Take the week off

It's been twelve days since I've posted on here, but I figured that fit right in with the season: twelfth month of the year, twelve days of Christmas. You see where I'm going here.

Now you might be thinking I've simply been too lazy to think of anything worthwhile to write about, but that's not it at all.

Actually I was out shopping for your gift, you know, that thing you told me you wanted way back in summer.

Im not saying that to make you feel bad for thinking I was lazy (but you do don't you? Ha, it worked!)

At any rate it certainly wasn't because I was busy working. In fact, almost everyone who works at an agency wasn't busy working. Every year, the Christmas spirit takes over agencies right after Thanksgiving, kicks in to high gear at Christmas parties in early December and reaches its peak the Friday before Christmas.

That's because while bonuses, flying first class, five-star hotels and expensing lunch has become mostly a thing of the past, one perk of agency life that's still around is the extra paid week off between Christmas and New Year's.

I'd like to report that it's out of the goodness of their hearts these multi-conglomerate global holding companies decide to give employees the week off. But it's more the fact that all the clients are gone for the holidays, nothing gets done or approved anyway and management wants the week off for themselves.

Still - and freelancers appreciate this more than most - a paid week off is a good thing no matter what the reason.

So, while I've had a self-imposed twelve days off from posting already, most likely I'll be giving myself this coming week off in solidarity with my on-staff comrades. In that time, I hope to write down the ideas as they occur, and have plenty of new posts ready for you in the coming year.

Have yourself a Merry Christmas, and a safe and sane New Year.

See you on the other side.

Where she's from

No snarky commentary, pithy insights, agency-slamming editorials or self-indulgent rants today. Nope, just a poem written by the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, most caring, lovliest daughter who's obviously picked up her good looks from her proud dad.

It's times like this I have the feeling I may have done something right.

Where I'm from

I am from pink woobies and hot chocolate
Early morning volleyball tournaments
And late night concerts
I am from grandma and grandpa spoiling me
And my brother always fighting with me

I am from Wendy sharing her crazy stories
And her house that is full of loud animals
I am from beautiful German shepherds
And big Herman Leopards
And family that's always there for me

I am from friends who care
And leaders that share
I am from a tree with heart shaped leaves
And roses that never forget to bloom
I am from a vegetable garden that is full of color and some things as big as balloons

I am from "Go to your room!" and "Great job!"
Making monkey bread on special days
And having yummy challah bread on Hanukah in honor of my dad
I am from sleeping in too late and waking up with God's blessings
And keeping all my blankets close to me
And staying strong with my faith

I am from memories that I keep
The ones that are in a box under my bed
On scrapbook pages
And in my head
I am from memories I will never forget

Grandma got screwed

And now for an update on the patient.

You'll remember back in October I published this post talking about how my mother-in-law had fallen on our top step, broken her arm and was about to have surgery. Well, a lot's happened since that post.

For starters, as you can see by her x-ray, grandma got screwed good and hard four times right after her fall. Given her age and the position she was in, it was exactly what she needed.

Yeah, I'm making sexual innuendos at the expense of an 85-year old woman. Deal with it.

At her recent doctor visit, he was very pleased at her progress. Her arm had regained more movement than he would've expected from someone her age so soon.

She's also lost more than twelve pounds since she's been staying with us because she's eating much better thanks to my wife's cooking and not munching on all the chocolate she has lying around her house.

I don't know what the hell my excuse is.

Where she used to walk up our driveway so she didn't have to climb four steps, she, well, she still walks up the driveway. Except when I'm with her I make her walk the steps. She's a bit set in her ways and severely exercise resistant. Going up the steps is good for her. And of course, making an 85 year old woman work harder is just one of life's great joys.

My living room couch is her bed, and she has everything she needs pretty much within arm's reach - the good arm. And while I can't parade around half-dressed as I'm prone to do, I can still watch the flat-screen late into the night because Grandma drifts off fairly early and her hearing isn't what it used to be.

She'll have her driving privileges back soon, and then I imagine she'll be moving back to her house which she visits once a week after church to pick up a bag full of an obscene amount of junk mail I can only hope for the sake of our forests not all seniors are getting.(Yes, that sentence had 54 words - let's see you do it.)

Every once in awhile Grandma complains about the unfamiliar ache in her arm. Having had a steel plate and five screws in my arm from an auto accident years ago, I completely understand the feeling. It's a unique kind of pain, only made worse when the weather gets chilly or it rains. But it does have its benefits. I used to love setting off the metal detector at the airport. In a pre-9/11 world it was a lot of fun.

Anyway, I make a point of cutting off her complaining at the pass, because it doesn't help us or her in the long run. Instead, what I do is remind her she's not the first person to have a broken arm and she won't be the last (although this is the first broken bone she's ever had).

What I should do is tell her about the great racehorse Barbaro, and the 27 screws he had to endure. And then tell her in that gentle, compassionate, caring way anyone who knows me knows I have, the four little words that would make it all better.

You got off easy.

Wheel Of B-O-R-E-D-O-M

I once told my son I couldn’t imagine a more boring television host than Nick Lachey on The Sing-Off. He took a beat, then said, “Carson Daly.”

He was right of course. But if he said that today, I’d come back with “Pat Sajak.”

A few of you may remember from this post that my mother-in-law, Grandma to the kids, fell at our house, broke her arm and had to have surgery. That was back around October 19th. Since she got out of the hospital she’s been staying with us.

Seems one of the routines we’ve fallen (see what I did there?) into has been following up Jeopardy, which we always watch, with WOF, which we never watched until Grandma was invited to use our couch for a bed for a few weeks. It always reminds me of the old joke that Vanna White is so stupid they have to light the letters so she knows which ones to turn.

But just a few viewings tell you that's the least of this show’s problems.

Let’s start here – apparently the contestants are coached to ar-tic-u-late every word in the answers clearly, distinctly and loudly.

You know, the way people talk in the real world.

Sajak always saunters over to them in his neutral color suit that totally clashes with his spray tan, makes some lame joke in a voice that has no modulation or energy, and then has some excruciatingly awful jokey exchange with the announcer before prizes that the contestants are playing for are announced.

It should replace waterboarding at Gitmo.

Here’s the thing that probably makes it even more unbearable: Grandma is a little hard of hearing, so the volume has to be up. Way up. Hear it from down the block up.

I’m trying to stay social given the circumstances, but I’m finding it too much to take. I wind up doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: going in my room, closing the door and shutting out the world.

Or at least lowering the volume on it.

