Sign of stupidity

Now how are we going to thin the herd?

Can't government just stay out of our lives? Apparently they just don't care about the small percentage of people who want to walk in front of moving cars. They've taken away that right. Now those people can't say no one told them not to.

This is obviously a bigger problem than I thought. Or that I would have thought if I thought there were people stupid enough to need a warning about waiting for cars to stop before they cross the street.

At some point, I think local government just has to roll the dice and realize they can't protect people from everything.

Especially themselves.

Cutting corners

When I was growing up, making the bed was an art form. Despite the fact it was a daily chore, when done right it was also a daily accomplishment.

Whether it was called hospital corners or army style, it was what my parents expected every day before I left the house.

Judging by the way my kids leave their beds, it's apparently a lost art form.

Here's the thing - no one has it easier when it comes to making their bed than my kids do. It breaks down like this: the fitted sheet, the top sheet, and either a heavy comforter with a cover for winter or a lightweight one for summer. That's it.

No tucking in sheets, no blankets to corner. Just a sheet to pull up, a comforter to straighten out, and pillows to be placed. Everything in life should be so easy.

Just to see where it clocks in at, I've made both their beds. It can be done in 90 seconds - for both of them.

You see where I'm going here. Despite the fact we've spoiled our kids by making it easier than we ever had it, and easier than it has any right to be, for some reason they still can't get their beds made before they head off to school in the mornings.

It is endlessly frustrating to me. That is until I start thinking about all the other things my kids aren't doing. Like drugs. Neglecting their grades. Being disrespectful to friends and family. Staying up past their bedtimes. Smoking cigarettes. Going on websites they shouldn't be on.

It's all relative (see what I did there?). And they're great kids. So if they're too busy getting good grades and handling more on their plates than I ever had to at their age to make their beds, I'll make a point of finding a way to overlook it.

Maybe I'll even shoot for father of the year and do it for them.

Besides, I could use a little accomplishment right about now.

Goodbye Epstein

Robert Hegyes died today. He was 60 years old.

Those old enough to remember know him best from the '70's show Welcome Back Kotter, where he played Jewish-Puerto Rican student Juan Epstein.

But that's not where I know him best from.

Robert Hegyes was my neighbor when I lived in Santa Monica. I lived on the 17th floor of twin high-rise towers right at the beach (don't get me started), and Hegyes lived downstairs from me on the 16th floor. I saw him almost daily in the hallways, elevators, laundry room and by the mailboxes.

We spoke often, and he was just a great guy. High energy, always had something going - a pilot, a screenplay, a meeting.

A couple of times I saw him in the elevator with his pal John Travolta (remind me to tell you about the time my roommate brought Travolta to our apartment in Brentwood while I was sleeping and didn't wake me up - it's okay, I'm over it). Anyway it was funny because on those occasions Travolta would just look down at the floor and not say a word, and Hegyes would be just as chatty and personable with me as ever.

He always insisted on being called Bobby, and, despite the fact we weren't really close friends, was always interested in what was going on with me and what I was up to.

I always wanted Bobby to find the kind of success he'd had with Kotter. It seemed to me with all the positive energy he projected out into the world, and the happiness he'd brought so many people in the past, that he deserved it.

Over the fourteen years since we moved from Santa Monica, my wife and I have thought of and talked about him, his wife and his kids many times.

He has always been in our very best thoughts.

Which is exactly where he is tonight.

Gunning it

It's been a very long time since I've gotten a speeding ticket. So I imagine the one I got this morning was not just for today's violation, but was in fact kharma for all the times in the past few years I've driven undetected just a tad higher than the speed limit allows.

I used to, well, like isn't the right word, not mind getting speeding tickets. Believe it or not, back in the days before the interwebs you actually had to go in person and spend a day in traffic school to get the ticket wiped off your record so your insurance wouldn't go up. That was the good news. The bad news is you were only allowed to do it once every 18 months.

There were many differently themed traffic schools to choose from. The reason I didn't mind so much is I always chose the Comedians Traffic School. It was taught by working stand-ups, so that made it a lot more bearable. Also it was usually held at the Improv or the Comedy Store - both former haunts of mine (remind me to tell you about the time I got up on open mic night at the Comedy Store in another post).

