First class warfare

Yesterday I flew home from San Francisco on Jet Blue. Unfortunately it wasn't the Jet Blue flight where they played tackle the captain, but even without that it was an interesting flight.

Looking around at my fellow flyers, it got me to thinking about how much flying has changed. There are the necessary inconveniences that have been instituted since 9/11 (by the way, all for them - scan, frisk, question away - no problem with it). But there have been other changes that haven't been as sudden or as obvious. Ones that've crept up on the flying public slowly over many years, so subtly that we've gotten used to them in a way we would never have stood for had they been imposed in one fell swoop (by the way, one fell swoop is a manuever pilots try to avoid).

Most airlines only have two or three cabin classes: First Class, Business Class and Coach Class. But if you've been on a plane even once since airlines were deregulated 35 years ago, you know they should rename those sections Low Class and No Class.

The currency of air travel has been cheapened by catering to the lowest common denominator. I'm just going to say it: there really are some people who shouldn't be flying.

Mr. Hefty Garbage Bag for Luggage, Greyhound has a seat waiting for you where I'm sure you'd feel much more at home. Mr. Wifebeater Shirt & Shorts Guy (Flip Flops optional), you're already living in a trailer - why not just take it off the blocks, put the wheels back on it and let your absence be felt. And, let me put this delicately, I think the words wide body should apply to the planes, not the passengers. Especially the passengers spilling over next to me.

With all the absurd fees the airlines are charging for everything from extra legroom to bathroom privileges, you'd think they could put some rules in place that would insure a more pleasant flight for everyone.

There was after all a time when flying was glamorous. It was an adventure. People dressed for the occasion (people used to dress for a lot of occasions but don't anymore. Been to a play lately?). I'm not saying there should be a dress code, but even some restaurants ban shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. They do it for health reasons. Airlines could too. For starters it would lower the blood pressure of the rest of us who have to fly with the sartorially and hygienically challenged.

It's great that almost everyone can afford to get where they're going by plane. But people, good Lord, check the mirror before you leave for the airport.

Just because self-respect has made an early departure doesn't mean it's a one-way trip.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 4

Two of the officers who’d first responded to the call had escorted Dean Montaine’s secretary to the Cressman/Krate coffee room. They'd sealed it off so they could have a little privacy while they questioned her. Which was unfortunate, because once word of Dean’s death had gotten around the agency, the only thing everyone wanted was a cup of coffee. Ad people.

Jack Sheridan came in the coffee room, and walked past the mason jars of Starbucks blend over to one of the officers, who handed him a small notepad and said a few words to him in quiet tones.

Then Sheridan walked over to the woman.

“Miss Beckwith, I’m Detective Jack Sheridan, L.A.P.D. I’m very sorry about what happened here today. If it’s alright, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’ll try to keep it brief.”

“O.K.” She started to sob again.

Sheridan placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and gestured to one of the other officers who brought him a glass of water.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”, she said, downing the water.

“Miss Beckwith,”

“Call me Barbara.”

“Sure. Barbara, is there anyone you can think of who would’ve wanted to see Mr. Montaine dead?”

At that, Barbara started laughing hysterically, spilling water out of both her mouth and nose.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t.”

Now how much would you pay?

Once in awhile I get an email from the Writer's Store. This one came today. My first thought was "What're they trying to say?"

Here's what they're trying to say: apparently there's a whole copywriting industry waiting to be broken into. And the best news is you don't even need experience or talent. If you're "even just an avid reader, you can turn your love for words into a lucrative career as a freelance copywriter."

I wish to hell someone had told me that sooner.

I wouldn't have wasted my time crawling out of the mail room at two different agencies. I never would've inhaled all those toxic chemical fumes I did as a stat camera operator. I would've passed on the chance to be the world's worst traffic person (excuse me, project manager). I wouldn't have bothered being the agency producer's assistant.

I now know how overrated all that getting to know how an agency works was. Of course, that first time I had a chance to write an ad for Bran Chex, when the account guy came running to me in a panic because all the creative teams were out of the agency, I do think it helped that I was actually in the agency.

But again, according to The Writer's Store, experience isn't a necessary tool in the copywriter's box.

I did find it amusing this ad asks me to "Find out how you can become part of this rising industry..." For the last three years, the only thing that's been rising is the rate of unemployed copywriters. No matter how avid a reader you are, the economy wins every time.

I'm old school about this, but I think you should have to pay more than $99 to become a copywriter. You should also have to pay your dues.