Drive envy

I don’t like to talk about it because it’s embarrassing. But not long ago I posted a piece about how small my hard drive was, and how I'd get a bad case of drive envy every time I saw a larger one. It’d gotten to the point where I’d get all excited when an app or file would catch my eye, only to be let down knowing my drive would just limp along, unable to handle it.

So I started looking into drive enhancement options. Ways to make my hard drive bigger, improve its performance. I didn’t know which one I’d go with, I only knew I wanted it to be as big as possible.

Well, the waiting paid off. Thanks to the ever-forward march of technology, today I have a really big, shiny hard drive. In just a few hours I went from 320GB to 1TB, and it didn’t even hurt at all (except maybe a little in the wallet).

In the past it wasn’t possible to upgrade to a 1TB drive for my model MacBook Pro. I always thought the problem was the heat, but come to find out it was the size.

No matter what anyone says, when it comes to hard drives every millimeter counts. Since the 1TB drive is now two millimeters thinner than it used to be, it fit perfectly when the technician carefully slid it inside my laptop.

If it comes down to buying a new laptop or upgrading the one you have, I’d suggest looking into the upgrade.

At first you'll be waving it around, showing off how big it is to anyone who'll look at it. But try not to do too much of that. Keep it in its case. Nobody likes suddenly having one of those shoved right in their face when they aren't expecting it.

You might also feel a little cheap having gone for the upgrade instead of a new one. Don't worry, you're not alone. That feeling will pass.

And besides, your improved performance will be well worth it.

Life of pie

I loves me some pumpkin pie. Always have.

I remember when I was a kid my parents bought a pumpkin pie from Ralphs and had the bad sense to leave me alone with it. I polished off that baby in no time, and when they got home all that was left was an empty pie tin and a kid with a bad, bad stomach ache.

Of course that pie was about a fourth the size of this one.

This is a pumpkin pie from Costco, the mecca of pumpkin pies. Smaller than a crop circle, larger than a manhole cover, this unbelievably tasty dessert is what I've been snacking on since our first Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday night.

You read that right - our first dinner.

Every year, we have the official TG'ing dinner with the family. Pretty routine. The same stories, faces and fights that we have every year. But then, we have a second one on Saturday night with our close friends.

And while the faces may change, the pie remains the same.

Of course, these pies don't just appear by themselves. Although what a great world this would be if they did. On Wednesday before TG'ing, I make the trek to Costco and pick up three giant pies for the holiday meals. You don't know what fun is until you're fighting for a pumpkin pie at Costco the day before TG'ing.

Anyway, it's Sunday morning and time for breakfast.

Or as we call it here, the sweetest meal of the day.

A good day for almost everyone

Before.

After.

Good vs. Evil

It’s not so much a movie as a direct assault on the nervous system. The first time I ever saw The Exorcist was at the late, great National Theater in Westwood. It was also the last time. Well, the last time I saw it in its entirety.

I can say without hesitation I’ve never been so terrified at a movie, any movie, before or since. There was more than one time I had to close my eyes because I didn't want any one of a number of horrifying images burned into my memory.

So when I saw The Exorcist on my cable channel listings, I thought maybe it’s time to get past my fear and see if I could get through it start to finish a second time, although I use the term “start-to-finish” in the loosest sense of the words.

I knew I had to lay down a few ground rules for myself. First, as I implied a second ago, I wasn’t going to watch it literally start to finish. I’d take breaks, maybe watch a little bit every morning before I went to work – which is what I wound up doing. And that brings me to my second point: I wasn’t going to watch it at night.

It’s not that I’m afraid of things that go bump in the night. I’m afraid of things that levitate, vomit pea soup, spin their heads around and sound like Mercedes McCambridge in the night. No, this was going to be a daytime viewing so I’d have plenty of hours to make sure it wasn’t top of mind just as I was drifting off to dreamland.

Or attempting to.

Now that I’ve seen it again and had a chance to think about it, it wasn’t nearly as scary as the first time. At least not in the same way. I can see now the effects, which while still great, were limited by the technology of the time. The head spinning doesn’t look quite as real as it did. The levitating looks like a magic trick. The blood, hers and others, looks a little too red to be real.

What is even better than I remember is the caliber of acting from the entire cast. The subtlety and nuance in each actor's performance is nothing short of remarkable. It would've been easy to drift into the expected horror film hamminess, but no one in the movie treats the material as anything other than real.

But what's as scary to me now as it was then is the idea of good versus evil. I’m a believer there's evil in the world, and there's a constant battle going on. Don't believe me? Pick up a newspaper (or an iPad).

The scene where Father Karras says to Father Merrin, “I believe there are three distinct personalities.” And Father Merrin replies, “There is only one.” rings true to me.

The tricks the devil uses in the movie to deceive - a combination of lies with just enough truth mixed in - seem eerily similar to what goes on in the world around us every day.

I think that's the power of the film, reminding us that the battle between good and evil is ongoing and real. And if we let our guard down for a second, the wrong side wins.

Which makes The Exorcist a film worth watching with your eyes open.

Quit asking

From presidential debates to housing values to climate change, people have to stop asking the question, "Is this the new normal?"

Don't get me wrong, I liked it the first time I heard it - a hundred thousand times ago. But like "at the end of the day," "having said that," "___ is the new 30" and "______ is the new black," I've heard it more than one time too many. It's worn out its welcome.

What bothers me about it is the fearfulness it represents. The minute anything changes, the question is asked. But how can one really know, because by the time you give or get an answer, things have changed again.

Catch phrases get popular fast and spread like wildfire: it's hard to know why one becomes timeless and another just becomes annoying. For every "And there's nothing wrong with that." there's a "Really?" gasping for air in the gutter.

I know, you read this blog for an occasional smile and witty end line, and today all you get is complaining.

I know what you're thinking.

Don't ask.

Humorous Religious Birthday Male Amputee Red Hair 30+

Segmentation is nothing new to advertising and marketing. We’ve been carving our clients’ targets into slimmer and slimmer segments forever, using things like age, sex, interests, interests in sex (see what I did there?), zip code, household income, number of dogs, kind of car, etc.

But the practice seems to have spilled over into other areas.

Cable channels are a good example: if you’re a foodie, the Food Network is there for you. Shopaholic? QVC 24/7. Weather enthusiast? First, if you are I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. But secondly, there’s always the Weather Channel with local weather on the 8’s – so I hear.

I recently came up against the latest example when I was looking for a birthday card for my nephew.