The other thing is it always gave me a chance to use my favorite traffic school joke.

Inevitably the instructor would say, "How many of you are here for speeding?" And I'd reply, "All of us who got here first." Alright, so it's not the best joke. These classes start early. Let's see how funny you are at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.

Anyway, here's the other thing about this morning's ticket: it wasn't my fault.

Wipe that smile off your face.

I'll have you know that both my wife and I suffer from a common affliction found in California that affects many drivers. It's supposedly a hereditary condition. We just pray to God we haven't passed it on to our children.

Car manufacturers alone hold the cure. They could make the right pedal much harder to push down. But they don't. In the same way the pharma companies are in bed with the doctors, the car companies are rolling in dough laughing with their insurance company pals.

At least that's what I tell myself. What else could it be?

The embarrassing thing about it is I wasn't even trying that hard. Apparently when it comes to getting speeding tickets, I'm just as much of an underachiever as I am in other areas.

As you can see, one of those areas is in Photoshop, trying to retouch identifiable personal information off the ticket so I could post it here.

But I digress.

The point is I was only going 51 in a 35. And since no one's under oath here - yet - the truth is I take that stretch of road much faster than 51 almost all the time. I guess all that means is I probably deserved it.

Although, again, not my fault. I have that condition.

I will say that the officer who gave me the ticket was very nice and professional about it. Not that I expected otherwise, but, you know, sometimes traffic cops are like a box of chocolates.

So I'll pay the fine, I'll go to online traffic school, and I'll be a good citizen and make a conscious effort to slow down when I'm behind the wheel and drive much more carefully overall.

At least until I'm eligible for traffic school again.

I've got an astral plane to catch

My friend Rich over at Round Seventeen put up a post yesterday about an accident he was involved in years ago on the way to his mom's funeral. By his own description, it was one that should've reunited him with his mother but fortunately didn't.

Because of when it happened, and the outcome being exactly the opposite of what logic and reason would tell you it should've been, I'm of the belief it was his mom who decided to intervene and make sure Rich and his family were at her funeral. Apparently I'm not the only one who's told him this.

However, Rich doesn't agree.

When it comes to beliefs in God, angels and the supernatural, by his own admission he's simply not on board the faith train. Which is fine. All it means is that at the end of the day - and I do mean the end of the day - he'll just be packing lighter.

Hey, it's a free country and I'm not out to change anyone's mind. But one of my personal beliefs is every once in awhile there are signs of and from a world beyond that simply can't be ignored. Or explained any other way.

So I'll see your departed mom story, and raise you a departed dad story of my own.

My dad died six years after my mom. When he died, he'd been seeing a woman named Esther who rode with us to his funeral.

When we got there, my (now) wife and I wanted to be alone with my dad for a few minutes. So we went inside, and had the casket opened so we could look at him. I turned to my wife and said, "This is weird, but I feel like I want to put some money in his pocket." To which my wife said, "Go ahead."

I took out my wallet, and inside were a few different bills. I took out a few, then put them back and took out a $20 bill and put it in his pocket. After I did, I felt an immediate sense of relief. We had the casket closed, and proceeded with the service.

When it was over, we were driving Esther home. She was sitting in the back seat so I could see her in the rear view mirror. She was just casually talking about my dad, saying how sweet he was, how she'd loved traveling with him, things like that.

Then she said, "And did you know your father never went anywhere without a $20 bill in his pocket?"

Needless to say that got our attention.

I told her I didn't know that, and asked her why. She said, "Because your father was from Brooklyn, and he always thought that if he got mugged and didn't have any money on him they'd beat him up even worse. So he always carried a $20 bill in his pocket."

We were speechless.

After thinking long and hard if I'd ever heard him say that - which I never did - I finally told Esther what I'd done and told her I was pretty sure he didn't have to worry about it where he was going.

Sometimes it's easy to see the signs, sometimes it isn't. But I believe with all my heart that was a goodbye from my dad that I simply couldn't ignore. I suppose it'd be easy to chalk it up to coincidence, or say that I did hear him say it at some point and just don't remember.