Unless of course you want to write ads like this for copywriting classes.

Wrongful Termination: Chapter 3

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

As he walked the hall towards Dean’s office, he passed framed copies of ads Cressman/Krate had produced. Sheridan was amazed that this brain clutter could be displayed with such misplaced pride.

There was an ad for a gas station convenience store showing two just regular blue-collar guys enjoying a beer. “I love it when they make it easier for people to drink behind the wheel,” Sheridan thought. There was an ad for a tennis shoe manufacturer he’d never heard of, a Nike wannabe, showing an extremely buxom girl spilling out of her ridiculously short tennis outfit. The headline read “Love All.” The last one before he turned the corner was a public service ad for a needle exchange program. It showed a drugged out heroin user balancing awkwardly on his knees in front of what looked like a Greyhound station men’s room toilet, throwing his guts up. Even Sheridan had to admit it was a powerful visual. The headline read “Without clean needles, you never know what position you’ll find yourself in.” It was a good message. Didn’t change his opinion about ad people, but still, a good message.

Sheridan walked into the corner office that had belonged to Dean Montaine. The first thing he noticed was the spectacular view overlooking the Santa Monica mountains to the north, and a glimpse of the Pacific ocean to the west. For the last thing Montaine ever saw, he could’ve done worse.

He stooped down next to the body that the coroner had cut down from the light fixture, and was now lying on the industrial carpeted floor covered with a sheet from the knees up.

Montaine’s boots were sticking out the bottom.

Sheridan pulled back the sheet. What he saw was pretty routine as far as hangings went. The head was sitting on the neck at a fifty degree angle, as if he’d been straining to get a better look at a girl in a short skirt walking away from him, or on the phone too long with the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Clearly some additional force besides gravity had been used. If, and it was a preliminary if, it had been murder, then judging by the ransacked looks of the office it appeared as though Montaine had fought the good fight against being placed in a noose and hung from the light. Putting up that kind of resistance, the murderer would have had to use force, yanking him down and snapping his neck. On the other hand, if it did turn out to be suicide, it meant Montaine literally would have to have taken a flying leap off his oak-grain desk with considerable force to do damage like this. His eyes, bloodshot and blank, had popped out of his head far enough for the corneas to touch the lenses of his Coke bottle, tri-focal glasses. His swollen purple, black tongue was sticking out and down to the left side of his mouth, with a thin thread of spittle running down it. Hanging was never a very dignified way to go.

Sheridan also made some personal observations. Montaine was in his late fifties, about six feet tall, hundred seventy pounds. He had a beer gut, and broken blood vessels all along his nose and cheeks. Hard drinker. His hair was straight, long and greasy. His glasses were Jean Paul Gaultier, very expensive, very fashionable. Round in a way that reminded Sheridan of John Lennon. Montaine was wearing stonewashed blue jeans, which had a large wet spot on the front where he’d pissed himself, though it was hard to say if he’d done it before or after. His fingers were stained yellow. His teeth were yellow, brown and decayed from years of alcohol and cigarettes. And probably other things as well. All in all, Sheridan thought, not an attractive man.

Looking at the desk, he noticed Montaine had a small plaque framed in shellacked driftwood branches. It read “Old hippies never die.”

“Guess he was wrong about that.” Sheridan said.

Wrongful Termination: Chapters 1 & 2

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

The first thing she noticed was his boots.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen them before, it was just that she’d never seen them this close up and personal. She’d never really been interested in men’s footwear, so even she was surprised by the fact she was taking the time to study them.

She'd been looking down at his morning mail as she walked into his office to drop it into his in-box. It was the usual collection of office memos, letters from production company reps, and a couple of comped subscription magazines. Today it was Playboy, with yet another tired photo spread on Pamela Anderson, and Men’s Health, featuring a cover story on how to get better looking abs in seven days.

But as she looked up from the mail, there were the boots staring right at her almost as hard as she was staring at them. She stopped to admire the intricate detail and craftsmanship that had escaped her all the other times she’d seen them. Maybe because then they’d been moving. But here they were - still - allowing her time to really notice things she hadn’t seen before. The fine sterling silver tips. The little moons and stars cut into the toepieces. The bright, golden sunlight reflecting off them because of the blinding shine. The polished, flathead silver tacks that held the toepieces in place. No doubt about it, these were quality boots.

She moved her eyes ever so slightly upward and looked at the leather. Black, wrinkled, worn, but with a look of comfort and familiarity.