On the racks, the greeting cards were segmented into not only the examples here, but dozens more. All I wanted was a card that said Happy Birthday. They don’t make it easy. Maybe they think they are, but they’re not.

I should probably head over to the Complaints Chain Store CEO 50+ Birthday Cards Relatives and see what I can find.

Urine no position to talk

I am a series of contradictions. I’m private by nature, but also a little social butterfly. Outgoing, but guarded. I like good conversation, but have no patience for small talk. I’d never describe myself as chatty, especially in certain places.

Like elevators. Or restrooms.

For some reason, the design of most men’s rooms is far too neighborly for me. At least a lot of them have the good sense to put up a divider between urinals. But even that doesn’t stop these lamebrains with full bladders and empty heads from wanting to strike up a conversation while emptying the tank.

Here’s my question: how starved for conversation are you that you feel the need to talk to a complete stranger while they’re peeing?

It usually starts with a head nod, and the usual, “Hey.” Who the hell knows where it goes from there: sports scores, cars, women. Happy to talk about them all.

Just. Not. Here.

It’s like going to clubs and seeing guys in the men’s room on their cell phones. Is that the best place to make the call? Not that urinals and toilets flushing don't make a lovely backdrop to the conversation.

Fortunately, side-by-side isn’t the only option where I’m currently working. There’s one urinal off by itself, a stall wall on one side, and a tile wall on the other. Conversation proof and private. Or as private as it can be in a public restroom. This is the one I use. If it’s busy, I’ll leave and go to another men’s room on another floor in the building. They’re all the same.

I know what you're thinking: if I want privacy, why not just use a stall? Because if I use a stall I have to close the door and lock it. I'm a bit of a germophobe. I don't want to touch more things than I have to, if you get my drift.

So a little advice when nature calls. Go, do your business, and leave. Don’t strike up a conversation, with me or anybody else.

Because you know what's almost more unbearable than being involved in a bathroom conversation? Listening to one.

Movin' on down

I have a good friend who's constantly reminding me that any day above ground is a good day. I think that's probably true for most people.

Unless you're Sherman Hemsley, who's been above ground since he died of lung cancer on July 24th.

Well, above ground and in refrigerated storage in a funeral home in El Paso.

A long way from the east side.

Seems the hold up was, and I know you'll be as shocked as I was, money. After Hemsley died, his half-brother crawled out of the woodwork and sued his brother's companion of the last 20 years, Flora Bernal, to be made executor of his estate. Sadly, it's been a very long time since The Jeffersons. His estate was estimated at just over $50,000.

Today the judge ruled against his half-brother, and kept Flora Bernal executor per Hemsley's last wishes in his will. She is now free to manage his estate, and finally put his body to rest.

There's not a lot of dignity in death as it is. But being on ice for three and a half months while people fight over your estate sure takes away what little there may have been left.

But it's all settled now, and he's finally movin' on up to that deluxe apartment in the sky.

Finally, rest in peace Sherman.

Enforce the death penalty

Last Tuesday, Proposition 34, which would've repealed the death penalty in California, was defeated. As well it should've been.

In the week leading up to the vote, and early election eve before all the precincts had been counted, some of my well-intentioned friends were posting fast and furious about how Prop. 34 needed to pass. They talked about how immoral the death penalty is. How it isn't a deterrent. That it was costing the state too much.

As if it were about cost.

I love my friends, and appreciate their sentiments. But I'd like to explain why I think they're wrong on this one. Let's take it point by point:

Moral equivalency

For starters, I've never bought the argument that putting murderers, and in particular child murderers, to death brings us down to their level. It is an absolutely false analogy. Violently murdering innocent adults and young children, then executing the murderer as a consequence of their crime are two completely different things. No matter how much you'd like them to be, they aren't morally equivalent.

Not a deterrent

The fact is the death penalty is the best deterrent there is. Not to criminals in general, but certainly to the individual being executed. I guarantee you nothing deters a convicted murderer more from committing another murder than being put to death. Besides, while some corners would have you believe the reason for it is to act as a deterrent, it's not. It's about enacting justice for a heinous crime.

Costs too much

I recognize it's a reality, but it still seems vulgar to me to talk about it in terms of cost. And I'm not sure where cost comes into the equation when it comes to justice. The argument is all the mandatory appeals that go on for years - years that are torturous and cruel for the victim's families - is much more expensive than life imprisonment. Although most anti-death penalty proponents choose to ignore it, when the hidden cost of items like medical care, psychiatric care, educational benefits (yes, benefits) are factored in, especially for convicted killers with a life expectancy of 40 or 50 years, it becomes more costly to warehouse them for life. If people are genuinely concerned about the cost, instead of arguing against the law they should be advocating for the layers and years of appeals to be handled in fiscally responsible, expeditious manner.

It's inhumane

I think the notion that lethal injection - executing a prisoner in the same manner as you'd euthanize a pet - is inhumane needs a point of reference. Inhumane as opposed to what? Stabbing a 4-year old child 50 times in the bathtub? Using the claw end of a hammer to bludgeon someone to death? Decapitating a 7-year old, then for good measure cutting off his hands and feet? It's nice to care so much about the guilty, but I believe the concern is misplaced.

And while we're on the subject of inhumane, let me again mention the victim's family. The real inhumanity is the fact they have to wait decades while the California appeals process runs its course. Decades without their loved ones. Decades of knowing their tax dollars are paying for three squares a day for the monster that killed their baby, sister, brother, mother, father, friend. I not a big fan of Texas, but in 1998 they passed a law expediting the appeals process. People think they execute people like crazy, but the numbers tell you they don't have a higher amount of people on death row. They execute a higher percentage of them because of the expedited appeals.

I also notice many of my friends against the death penalty aren't parents. I'm not saying that in a judgmental way, it's just an observation. I do think, as any parent will tell you, that having children changes your perspective on the issue in ways you never could've expected. I can't even watch movies like Ransom or Without A Trace anymore.

I do agree the system needs to be overhauled, although probably not in the same way my friends do. Again, I think California needs to take a page from Texas' book and reform the appeals process. Expedite it, and reduce the number of appeals given to convicted murderers, especially in cases where DNA is the primary evidence.

If you've followed this blog at all, you know this isn't a new position for me. I've posted here, here, here, here and here about criminals for whom death doesn't come close to being a good enough punishment. Sadly, there never seems to be any shortage of them.

My wish is that nothing bad enough ever happens to anyone I know to change their mind if they're against it.

But I also hope they consider the people who's lives are forever changed by these killers, and think about the only way they and the victims can ever truly have justice.