But I know that wasn't it. I know, my wife knows and Esther knows what it was.

Woody Allen once said one of the things he feared most about dying is that when he got to heaven they wouldn't be able to break a twenty.

I've known for a long time that's not a worry my dad had.

Unseeing things

As a parent, you always wish you could control everything your children see. It's the part of you that wants to protect them from the images of ugliness and hurt in the world that once seen, will affect them deeply as they involuntarily replay them over and over.

My daughter saw a dog get hit by a car today. Not that there was anyway it could be good, but it was particularly bad in its violence and suddenness.

We'd just picked her up from winter camp. She'd had an awesome weekend, and was riding high on the fresh memory of it. The one thing she wanted to do when we picked her up was visit her grandmother, and her grandmother's new dog Buddy. (It's been a bad week for dogs: grandma had to put down her 14-year old Andrew earlier in the week. My daughter loved him and was with him at the end.)

After that visit, as we were leaving grandma's house, we saw a smaller - and we thought younger - German Shepherd wandering grandma's block. It had apparently been tied to something, because trailing behind it was a rope that had either been broken or chewed off. We tried to get the dog to come over to us, but it was scared and looked lost. We called grandma, and asked if the neighbors had a German Shepherd. Two of them did, but the dog we saw wasn't either of theirs.

The dog was heading towards a busy main street that borders grandma's neighborhood. We tried to head it off but couldn't.

It managed to cross the street, and we thought it would stay over there. We called Animal Control and the police department to let them know.

Unfortunately, the dog decided to go back across the street. As it walked to the other side, a car in the left lane slowed to let it pass. But a car in the right lane, that was going about 50, didn't. From the opposite side of the street where the dog had just come from, my daughter and I both saw it get hit and pinned under the car.

Many, many cars stopped to help, and the police received several calls. My daughter was hysterical, with full waterworks that would not be stopped.

I'd do anything to turn back time so she didn't have to have that image in her head.

It's times like these you come face to face with the adult hypocrisies you have no choice but to perpetrate. We told my daughter help was already on the way, explained how they would lift the car off the dog and then people who knew how to move injured animals would take him to be cared for.

Sadly and cruelly, the dog was still alive when we left. I have no doubt the first thing Animal Control did is put him down when they got there. Those weren't injuries he was coming back from.

Because we have a 7-year old German Shepherd we're beyond crazy about, we got emotionally invested in this lost dog almost instantly. I can't honestly say we would've made the same effort had it been a different breed (apologies to chihuahuas, but you're on your own).

So tonight, knowing this too shall pass, our daughter will sleep with us, feeling safe in the big bed while her mind works against her and her broken heart tries to mend.

And instead of celebrating her great weekend, we'll be saying prayers hoping the dog didn't suffer long and has found peace wherever he is. We'll also be saying prayers for the driver.

Although I have to admit I might be praying for something a little different for her.

That guy

Last night my son and I watched The Green Mile. It was the first time he'd seen it. It was my millionth.

From Tom Hanks to Sam Rockwell to Michael Clark Duncan, there are lots of reasons to love it. One is because of that guy. You know, the guy who plays the older Tom Hanks character at the beginning and end. The guy who's always a judge. Or priest. Cowboy. Reporter. The guy that was on every TV show when we were growing up.

Yeah, that guy.

His real name is Dabbs Greer. It's the kind of name that could've been one of the more than three hundred character roles he played before he died five years ago.

When I was growing up (no, I'm not finished yet), I remember seeing him most on the old Superman television series. He was on it all the time, as a reporter (not mild-mannered) or one of the bad guys.

It's an interesting career being a character actor. If you're lucky, like Dabbs was, you work for decades. You avoid the spotlight and glare of the tabloids. You turn in one quality, scene or movie stealing performance after another. And absolutely everyone knows who you are: you're that guy.

There are many sites like this one dedicated to all the "that guys" who've graced the large and small screen over the years.

Every once in awhile an A-list actor becomes, either by choice or a career slow down, more of a character actor. The one that comes to mind is Alec Baldwin. Of course, as an A-lister he carried some great films like Hunt For Red October, Miami Blues (a personal favorite) and The Cooler. But the problem is you have to balance the mix. When you do films like The Marrying Man and The Shadow, people tend to forget the good ones.

