Stumped again

To paraphrase Joyce Kilmer:

I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as my neighbors trash cans

In front of my tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a gorgeous tree.

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

With or without trash cans in front of it.

For a few dollars more

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

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

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

On the surface, not a bad deal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello I must be going

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

And my people know people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His assistant and companion Erin Fleming answered.

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

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

Not exactly the welcome we expected.

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

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

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

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

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

To say the least it was a heady time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You want them to what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guilty pleasures Part 1: The Final Destination movies

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

Then do it again.

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

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

And by that I mean death. Dead as disco.

Seriously, who doesn’t like to see that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

For my sake, I hope they don't.

Flush with pride

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

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

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

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

Is there a higher compliment? Apparently not.

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

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

A junior high lynch mob with Charmin instead of torches.

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

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

A game of tagline.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gurus don't settle for that.

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

But I could be wrong about that.

The end justifies the mean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The luckiest actor alive Part 1: Jonah Hill

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

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

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

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

Well, he's not that fat.

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

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

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

Off-putting. By Jonah.

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

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

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

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

Closure. When will it end?

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

But it's the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What it really should make us feel is human.

The client your client could smell like

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

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

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

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

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

Here's why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Perfect Storm

Looking east

Looking west

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

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

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

Not only the perfect storm. The perfect dessert.

My unlikely friend Mel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ironic ain't it.