Argo and see it

It seems to me one of the toughest hat tricks to pull off when you’re making a movie based on a real-life incident is building suspense when the audience already knows how it ends.

In fact, that used to be my joke when anyone said they were going to see Passion Of The Christ. I’d say, “Want to know how it ends?” I love that joke – if they ever re-release the movie I may resurrect it.

BAM! Thanks, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress.

Back to the point.

When a movie’s able to pull it off well, to make you forget the actual real life outcome and root for the ending, it’s downright miraculous. The ones that do it well, movies like Apollo 13, Miracle, Thirteen Days or JFK, are rare.

The reason I mention it is I saw Argo for the second time this weekend. It’s an outstanding picture, and Ben Affleck – already one of my favorite directors - is batting three for three. Not a lot of people knew about the clandestine operation by the CIA to get the six hostages out of Iran disguised as a movie crew during the height of the hostage crisis. But once the publicity machine started, everyone knew it was successful.

Despite that knowledge, the suspense is breathtaking. You’re literally on the edge of your seat.

At the end of the film, during the credits, the actors are show side-by-side with the real life people they're portraying. If there was ever a film that made the argument for a casting director Oscar, this would be it.

After a long, summer drought of movies I've wanted to escape from, it's refreshing to find one I want to escape to again and again.

The Shithouse Poet

One of the jobs of a copywriter is to find exactly the perfect words to describe what you’re talking about. Revision after revision, you rewrite, hone and whittle the copy down to turn the precise, interesting phrase to perfectly describe your subject.

When you get there, you know it instantly.

And when someone else comes up with it, you know that too.

I have a writer friend of mine I’ve known coming up on twenty years. He’s a writer of some renown in the business, and we’ve worked together as well as crossed paths at a number of agencies over the years.

This one agency we worked at decided to bring in a creative director to bolster its creative chops. So they brought in a guy originally from one of the big cities in California. I won’t say which one.

But it’s known for, among other things, sourdough bread, a bridge and cable cars.

Anyway, this creative director fancied himself a renaissance writer. He'd made his reputation with two big successes: drinking before eight in the morning every day of his life, and making sure no one he ever worked with in that California city remembers him in a vertical position.

I kid. I kid because I love.

Actually the award-winning, nationally recognized work he did for a sparkling water account and, at the time, a brand new car company is where he made his mark. He had a folksy style he thought was appropriate regardless of the account he was working on.

He also had a deep baritone voice he decided would be the voiceover for all the radio and tv we were doing on every account.

Someone thought very highly of himself.

I was talking to my writer friend one day about this creative director, and my friend called him the "shithouse poet."

I was crying I was laughing so hard. It. Was. Perfect. In two exacting words, he'd captured the essence of who this guy had been, was and would always be.

I'm still in awe of it.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, the phrase pops into my head. And when it does, it brings me as much joy as the first time my friend said it.

Sparkling water, cars or anything else, I'm pretty sure the shithouse poet never described anything so perfectly.

The impossible dream

Tossing and turning, bathroom runs and a dog that picks 2 a.m. to bark at nothing. Whatever happened to a good night’s sleep? I can’t even tell you the last time I had one. I can tell you I’m not alone.

Everyone I know is walking around in this fugue state brought on by sleep deprivation. I don’t have a friend who’s getting the rest they need and deserve. What makes it worse is since I’m awake so much of the night, I have plenty of time to sit there and remember a time when I could just hit the sack, and log about nine or ten hours in what would seem like the blink of an eye.

Not anymore.

The result is a never-ending state of this low level exhaustion which I’m pretty sure can’t be good for me. I think I need to stop checking my iPhone every few minutes, turn off the television before midnight and quit drinking a glass of water before I go to bed. The brain waves have to be slowed down (although many people who work with me would argue they’re plenty slow already).

The other problem is it seems when I finally hit my best sleep, the one where I’m dreaming and really down deep, it’s time to get up.

So much of life is timing.

If catnaps were an option during the day I’d definitely do it. I’m at the point now where, even if I can’t have it straight through, I’m going to take my sleep where I can find it.

Come to think of it, I have three meetings tomorrow.

Better remember to bring my pillow.

Humerus ain't it

The top step strikes again.

When you come visit our house, there's a winding, brick walkway from the sidewalk to our front door. You climb four stairs from the street, then two more at the front door.

Those last two are the ones that get you.

A few years ago I personally tripped on the top step, went flying into the door jamb and cracked my head open. When I got to the ER, because the head is so vascular, I looked like I'd been at the scene of the murder. After a quick exam, the choice the doctor gave me was stitches or staples. I took the staples. I thought it would be some high tech piece of equipment that seamlessly and painlessly stapled the wound together so it could heal quickly. Not so much. It felt like a Swingline from Office Max.

Medical technology isn't nearly as sophisticated as you'd hope.

Anyway, last night, the top step claimed another victim.

My mother-in-law had picked up my daughter and was bringing her home. My daughter went into the house first, and Grandma was behind her when she caught her shoe on the top step and went flying into the door jamb with her full weight propelling her. She hit her right side hard, and broke her humerus bone just above the elbow.

The x-ray above isn't hers, but it's about what her injury looks like.

She's 85 years old, and tomorrow morning she'll have surgery to repair her arm. Then both her and her dog Barnabus will stay with us a bit while she recuperates.

Her outlook is good and she's in good spirits. Her blood pressure is 120/70, and despite her age she's never taken a pill for it a day in her life. Plus her side of the family usually goes to around 100, give or take.

Essentially what I'm saying is the door jamb didn't try hard enough. It's going to take more than surgery, healing and physical therapy afterwards to keep her down. She's going to be around a long, long time.

Which is exactly the way we like it.

Radio radio

Yesterday I was talking about radio with my pal Rich Siegel, author, owner and grand poobah of Round Seventeen. In one of my many business schemes, I asked Rich why don’t we start a radio production company. We’re both good writers with lots of radio production experience. It seemed like a win-win to me.

Rich replied, “Who pays for radio anymore?”

Thanks pal. Here’s my balloon –pop it.

Of course, he’s right.

For starters, there’s not a lot of radio being done, and what little there is certainly doesn't have any money – real money – thrown against it. Agencies usually just hand it off to the juniors, or the interns because they pay them even less than the juniors.

In most agencies, radio is considered the bastard stepchild to, well, to just about every other media. Maybe it’s because good radio is so hard to do, but many writers suddenly seem to get swamped when a radio assignment is up for grabs.

I’ve never looked at it that way.