“Like a pair of old shoes…,” she thought, smiling.

Yes, these boots were maybe the best looking pair she’d ever seen. And just as she was having that thought, another one came right on the heels of it.

Why were they at eye level?

She looked up, and saw Dean Montaine hanging from the light fixture.

The screaming went on for almost an hour.

Detective Jack Sheridan walked his six foot two frame into the offices of Cressman/Krate, the advertising agency where Dean worked. Or at least had until this morning.

Sheridan worked Westside long enough to see a few cases involving advertising people. He often wondered why more of them weren’t murdered. As far as he could tell, they were for the most part loud, petty, egotistical, annoying and self-loathing. And those were their good traits. He figured the city, which was essentially a company town, made them that way. They all liked to consider advertising a part of the entertainment community. They all thought they were in show business. But the truth was they were just on the periphery of it. If you could call commercials for Swedish furniture stores, Japanese car manufacturers and fast food burger joints show business. No, Sheridan thought, these were, on the whole, people who made a lot of money for contributing nothing to society but volumes of visual and verbal pollution.

Not that it stopped them from thinking they were better than anyone else.

Sheridan walked up to the receptionist who’d just gotten to work and was putting her purse in the drawer. She used to just leave it under the desk at her feet. But a couple months ago she’d run to powder her nose, and a messenger decided he’d help himself to her wallet while she was gone.

He asked to be directed to Dean Montaine’s office.

"Do you have an appointment?”

“Actually, I’m a little late. I don’t think he’ll mind.”

“Your name?”

He flashed his L.A.P.D. badge. “Tell you what. Just tell me where it is. I’d like to surprise him.”

She pointed down the hall towards the northeast corner office.

There was nothing surprising about the fact she wasn’t aware of what had happened. The way Cressman/Krate was laid out, reception was a huge atrium with a narrow, copper waterfall sculpture two hundred yards away at the other end, and a long wall of bad art that at least added color to the space. You had to turn one of the four corners in the lobby and go down a hallway to get to any of the interior offices, which left the receptionist sitting on an island of her own removed from the rest of the employees. Since Dean Montaine’s body was discovered two and half hours before the agency opened, there was no way she’d have seen the police and coroner personnel that were already securing the scene.

Besides, Sheridan thought, receptionists are always the last to know.

You're going to need a smaller car

I believe I speak for many people when I say clowns have always scared the living bejeezus out of me. I think you'll find that any nightmare worth it's weight in true terror usually has a clown in it.

Oh sure, I can already imagine all you red-nosed squeezing, boutonniere-squirting, floppy-shoe wearing, bicycle-horn honking clown fans greasing on your sad faces in protest. Alright, alright. Never let it be said I'm not being fair. I'll agree I shouldn't stereotype all clowns (he says coughing to conceal his laughter). Because as few and far between as they are, I have to grudgingly admit there are actually some that're enjoyable.

For example, Fizbo from Modern Family? Love him. Hysterical every time. And if you recall the scene at the gas station with Mitchell (which YouTube has pulled for some reason), you know that Fizbo isn't just hysterical. He's also an ass-kicking clown.

Chuckles, the clown from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show was also a good one. Not only is his name the quintessential clown moniker, his funeral is one of the most classic scenes in all of television history.

But for every Fizbo and Chuckles, there are a thousand clowns with hell for their home address.

I think the first time this one shows up in the kid's room in Poltergeist, we all know nothing good is going to come of him. Who was fooled at the beginning when he was benignly sitting on the rocking chair? Anyone? Thought so.

Not that imagining what might be lurking under the bed isn't already every kid's nightmare. But this little feller just kind of cemented the deal.

Under the bed isn't the only place evil is lurking. It's also hanging around in the sewers, waiting to drag little children under to an unthinkable fate. Pennywise over here, the clown from Stephen King's IT, always liked to remind children that, "We all float down here." If that doesn't make for sweet dreams I don't know what does.

Perhaps the most perverse take on clowns is Heath Ledger's Joker in The Dark Knight. Using clown makeup to represent the actual decay within the character, I think he also shows a side of clowns most of us don't want to believe is real.

But for all the kids reading this, especially the young ones, it is.

So the next time you're at the circus, try not to focus on all those clowns popping out of that impossibly small car. I'm sure they're not really rehearsing the way they'll spring out from under your bed or the closet in your room late at night after you've floated off to sleep.

"We all float down here." Goodnight.

The truth will set you free

Free from deductibles that is.