Taking on character parts, he's doing some of the best work of his career. We got a hint of it from his ten unforgettable minutes in Glengarry Glen Ross. Then he sealed it with roles in The Aviator, The Departed, The Good Shepherd and State and Main.

For my money - $8.50 matinee or $12.50 after 6PM - character actors are the foundation of any great film. They put craft and art before pride and ego, and they make every actor on screen who comes near them look better. It forces everyone to raise their game.

They don't get recognized nearly as often as they should. So consider this post a thank you to all the character actors that've brought joy and memories to every person who's ever seen an image flicker on the large or small screen.

Especially that guy.

My other job

Working freelance, I expect sometimes I'm going to be asked to juggle a few jobs at the same time. It's one of the freelance rules: when it rains it pours.

When they're writing jobs, it's never much of a problem. But when you throw in the position of Mr. Mom, it tends to complicate things.

I guess I was asking for it. Freelancers, how many times has this happened to you? When you tell people you're freelancing, what they hear is that you're home all day doing nothing except surfing the net, eating Oreos and watching Dr. Phil.

He can be so abrasive sometimes.

Anyway, the reasoning is since that's all you could possibly be doing, then you're free to pick up the kids, do the laundry, feed the kids, fold the laundry, do the vacuuming, take the kids to music lessons, put away the laundry, take the kids to their soccer/volleyball/tennis games or lessons, then do some shopping on the way to picking up the kids from their games.

And pay the bills. Which you can't, because you haven't been able to get any writing done. Writing which, by the way, is what brings the checks in. Which you need to pay the bills.

The circle of life in action.

On the other hand, doing those chores and errands does give me a sense of accomplishment in a way that writing doesn't. Writing just goes on and on, revision after revision, approval after approval. But the other work has a beginning a middle and an end. Just like good writing.

Maybe the jobs aren't as different as I thought.

Besides, how much Dr. Phil can I take in a day.

Clock in

Every clock in my house reads, acts and sounds different from the other ones.

Not unlike my high school girlfriends, some are fast, some are slow. Some are loud, some are quiet. Some are easy to read, others not so much.

My friend Kelly Kliebe posted a picture of the Word Clock on his Facebook page awhile ago (although interestingly, he didn't mention what he had for breakfast, which team he was rooting for, or how I could get free tickets on Southwest).

The minute I saw it I had to have it.

For obvious reasons, it's a real writer's clock. And if I ever run into a real writer, I'll make sure and tell him about it (who of us didn't see that one coming?). Because the time is in words, there's no mistaking what time it actually is. I don't have to make an educated guess about the proximity of the hands to the numbers. There's no annoying ticking while I'm trying to sleep. And it serves a dual purpose: it also makes a great nightlight.

I ordered it from Doug Jackson at Doug's Word Clocks in Australia. I ordered it at the beginning of December, and actually forgot that I did until it arrived today.

Time gets away from me like that sometimes.

On his page you can see some of the variations in colors and materials you can order. I know it'll come as a surprise to all who know me that I chose black. Each one is custom ordered and hand-made, which makes it even more special. And more expensive.

I can see from the clock on the wall that IT IS TWENTY MINUTES PAST EIGHT.

An excellent time to wrap this up.

Torture device in disguise

The bane of agency existence is meeting after meeting after meeting. They always drag on forever.

Fortunately the agency I'm working at now has found a unique solution to the problem.

Torture chairs.

I always used to make fun of the black, cushy, faux-leather, Mad Men looking chairs around agency conference tables. That was until I planted myself in one of these hard, cold, badly designed little torture devices.

Cushy faux leather chairs, I take it all back.

These are bar none the world's most uncomfortable chairs. It's like some junior high kid taking metal shop saw an empty tin can and thought, "You know what, I could make a chair out of this."

Every time I have to sit in one for a meeting, all I think about is how much money the government could save on water, plywood and Guns 'N Roses cd's at Gitmo if they just shipped a few of these bad boys down there.