The fact is, for the most part, the agency leaves you alone when you write radio. It’s not that high on the glam-o-meter, so you can usually fly under the radar and write some pretty fun stuff. But let me go back to an earlier point: good radio is hard to do.

There are of course basic rules to writing good radio. But if you've listened to any radio commercials lately, I'm sure you'll agree there need to be more.

Here are a few I’d add:

First, no more spots where the listener is eavesdropping on the recording session, and then the talent realizes they’re recording.

Next, no fake stand-up comedians with bad fake material and fake canned laughs.

Then, no more spots where the talent is talking about a sale with another talent, and suddenly there’s a door slam sound effect and the first talent says something to the effect of, “I guess everybody’s going to the (CLIENT NAME HERE) sale!”

Even though many writers use them, filler lines have got to go. You know the ones I mean. Lines like “so what’re you waiting for?” or “Hurry in now, the only thing that’ll be gone faster than these (PRODUCT NAME) is this sale.“

Lastly, the direction “more energy, have fun with it” must be banned from all recording sessions. No real person is that happy about having to take erectile dysfunction pills or diarrhea medicines.

This isn't the first time Rich and I have talked about starting a business. Just a few days ago, he suggested we start a deli.

I thought it was a good idea. Obviously, since we work in agencies, we already have enough baloney to stock it.

Where cars go to die

Let me give you a gift, my own cautionary tale about why you should never buy a car at Carmax. It doesn't originate from buying one there. It comes from selling one.

I used to drive an Audi A6. Of all the cars I've owned, it was my favorite (my least favorite was my first - a 1965 Plymouth Fury, don't get me started). I'd get behind the wheel of my A6 and hit the curved freeway onramp by my house at 70 mph. It stuck like glue. After all, it was a car built for the autobahn. I’ve since tried it with my Lexus ES350, not exactly the same experience. (The picture below is an actual picture of both cars - can you tell there's a certain look I go for? I know it's hard..)

Anyway, one day I was on my way to work at Dentsu in Brea to work on Suzuki (remember my motto: the checks clear). While I was stuck in gridlocked, rush-hour traffic, I looked to my left to see a ton of white smoke billowing up. My first thought was I wonder if the car next to me knows that’s coming from her car. Then I looked forward, and saw more smoke coming from under the hood of my Audi. Fortunately I was close enough to an off-ramp to get off the freeway quickly.

It’s amazing how fast traffic will let you through when they think you’re on fire.

Come to find out I wasn't actually on fire: I was on fire adjacent. There was highly flammable transmission fluid leaking onto the catalytic converter, which runs at about 1500 degrees.

I managed to get the A6 back to my independent Audi mechanic in Long Beach, who told me the only reason I made it without catching fire is my speed was blowing the fluid off the bottom of my car. Long story short (if that’s even possible at this point), it cost me $3500 for them to fix the transmission well enough to get my car to run without the “check engine” light long enough to get it over to Carmax.

Now, here’s the thing with Carmax. Before they make an offer, they do a thorough inspection and test drive of your car. Apparently, mine passed with flying colors. That in itself may be all you need to know about Carmax.

So how much did they offer me? You got it. $3500. I broke even, which, just like when I'm in Vegas, I consider a win.

I miss the A6 often - usually when I'm hitting that onramp in the Lexus - and I hope Carmax just took the car for parts and didn’t sell it to anyone. However it is comforting to know they're there if you have to unload a car fast and get it off your hands.

And by the way, they don't carry very many hard-to-find makes and models. I'm telling you this because if you're at Carmax in the next couple of weeks, and you see a '97 Saab Turbo you think you might be interested in, do yourself a favor and pass on it.

It's not important how I know. Trust me.

The early signs

When my son was younger, much younger, I gave him a set of children's story books my parents had given me. Bound and colorful (the books, not my son), they were filled with the classic stories we've all grown up with. The set of books sits on his dresser, which is what he happened to be cleaning last night as he decided to attack the living ecosystem that is his room.

Going through the books, tucked between Little Red Riding Hood and Jack The Giant Killer, he discovered a couple of handwritten pages. The big surprise is that they were handwritten by me, a long time ago in a galaxy far away.

When he brought them out to me, there are two things I noticed right away. First, not bad handwriting for a 5th or 6th grader. And second, that short, clever, memorable headline that brings a smile to your face and tells the whole story in six carefully chosen words:

Pitcher Throws Himself Out of Baseball

I have some vague recollection of writing for my elementary school newspaper. And because, once again God proves he has a sense of humor, I was assigned to write about sports. In this case, the self-imposed retirement of Sandy Koufax.

It's hard to pinpoint when we first display a knack for what we'll be doing later on in our adult life. Whether it's growing up to be a fireman, doctor, politician or Dexter, the early signs may go undetected until the potential is realized.

Also, I never set out to be a writer. I was a Hollywood kid - I wanted to be an actor. I just didn't want it enough.

But it's funny where we wind up, and interesting to look back and see that even then, maybe, I had a bit of a knack for it.

The other thing I like about it is my son now has a bit of dad history as keepsake. It's not digital. He can hold it in his hands.

Perhaps years from now, after I'm long gone, late at night when he's thinking about me, he'll take it out, slowly read it, and with a slight smile on his face and a tear on deck, sigh deeply and think the only thought he can have about his old man after reading it.

"I can't believe they wanted him to write about sports."

What goes down must come up

Funny thing about food poisoning. If it's a good meal, you enjoy getting it even though you don’t know you’re getting it. It's only about eight hours later - when it decides to wake up and kick in - that you really sit down and re-evaluate your dining choices.

And you’ll be doing plenty of sitting down.

Last Tuesday I ate at The Counter in Hermosa Beach for lunch. If you haven't been there, and my guess is after reading this you won't be going anytime soon, it’s basically an upscale burger place. When you walk in, you’re greeted by the surprisingly uninviting, sparse, cold and unwelcoming décor. Once seated, you’re given a clipboard with choices of meats, toppings, buns and dressings, and basically get to build your burger. I’ve eaten at a few different locations in the chain, and always had a good burger there. In fact, the one I had last Tuesday was great.

Then, later that night…

About 10 pm I started to feel a little nauseous. About 10:10 pm, it had escalated severely and I began what turned out to be an eight-hour, home improvement extreme makeover from master bathroom into vomitorium. When there was a break in the action, I ran – and I do mean ran – to the kitchen to get a bucket, and then back to the bathroom.