Remember a few posts ago when I was talking about the woman who hit my car, and how she was practicing revisionist history with regard to how the accident happened?

Well yesterday the issue of responsibility for the accident was resolved.

Here's how I think it went down.

The short story is she backed her Chevy Tahoe into the side of my Lexus. Her story was we collided and therefore were both responsible.

Not so fast there missy.

The problem and the beauty of facts is that they are the facts. And people who deal with this kind of situation day in and day out have a finely honed ability to see them clearly.

My field adjustor from Mercury, the field adjustor from her insurance company, my body shop rep and the photos of the damage all tell the same story: she hit me. I'd like to believe that her insurance company, after they stopped laughing at her story, told her the bottom line was that she backed into me in a parking lot, and she wasn't getting out of it.

So when my adjustor called yesterday to tell me the other party had taken responsibility - whether she wanted to or not - I was relieved.

It means I won't have to front the $500 deductible while the insurance companies duke it out. And I won't have the additional stress of worrying about it (not that I couldn't handle it - apparently stress to me is like the bottomless lemonade cup at Islands. Don't get me started).

Oddly enough, this whole incident didn't restore my faith in people.

But, as odd as it feels to say this, it does make me feel ever so slightly better about insurance companies.

How much is that Gold Pencil in the window?

It's no secret ad agencies like bright, shiny objects. Especially when they happen to arrive in the form of advertising awards.

Well, good news for everyone looking for something to fill up all that empty shelf space: it's awards show season.

That time of year when, without perspective, prejudice or any ability to be realistic about what work actually has a chance of being recognized, agencies frantically, desperately and with an overabundance of misplaced optimism round up almost all the ads they've done for the year and enter them.

A good friend of mine is the awards-entry wrangler at one of the largest shops in town. For years, this shop set the benchmark for creative work not just in L.A., but across the country and around the world. Sadly, for a variety of reasons - not the least of which is who used to oversee the creative and who oversees it now - this shop's glory days are at least 15 years gone. They've lost people, accounts and their reputation as a place where only greatness got out the door.

That not withstanding, this year they'll spend in the neighborhood of $200,000 on award show entries.

And yes, raises are still frozen.

Like creative work, and creatives themselves, not all awards shows are created equal. There are shows, like the One Show, that everyone wants to win. Clios are still nice to have, although their reputation has been permanently tarnished by a fiasco that happened years ago. There isn't a creative around who doesn't like to see his/her work in Communication Arts Advertising Annual. Addy Awards are regional and national - I wonder if the person who writes their copy selling the show itself is eligible? Effie awards are given for how effective the work has been. Account people love it when the agency wins those.

Here's the thing. Awards are like pizza: even when they're bad, they're still pretty good (I almost used another example but this is a family blog).

And with over, well over, 75 advertising award shows to enter, there's a lot of winning to be had. You just have to pick the proper...tier...of show to participate in.

Even though some of these shows feel like they'll go on forever when you attend them, they don't all go on indefinitely in real life. Southern California's Belding Awards and Northern California's original San Francisco Awards show are two examples.

The Beldings were scandalized years ago when a creative produced a commercial the client hadn't approved, bought time and ran it at midnight on a tv station in Palookaville, Nebraska so it would qualify, and then actually won a Belding for it. He was eventually exposed for the fraud, and it resulted in a complete overhaul of the Belding rules and requirements. The show ambled on for a few more years, then basically died because no one cared anymore.

The SFAS went away because Goodby was sweeping the show every year. It finally pissed "competing" agencies off so badly they didn't bother entering work in the show anymore.

No entry fees, no Buck Rogers.

Is it wise in these economic times to spend so much on award shows? I don't know. I do know that everyone - the teams doing the work, the creative director, the account people, the holding companies and especially the clients - love talking and pointing to their award-winning work. It does give one a sense of recognition and appreciation that's become a lost art at agencies.

The subject of the names that go on those entry forms are a whole other topic. I addressed it a little bit here, but I'll save the bigger rant about that for another post.

Instead I'll just wish everyone good luck. And if for some reason those judges can't see the brilliance in your ad, don't sweat it.

Awards shows are like buses. There'll be another one along any minute.

Bad Luck

At the risk of putting my hoof in my mouth, I'm going to take an unpopular position. I know it's unpopular because Facebook has been all a twitter about it (notice the subtle yet deliberate blending of two social networks in the same sentence).

I don't think HBO should have cancelled Luck. At least not for the reason they did.