One good thing can be said for them: once a meeting starts, there's none of the usual chit-chat or preamble. Everyone gets right down to business. No one wants to be sitting in them a second longer than they have to.

It is entertaining to watch everyone constantly shifting position to try and get - not comfortable, because that's the impossible dream - but to a place that won't require a chiropractor or orthopedic surgery afterwards.

In spite of the chairs, almost every one who calls a meeting here thinks it's been a successful and productive one.

Maybe that's because they're all standing room only.

Saving me from myself

No doubt about it. Sometimes, more often than I'd care to admit, I'm my own worst enemy.

Fortunately I have friends, good friends, who don't hesitate to roll their eyes, shake their heads and take action to save me from my impulsive ways.

I worked for this creative director at Chiat years ago. The operative words in that sentence are "years ago." And he was a miserable person who made my life and everyone else's he came in contact with miserable. For some reason, this individual was taking up way too much brain space with me yesterday. So I did what I almost always do when that happens.

I wrote a scathing blog post about him that I thought revealed him for the monster he was (today I'm saying "was", because yesterday the thought never occurred to me that he may have changed in the years since we worked together).

But that's not the bad part. The bad part is I posted it.

Within moments, my friend Cameron rode up on his white horse in the form of an email that read, "Wow. This is how you make enemies. And you got a family and a mortgage."

Now if you know anything about me - and why wouldn't you by now - you know that making enemies isn't a particular concern of mine. This wasn't a creative director who held me in high regard anyway, if he held me in any regard at all.

Still, it was a venomous attack on someone who, deserving of it or not, shouldn't have ever been posted. It was me spending way too much time looking backwards instead of forwards.

Two more of my friends, Rich and Rob, also let me know they thought it made me look a lot worse than the person I was writing about. My friend Dale, while he thought it was good that I got it out and down on paper (screen), agreed with them.

So instead of doing what I should've done in the first place, which was not write it, I did the next best thing. I took the post down.

I was yelling at this person and tearing his head off online while criticizing that he used to do the same thing at work. I stooped to his level. Bad move - definitely not proud about it.

Anyway, a big thank you to Cameron, Rich, Rob and Dale for having my back, and good judgement, even if I didn't. Thanks to them I'm coming away from this having learned a valuable lesson.

Don't make enemies until the economy gets better.

Bad apple

I just finished reading Steve Jobs biography, and I have two thoughts: what an incredible person to work for. And I thank my lucky stars I never worked for him.

Visionary? Of course. Innovative? Without question. Son of a bitch? Absolutely.

What's revealed in the book is perhaps the worst secret in the tech community: Steve Jobs was just a miserable person to be around. Abusive to colleagues and family, his lifetime of bitterness seemed to come from the fact his birth parents put him up for adoption.

He wound up emotionally savaging virtually everyone he came in contact with. Whether it was his use of his "reality distortion field" or "the stare", Jobs only ever wanted things one way: his. Fortunately most of the time his way was the best thing for Apple and the remarkable products they make. But when it wasn't, he wasted no time blaming someone else for the failure.

He would've made an excellent creative director.

Those around him thought that after his cancer diagnosis he might soften a bit, change his ways given the limited time he had left. What he actually did was become even feistier and more determined to control everything he came in touch with.

Near the end of both the book and his life, he writes an uncharacteristically touching letter to his wife on the occasion of their 20th anniversary. And he does acknowledge people were right to think he was an a#%&@$e.

There was some speculation that Jobs had control over the content of the book. But I think if that were true, it would've been a much prettier picture of him than it is. He obviously kept his word to Walter Isaacson about not wanting to know what was in it.

It's a great read that wants to love its subject and still be truthful about him. It's a difficult balancing act the book manages to pull off.

Oh, and one more thing.

It's very clear why there'll never be a business leader like him again in our lifetime.

Not that there's anything wrong with that

Back in the day, when I was a lot thinner and I dressed a lot better, every once in a great while someone would ask me if I was gay. And I always gave them the same answer.

Gay? Hell, I'm not even happy.

I don't get asked that anymore, even though according to The Advocate I live in the 14th gayest city in America.

The first, surprisingly, is Salt Lake City.