Why the bucket? Well, remember the part about sitting down. Yeah, so that happened. I didn’t know I’d ordered the two-for-one special, if you get my drift.

Wednesday morning, after a completely sleepless night, I was wrecked. My throat was raw and raspy as could be, and when I tried to talk I sounded like Demi Moore in A Few Good Men. My ribs and abs hadn’t had that kind of workout in years. They’re still screaming at me not to do it again.

Also, because of that, I can’t find a comfortable position to lay down, so, no good sleep for the last three days.

I don’t remember checking any of this on the clipboard.

Yesterday, my wife called The Counter in Hermosa to speak with the manager and let her know what happened – not to get anything from them, just to let them know so they could check their food and make sure it didn’t happen to anyone else.

And guess what? The manager was very defensive. I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

“Where else did he eat?”

Nowhere.

“We’re very careful with how we handle the food.”

I’m sure you are.

“What toppings did he have?”

Whatever they were I’m sure he didn’t order the e coli.

Here’s the thing: I’m not 8 and I’m not 80. I was pretty much done with it in 36 hours. But is it really good corporate policy to act snotty and defensive when one of your customers is trying to tell you something that might actually help you – even if you don’t want to hear it? I promise you it’s not.

I might’ve been willing to write it off as a fluke if the manager’s attitude had been a little more appropriate. And their burger didn't make me feel like I was dying for the last couple of days.

But now, as I go down my list of burger places to eat at with my family and friends, there's definitely one box I won’t be checking.

On our Mark

For many people, this time of year kicks off a certain kind of joy. It’s the exciting and festive start of the holiday season, with at least one major celebration a month from now until the end of the year. The air is thick with anticipation.

But for me, October brings something a little darker now – a little more Woody Allen in attitude.

It's a reminder the year is running out of time. The days get shorter, the night comes earlier, the chill lasts longer. Also, every October is one more year my lifelong friend Mark Geldman has been gone.

Mark died of cancer in October 2007, but not before living a wild, full and adventurous life. Not only was he one of my very best friends, he was also an artist, a poet, a writer, an activist, an entrepreneur and a ladies man. He was married four times. Some people just never learn.

In high school, there were three of us: me, Mark and Sandy Frey. We were inseparable and unstoppable. Together, we stole our parents cars before we could legally drive (note to my kids: don’t even think it). We organized a political demonstration that shut down our junior high school for a few days. At the time, Mark was a member of the Young Socialist Alliance, and his parents belonged to the Socialist Workers Party. If I heard one lecture about Eugene Debs I heard a hundred. (As a side note, years later when I asked Mark if he was still a socialist, he told me he worked in Hollywood, where everyone including him was a devout capitalist).

Anyway, like friendships that have been so close for so long sometimes do, we went our different ways after high school.

About 14 years ago, I was reading the Calendar section of the L.A. Times. It was some article about Mickey Rourke and how impossible he was being (I know, I was as shocked as you are) with a project he was involved in. The article listed the screenwriter as Mark Geldman. I hadn’t seen or heard Mark’s name in a very long time, and wondered whether it was the same one. So I called 411, asked for his number, and got it. Then I called him.

I think our first conversation was two hours – two wonderful hours catching up on the years that’d gone by.

I wound up reconnecting for a short time with Mark. My wife and I had dinner at his house. We met his wife and kids. They came to our house. It was a great time. The thing about knowing someone so long and well is they can fill in the blanks for you. Among other things, Mark reminded me of a dinner we'd had years earlier at an Indian restaurant in New York called Nirvana (I didn't even remember being in New York). And of the Tribeca apartment he could've signed a 20-year lease on for $300 a month.

It’s easy for me to recall the last time I saw Mark because I have a good milestone to remember it. It was the night before my daughter was born. Together with our wives, we had dinner at L’Opera in downtown Long Beach. It was a drizzly Sunday night, and we were sitting by the large windows looking out at the Metro Blue Line as it came and went. It was all very east coast, and it felt right.

And then he was gone. I never spoke to him again.

Fast forward to the end of September, beginning of October 2007. I got a call from Mark’s high school girlfriend and fourth wife, Jodi. When I answered, in tears she said, “We lost Mark.” When I told my wife Mark had died, the first words out of her mouth were, “You have to tell Sandy.”

I couldn’t even remember the last time I talked to Sandy, so I took to the interwebs and Googled him. Turns out Sandy was a partner in a prestigious law firm in downtown L.A. Come to find out in what I now refer to as the lost years, he done good.

I emailed him about Mark passing away, and I now know when he got the email he was in a client meeting and had to step outside because of the tears in his eyes.

When Jodi let me know the date of the memorial service, Sandy and I got together beforehand for a reunion of our own. Even though Mark wasn’t there, he couldn’t have been more present. As Mark and I had done, Sandy and I spent the time we had before the service filling in the blanks for each other, rekindling both memories and a friendship that had never really been gone, just dormant.

At the service, although we didn’t speak, we were spoken about. People talked about Mark’s friends Sandy and Jeff because they’d heard about us from Mark.

While a lot of that day is a blur, the thing I remember most is after the service and get together at his cousins house, Sandy and I were walking to our cars with Ron Yanover, Mark’s writing partner. He told us how often Mark had spoken of us over the years. Then, he stopped for a minute and said, “We had the best of him.”

What brought all this on is now, every year since Mark's service, Sandy and I get together around October 8th, Mark’s birthday, to have dinner at Blair’s in Silverlake and raise a glass to Mark. Then we have dessert at Pazzo Gelato, the shop Mark opened with his neice and nephew.

I think it’s strange yet comforting Mark managed to bring Sandy and I back together. The three of us were always, and I mean always, together. When Sandy and I are together, it feels like we still are. We both have a fierce determination never to let the years slip away again. At least we know we’ll always see each other one night a year.

Next Wednesday night, you’ll find Sandy and me at Blair’s, talking about ourselves, our work, our lives and Mark.

And remembering we had the best of him.

Darrin did good

At every agency I’ve ever worked at, someone somewhere has a picture in their office of Dick York as bumbling adman Darrin Stephens from the 1960's television show Bewitched. I suppose it’s always around because they can point to it and say that character is nothing like what they - real life advertising people - are like (in most cases).

The funny thing is, the character is also a million miles removed from what Dick York was really like.

By the time he was hired for Bewitched, he was an accomplished actor with several prestige projects on his resume, including a co-starring role with Spencer Tracy in Inherit The Wind. Unknown to Bewitched producers, he also was an addict, hooked on painkillers as a result of a back injury he got filming 1959’s They Came To Cordura, starring Gary Cooper. Eventually his injury forced him to leave the series after the fifth season.

