranger.
Shatner said it best in that famous Saturday Night Live sketch:
Get a life.
I'm not quite sure why I'm doing a post about Kenny Rogers' botched plastic surgery. I've never had any done myself (not counting that penis reduction procedure - it was just so freakishly huge I had to do something), and neither has anyone in my family. Maybe it's on my mind because I just did a post about Terri Hatcher and couldn't help but mentioning the work she's had done.
He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces, And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes. - lyrics from The Gambler
There's an awesome website called Men Who Look Like Kenny Rogers. I used to think only a few of them were dead on, but the more the real Kenny's face changes, the more people on that site look like him. I guess bad plastic surgery (seriously, buck teeth? How does that happen?) leaves more room for interpretation.
When Kenny sang Ruby Don't Take Your Love To Town, years before he ever had his first nip or tuck, I'll bet he never knew he was predicting his own future:
And yes, it's true that I'm not the man I used to be...
People more frightened, more practical and more employed than me have said I shouldn't name names, because "You never know where you'll wind up and who knows who and blah blah blah..."
So I won't name names. I'll leave clues. See if you can get in touch with your inneR Colombo and figure out the genius who said it to me.
Here's the thing. I was freelancing at this big agency that prints money off its one main automotive account. I'm tempted to tell you the name of the agency, but those same people who say I shouldn't name names also say I shouldn't name agencies, so I won't.
Saatchi.
I mean I don't want to sound mercenary about it, but it is freelance. What do you need, a roadmap? Anyway, it's kind of the same way I feel about agency tItles. They're pretty useless. I really don't care if you call me creative director or janitor. As long as you say it with cash.
But I digress.
The person who'd hired me and another freelance writer named Lori neglected to tell us he'd given notice. So the second week we were there, he was gone. Which was fine. Lori and I are both senior people, and we just carried on creative directing each others work and getting the job done. One part of the job was that Matrix broChure. I'd written it, it'd been routed and was virtually on its way out the door.
Right at that point, a freelance associate creative director (speaking of useless titles) was brought in to oversee the work until someone permanent was hired.
Again, not naming names, but I Hope you're reading closely.
This acd (lower case intentional) stopped the presses and wanted to review all the Copy.
In the brOchure I talked about the cargo space in the Matrix, mentioNing all the different kinds of things you could carry in it. It was something along the lines of three mothers-in-law, two surfboards and eighteen wiener dogs.
The wiener dogs are what did me in.
The project manager told me that the freelance acd, who'd been on the job and immersed in the culture of Toyota and Saatchi for a staggering total of two days, wanted to talk to me about the copy. I asked what the problem was, and she rolled her eyes and said I'd better speak to him myself.
So I called him. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Hey, what's up?
Him: I wanted to talK to you about the Matrix copy.
Me: Okay.
Him: Here, where you say "wiener dogs", you're talking about dachshunds right?
Me: Yep.
Him: Well there could be some confusion between that and hot dogs. (by the way, that wasn't the stupid comment, although definitely a close second).
Me: I don't think it'll be a problem. Look - you're a bright guy, you figured it out.
Him: Well, the other thing I'm really worried about is that PETA might come after us. (THAT was the comment.)
I couldn't help myself - it just came tumbling out.
Me: Are you f#$&ing kidding me?!
Him: Well you know Toyota is a big target with deep pockets, and I'd hate to have PETA all over us for this. (Third runner up.)
Me: First of all, driving small dogs in a car isn't animaL abuse. And second, I'm pretty sure PETA has better things to do than go looking through Matrix brochures for things to sue over.
Him: Alright, I'm still worried, but go ahead and use your best judgement.
Me: I already did, but thanks.
Now I know I sounded a little hostile. But the stupid needle was way in the red, and, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I have a low threshold. Especially when it's coming from the new kId on the block.
Funny thing is apparently the new kid had a low threshold for my hostility, and the next day, out of the blue, my services as well as Lori's were no longer needed.
So there you go. It would've been nice to finish the gig, but judging from this one conversation we both had sized up each other pretty quickly: he was going to continue to say unbelievably stupid, chickens#&t comments, and I was going to keep calling him on it.
I don't know if this person is a good writer or not. I know he's had a lot of automotive experience. I may have just been on the receiving end of one incredibly stupid comment in an otherwise brilliant career. And now that some time has goNe by, even though I know there's no chance he's reading this, I want him to know I wish him luck no matter where his journey takes him.
Unless it takes him to an agency I'm working at.
Then I wish he just shuts his trap and gets out of the way.