Using extremely unscientific criteria and some "edgier metrics like the number of International Mr. Leather competition semifinalists and the presence of nude yoga classes", the list includes places like Little Rock and Grand Rapids.

Both of which I'm hoping aren't punch lines to gay jokes about Indian names I'm better off not knowing.

You can see the article and the entire list here. If your city, like mine, is on the list, you can take pride (see what I did there?) in the fact you live in a tolerant and diverse part of the world that probably has lots of meticulously restored Craftsman homes and drought-resistant gardens everywhere you look.

Perhaps not surprisingly, on the list of most conservative cities, none of the top fifteen line up with The Advocate's list, even though some of them are in the same states.

They're mostly red states.

Although there's no reason they couldn't be made over to be a fabulous purple and chartreuse.

A blog that actually means something

In this April 13, 2011 photo, Jessica Rees, 12, of Rancho Santa Margarita, Calif. shows "Joy Jars" she delevoped. Buyers get a t-shirt inside a jar and then fill the jars with "Joy" and pass them on to someone else. The proceeds go to pediatric cancer research. Rees, 12, who started a blog and a Facebook page to raise awareness about child cancer has died of brain tumors. Her family says Jessica died Thursday, Jan. 5, 2012 after a 10-month battle with cancer.

One reason I have a tough time coming up with a couple posts a week for this blog is because of the randomness of the subject matter. I'm sure you've noticed the posts here seem to wander aimlessly from topic to topic. They lack focus. Just like their author.

This wasn't a problem 12-year old Jessica Rees had with her blog. From beginning to the sad end, it was about her brave fight with brain cancer.

The words she lived by - never ever give up - were the inspiration for the NEGU Foundation which builds awareness and support for kids with cancer.

I'm in awe of children with cancer. I've seen the TV specials with afflicted kids, some with hair but many without because of the chemo, and marvel through my tears at how positive and brave they all are. I realize you never know what you can handle until you get there, but I think the safe bet is I'd be something considerably less than a positive example of how to deal with a terminal illness.

People who know me, feel free to double down on that bet.

When I think about accomplishments, I think about the tacos, cars, packaged goods, electronics and other items I've helped sell during my career. And I think about what impact or meaning it has on anyone's life. It's a thought you shouldn't let cross your mind if you work in advertising - there's no percentage in it.

Jessica Rees accomplished more that matters in her brief 12 years than I have or will in a lifetime.

She knew it wasn't necessary to be a hero to inspire people. And she knew you could become one just by being brave and wanting to do good in the world.

I'm going to try to remember that.

So many blogs, including this one, are often so self centered. I suppose it's the nature of a blog. But it's also why it's so startling to see one so selfless.

It's not possible to know how many lives will be positively affected by her having been here. But when I read about her, and I least expected it, mine was.

Rest in peace Jessica.

Apparently child killers have feelings too

The first thing I have to say is I feel sorry for the dog.

If you can stomach watching the first installment of child-killer Casey Anthony's video diary, you'll be interested to know that she adopted a dog. She says she loves the dog as much as any family she's ever had. Which of course means we're only days away from finding out Rags is missing, only to be later discovered in a ditch with a band-aid on his forehead and duct tape around his snout.

Let's all take a moment to say a big goodbye to the dog.

She also mentions at one point that she doesn't like having her picture taken. I think it's good that she brought it up, because if you looked at these pictures of her partying while her daughter Caylee was missing, you might get the mistaken idea that she's just an attention-whore-party-girl.

Which she's not. She says as much in the video.

What she never mentions is Caylee, her murdered daughter. Probably best not to bring that up. It'll only remind people that, like OJ, despite all the evidence beating a path straight to her door, she was acquitted. Doesn't matter. There's not a person alive who doesn't know she did it.

I don't know what makes me hate her more (aside from the obvious): that she was out partying while law enforcement officials and concerned citizens were out combing every inch of the countryside around the clock for her missing daughter, or the fact she completely threw the only person who still liked her - her father - under the bus at trial.

If there's any silver lining here, it's that she's so universally hated I don't think she can even pull off a reality show at this point. Or at least a reality show that isn't produced by her for YouTube.