He never regained his career after that, and along with his wife was forced into homelessness for years due to his inability to work. Eventually, when her mother died, they stayed in her house, with Dick as a shut-in now having been diagnosed with emphysema.

But from that house, he found a way to give to others and bring meaning to his life which he knew was coming to an end.

Their residence became a clearing house for organizations nationwide that helped the homeless and needy. Thanks to Dick York, people who would’ve had to go without food, clothing and shelter didn't.

It’s easy to get caught up in the knit-cap, tattoo, hipster attitude of agency life. It's even easier to laugh at a character from a time long past that’s nothing like you are.

Well, for all the people with the picture of Darrin Stephens hanging in their office, here’s another way you're not like him.

He did something that mattered and made a difference in people’s lives.

Yum Kippur

Quick, how many Jews does it take to blog about Yom Kippur? All of 'em.

Not that the internet needed another blogpost about it, what with this fine post at Round Seventeen, and this swell one at Ad-Aged. But I thought what the hell, I'm just sitting here: I may as well write one. After all, we're not supposed to eat today, but apparently typing is still on the table (see what I did there?).

As I've posted before, I'm not really much of a practicing Jew. I don't know if it's because of four long years of Hebrew school and being bar mitzvah'd, or in spite of it. But as a result, whether I want to be or not, I'm still hard-wired to recognize the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. And because Catholics, despite what they think, have never had the market on guilt cornered, I can't help feeling like I should be more of a participant in the customs and traditions of this day. But here's the thing: for me, actually observing it would be a bit hypocritical. Somewhat akin to all the Jews who, since they're not supposed to drive today, make a proud point of walking all the way to the synagogue.

From the parking lot.

Yom Kippur is the one day we're supposed to reflect on and atone for our sins of the past year. I'm not bragging, but I think we both know it's going to take more than one day.

Besides, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not constantly thinking about my sins. Since we're supposed to be fasting on this holy day, each year Yom Kippur only serves to narrow down the sin I should be focusing on most.

Gluttony.

Til death do you part? Good luck with that

I’m not sure, but I think 2000 is the crown-of-diamonds anniversary.

Last week, a piece of papyrus was discovered. On it, Jesus is quoted as saying the words “My wife…” But then, the paper cuts off.

Cue the media frenzy.

“Was Jesus married?” the pundits were asking. Or even worse, stating as fact.

The answer of course is no, he wasn’t. So I hope you kept the receipt for that crock pot.

The fabric it’s written on, much less the statement itself, strike more than a few theological investigators as suspicious since this “discovery” just came to light. The truth is, as Jon Stewart showed last week, Jesus could’ve been saying virtually anything:

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

But I think to discover the real reason Jesus wasn't married, you have to turn to a preacher. Or former one. That's why I think Sam Kinison has the real reason - by the way, this clip is NOT suitable for younger viewers (surprise!):

And if it turns out he was married, all I can say is I hope she gets along with the in-laws.

Buckle up

I used to be terrified of my son getting his driver's permit. Then after giving it some thought, I couldn't wait. It would mean the time when I could hang up my chauffeur's hat would just be that much closer.

Well, he has his permit now. And turnabout fair play, he's become my chauffeur.

First off, let me say he's a very conscientious driver. He takes it seriously, and he's earned my trust behind the wheel.

Of course, having the parents that he does, unfortunately he has a hereditary condition called "lead foot." We'd hoped it would skip a generation as these conditions sometimes do, but no such luck.

Anyway, whenever anything has to get done that requires driving, he drives me there. The market. The dry cleaners. The Lexus dealer. To and from school. Every minute behind the wheel is a learning opportunity for both of us.

Since all the rules of the road are fresh and top of mind to him, it serves two purposes: to make him a better driver, and to make me one as well. I've acquired some sloppy habits over the years (rolling stops, not signaling as often as I should, that "lead foot" thing) that I'm now much more aware of thanks to him. And it's not that he's pointing out my mistakes - it's just me noticing how good he's doing and seeing where I can improve.

In a couple years, when my daughter gets her permit, I have no doubt she'll be a great driver as well.

At the end of the day, all you can do is put them in a safe car, know they're paying attention, and hope they don't have a target on their back.

And making sure they're an excellent driver doesn't hurt either.

Grounded

You know what's more awesome than seeing the space shuttle fly overhead? Nothing.

Like thousands of other people in Southern California, I was on the rooftop of where I'm working to see the final ride and farewell tour of the space shuttle Endeavour. Since my current office isn't far from LAX, I was lucky enough to have a pretty good view of it (although not as good as my wife's, which is the picture you see here).

For as exciting as it was, for me there was an equal amount of sadness. I keep hearing the phrase, "Once in a lifetime." to describe seeing it. And while it's true, I can't help thinking that it shouldn't be that way.

I think about how much inspiration and how many dreams will be lost, because children won't have the excitement of a launch to wake up to.

Growing up, and even into adulthood, I am still in awe of the power and majesty of the shuttle engines as they fire up:

I'll be the first to agree government doesn't get a lot of things right. But one thing they happen to excel at is, or was, the space program. If you don't believe me, just ask any of the other countries who've landed on the moon. Oh, wait a minute.

I know it's an economy that demands tough choices. But sometimes the benefits of money spent aren't entirely tangible. How do you put a pricetag on inspiring children to be engineers, astronauts, pilots and pioneers?

For everything we've gained from the shuttle program, and as grateful as I am to have seen it, today all I can think about is what we're losing.

Rosh hour

Representation of 405 this morning

Today is the day when Jews all over Los Angeles observe the high holy day of Rosh Hashanah. In my experience, I’ve found the best place to observe it is from the freeway.

Whenever the Jewish high holidays roll around, traffic in L.A. is virtually non-existent, especially if you’re headed to the west side or any of the studios (go ahead, tell me I’m wrong).

Being the non-practicing Jew I am, and despite four long, long years of Hebrew school, I don’t really remember much about Rosh Hashanah. It’s either the celebration of the Jewish New Year 5773, or a rejoicing of the fact there’s no traffic on the usually gridlocked 405 for two days in a row.

I’m going with the second one. And I’m going with it at 75 mph.

One tradition of this high holiday is the blowing of the Shofar (this is a family blog - insert your own joke here). I prefer to participate in the alternate tradition of blowing past all the places I’d normally be stuck on the way in.