While Casey makes all of this about her, let's take a moment to remember the reason she's even a topic of discussion: her beautiful, too soon departed daughter Caylee. If there's a YouTube in heaven - and there should be or else it wouldn't be called heaven - I'm sure Caylee is watching the video and thinking three things:

1. I can't believe I drew the short straw and got her for a mother.

2. I think I'll stop watching YouTube.

3. At least I know I won't be running into her here.

My friend Rich just started a series on his blog called People We Need To Kill.

I'd like to nominate Casey Anthony.

Bacon makes everything better

Sometimes answers to the most complicated problems are sitting (sizzling) right in front of you.

Since my annual vacation to the Hotel Del in August and snowballing right through the just-ended holiday season, it's been nothing but a non-stop food fest. And along with my scale, I have to say I've been a willing participant in all of it.

To paraphrase Brad Pitt in Inglorious Basterds, "We're in the business of eating. And business is booming."

While it may seem like it, all that holiday food isn't free. The price of it all is the stress of the season, the family jousts before, during and after dinner, the shopping conundrums that never seem to end and the overall deja vu-iness of the whole thing.

But you know what makes it all better? Bacon.

I know what you're thinking. Well here's the answer: I don't care. In the fight between Judaism and bacon, in this house bacon wins. And I don't even feel bad about it. You know why?

Because bacon makes everything better.

In fact, there's an entire website - jews4bacon.com - devoted to the whole "why not?" argument.

Well, it's actually less a website than a link to a store (go figure) with funny jews4bacon merchandise.

Crispy or greasy, dry or fatty (the bacon, not me), on a plate or a paper towel - it's all awesome.

The other thing is the nutritional value: it doesn't have any. So it goes with virtually every diet (that almost sounded like it made sense).

No matter how often I wave the bacon flag, the argument persists as it has for ages: can the concept of bacon be taken too far?

Hell, I was just jokin' with you. Of course it can't. Bacon toothpaste? Bring it. And if you bring it on a plate on top of a paper towel, even better.

Now, I don't want to seem insensitive to my vegetarian, vegan and PETA-sympathizing friends. I understand your point of view. I saw the movie Babe. But I didn't invent the food chain, and I can't help it if we're at the top of it. Besides, I think Babe and friends would be happy knowing how much pleasure their sacrifice is bringing to the human race.

Like it says on the poster, "A little pig goes a long way."

The best words I heard this season weren't Merry Christmas. They were, "The house smells like bacon."

And even though you can see it coming down 7th Avenue, there's only one way I can possibly end this post.

That's all folks.

Batman used to be a LLLUUVV Broker

Long before Christian Bale was making a sport out of tearing his director of photography a new one, the role of playboy-billionaire-crime fighter Bruce Wayne/Batman was played by a guy who didn't take himself nearly so seriously.

Michael Keaton had been a stand-up comedian, and a go-to guest star on sitcoms where he always stole whatever scene he was in. I know nobody remembers The Tony Randall Show where he played a judge, but Keaton had a recurring role where he'd always show up in Randall's courtroom. It was always great watching the old pro and the newcomer riff off each other.

But Keaton eventually reached the point that a lot of comedians do - the point where being funny just isn't enough (I feel their pain). They like to explore their darker side.

Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society, One Hour Photo and Insomnia. Jim Carrey in The Truman Show, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and 23. Bill Murray in The Razor's Edge and Lost In Translation. Steve Martin in Shopgirl and The Spanish Prisoner. Dane Cook in...oh, wait, I was talking about comedians.

Sometimes it works for them. Sometimes it doesn't. In Keaton's case it did. To this day, many people believe - myself included - that not only was he the first truly dark Batman on the big screen, he was the best.

Where Keaton made it big was his electric, manic performance as Billy Blazejowski in Ron Howard's Night Shift. If you don't know the story, take a look at this trailer (sorry for the poor quality) - it'll pretty much tell you everything you need to know. You'll also get a good idea of why Keaton was the breakout star of the film.

Keaton made something like $60 million dollars from the two Batman films he did, so now he can afford to pick and choose his projects. He's in the enviable position of only working when he wants to.

Which isn't nearly often enough for me.