Not only are the roads empty, so is the office. Truthfully, since work is not allowed on Rosh Hashanah, I probably should’ve stayed home and gone to temple. I haven’t done that since I was 13. But you never know. It could happen.

Meanwhile, I’m sure the ride home will be equally as quick and uncongested. It’s just the kind of drive that makes me wish everyday were a Jewish holiday. But then movies would never get made, and what would I do on Saturdays?

So happy New Year to all my friends of every faith.

And just so you know, next up on the Jewish high holy day calendar in just ten days from now is Yom Kippur – the day of atonement where observing Jews are supposed to fast all day long to atone for the sins of the past year

This post will probably be first on my list.

Trader Joe's is not my friend

Like everyone else who appreciates badly-designed parking lots and checkout counters carefully placed at an illogical 75 degree angle, I shop at Trader Joe's.

I used to shop there because you could get healthier food at a cheaper price.

But the idea of eating healthy goes out the window when the shelves are stocked with tempting little numbers like these.

It's like the Pabst Blue Ribbon they sell at Whole Foods. Kind of takes the wind out of their healthy sales.

Now, I've spoken about the fact that I'm allergic to chocolate on here before, so I won't dwell on it. First let me just say thank you, but I don't need your pity. Second, I'll remind you that it doesn't close my throat or send me into shock or seizures. I just get stuffed up and sneeze - a small price to pay.

The other thing is I've been an orange and chocolate guy from way back. When there used to be a chain of Swensen's Ice Cream shops, they had a flavor called Swiss Orange Chip, which may be the best tasting chocolate/orange combination ever to be served on God's green earth.

A very close second, or berry close second (see what I did there?) is raspberry chocolate sticks. Flavor, texture, size - it just all works for me.

Except the sneezing part, but again, well worth it.

Anyway, the point is that as long as Trader Joe's carries these and many other sweet treats, I can't take their claims of "organic" and "healthy" very seriously.

Although I did hear that the raspberry and orange chocolate sticks are free-range and cage-free.

So that makes me feel better.

My own best censor

If we can't censor ourselves, who can we censor?

I was trying to think of something to post, and I started scrolling down my list of already published posts. Sprinkled throughout that list are drafts that I either started and never finished, or finished and never published.

The constant debate in the blogosphere is whether to self-police our posts, or just throw it all out there, consequences be damned. I've done both. But now I tend to be a little more discerning about the posts I publish.

I'd like to think the reason for this is that I've grown and matured as both a writer and blogger, and can see the value of being more selective in my writing.

Nah, I'm just messin' with ya. I just don't want to look like an ass.

Like most bloggers, I've occasionally used this forum to take after people and agencies in a big, bad, vicious kind of way. And I still say every one of them earned it. The problem is just because they've earned it doesn't mean I have to be the one dishing it out to them.

Almost always, having no filter leads you on the road to oblivion with both friends and potential employers (never a good thing for a freelancer).

If a friend of yours is wearing a hideous shirt - Tommy Bahama comes to mind - and you tell them, you've certainly told the truth. But to what end? What have you accomplished by it?

Now, this is not to say that every once in awhile I don't enjoy not only burning a bridge, but spreading dried leaves over it, some kindling wood then dousing it with gasoline and torching it. It can be very rewarding - but only if you're sure you're never coming back across that bridge again.

I've written posts, taken them down, then written apologies for having posted them in the first place. I used to dig my feet in and say, "It's my blog and I'll say what I want."

But, much like Jules in Pulp Ficition, it appears I'm in a transitional period.

9/11

Satisfaction

Consider this a companion piece to my friend Rich’s post The Way Advertising Should Be over at the fabulous Round Seventeen.

I can’t remember where I found this letter from Mick Jagger to Andy Warhol. It’s been floating around for a long time, but it always brings a smile to my face. Come to find out that Mick is exactly the kind of client we all want.

Who knew.

Let’s break it down shall we. First, Mick makes sure Andy knows how happy he is that he’s going to work on the project. A little positive reinforcement right off the bat - always a good thing.

Next, he provides the materials Andy needs to get the job done. Andy doesn’t have to have his staff call The Rolling Stones Ltd. offices to see what assets are available, what they can use, if there’s a style guide and what format they can be sent in.

Mick goes on to talk about his past, admittedly limited experience with the process, but he clearly understands something most clients don’t: the more complicated it gets, the worse it is. He then tells Andy to do “what ever you want…” , clearly expressing his complete trust in Andy’s taste, experience, thinking and opinions.

Then, he doesn’t put him on a deadline. He doesn’t try to grind him. Instead he offers him as much money as he needs to get the job done correctly.

He wraps it all up saying his representative will call with further information, but if he in anyway tries to rush the project, Mick wants Andy to just ignore it and take the time he needs to do it right.

All I can think is working with Mick must be a gas gas gas.

I have to believe there are still clients like Mick Jagger out there. I’ve even had some that have given me a few of the liberties Mick gave Andy. Still, in the same way it’s hard for a client to find all the qualities he wants in one agency, it’s even more difficult for an agency to find all the qualities they want in a client.

Which only goes to show you can’t always get what you want. But if you try, sometimes…

Home alone

This weekend is going to be awesome. It’s the kind of weekend a guy who’s been married as long as I have with two kids dreams about. And it doesn’t happen very often.

This weekend, the wife and daughter are away at a mother/daughter retreat they go to every year. My son, a student-council vice-president, is away on a student council overnight planning session/beach party. That can only mean one thing.

Saturday night belongs to me, and me alone. (rolling hands together) Muahhhhhh!

Here's how this weekend goes in my rich fantasy life. Since I have the place to myself, I decide to invite over 1500 of my closest friends for a wild, drunken, too-loud music, cigarette burns on the furniture, wine and beer stains on the carpet, cops have to be called kind of party. For reasons best left unsaid, there are hoists and pulleys, whipped cream and garden hoses involved. It goes until sun up.

Now here's how this weekend usually goes in my real life.

I have to make the important decision about dinner. It usually comes down to In-N-Out or Five Guys. I'm thinking this might be a Five Guys kind of Saturday. Then once I'm home, I catch up with the two nights of America's Got Talent and a week's worth of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report that have been sitting on the dvr. I'll finish my Gillian Flynn book. I'll somehow find the energy to get up off the couch and walk and feed Max, world’s greatest dog. Once that's done, I'm back on the couch and asleep by 9, a 48 Hours Mystery blaring in the background (Spoiler: the boyfriend did it).

I hope the family doesn't wake me when they come back. I'll need the rest after the weekend I'm going to have.