Because three horses have had to be put down since the series began shooting at Santa Anita Racetrack, HBO decided to cancel the series. I don't think that's the real reason, but more on that in a minute.

It's unrelentingly heartbreaking that three horses died in the making of the show. But sad as it is, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the series that killed them. However you'd never know that if you've been online today.

Judging from the reaction on the interwebs, there seems to be a lot of agreement that Hollywood should never make a movie with horses in it again.

Goodbye Seabiscuit. So long Secretariat. I'll never forget you Black Beauty. You were a good friend Flicka.

War Horse? That's just crazy talk.

If that's going to be the policy going forward, it's also going to rule out westerns. And movies like Ben Hur. Maybe all those extras can pull the chariots instead.

I completely understand the emotion behind the anger. Everyone loves horses. My wife's family used to stable and breed thoroughbred race horses for years at their ranch in Northern California (important safety tip: never walk behind a thoroughbred). But the fact is it's not like the 40's and 50's when studios were using trip wires to make horses fall. In this latest incident, the horse got spooked while being walked back to the stable, reared up and fell over backwards injuring it's head and breaking it's neck. The first two suffered permanent leg injuries during racing scenes. Just like horses do sometimes in real races.

In those scenes the horses were being ridden by professional jockeys, not actors or production assistants. And the entire shoot was being monitored and supervised by the Humane Society. Here's what HBO had to say about it:

"We maintained the highest safety standards throughout production, higher in fact than any protocols existing in horseracing anywhere with many fewer incidents than occur in racing or than befall horses normally in barns at night or pastures. While we maintained the highest safety standards possible, accidents unfortunately happen and it is impossible to guarantee they won't in the future. Accordingly, we have reached this difficult decision."

I tend to believe them when they say they took every precaution possible. There's really no upside for them to have horses dying on set.

I'm a little more skeptical about it being a "difficult decision" to cancel the series.

HBO ordered a second season of the show after the pilot aired. While they were excited about it, the viewers weren't. And with Dustin Hoffman, Nick Nolte and Dennis Farina as stars of the show, and Michael Mann and David Milch as producers, they had a very expensive flop on their hands. A flop they'd just renewed.

So the horse accidents gave them an out and they took it. This isn't to say they don't genuinely feel awful about what happened. I'm sure they do. At the same time, I imagine they also feel a certain amount of relief that they were able to cut their losses.

The tagline for the series is "Leave nothing to chance." Unfortunately even when you take every precaution, in Hollywood, as in horse racing, that's not always possible.

Next

On the menu bar at the top of this blog, just like every other Blogger blog, is a nav link like the one above (although not nearly as pixelated). It's kind of like Amazon's "You might also be interested in..." feature. It's the eHarmony of blog sites. It's the match.com of blogspot.com

You see where I'm going here.

I don't know if you've ever clicked on it, but I have a few times. I'm not quite sure what algorithm design they use to make the connection between one blog and the next.

But let me just say this. If you like ROTATION AND BALANCE - and what's not to like? - the "next blog" button tells me that, for reasons only it knows, you might also be interested in:

A game of Checkers

A friend of mine used to say you weren't in a real city unless you could do two things: jaywalk and hail a cab.

The first time I was in New York I realized, as everyone instantly does, that this was not only a real city, but the real city.

And one of the best and most memorable things about it were the ginormous yellow Checker cabs.

By the thousands, these tank-sized cabs would roam up and down the avenues, looking great, burning gas and picking up passengers. Once inside, you were met with the cavernous back seat. It made you feel like you were driving in your living room. Or more often than anyone needs to think about, bedroom.

I remember flying into JFK one time and sharing a Checker cab into the city. They were built for sharing - they had an additional backwards-facing fold-down bench seat in the back so about 8 or 9 people could fit comfortably into one of these babies.

It made getting into the city fairly painless, financially speaking.

Eventually the Checkers, like the dinosaurs, became extinct - not because they were taken out by a meteor, but because they couldn't adapt to the changing times. And by changing times I mean gas prices.

So instead, in their place today we have fuel-efficient, technologically-advanced, non-polluting, dull-as-hell, puny little Prius cabs. They barely carry four people. None of them comfortably. And luggage? That's just crazy talk.

Photo actual size--------------------------------->>>>>>

If you know anything about me - and really, what haven't I shared on here - you know political correctness isn't one of my strong suits. I think the Big Apple should bring back the inefficient, polluting, technologically outdated, passenger-pleasing Checker cabs.

Earth Day, Ed Begley and Al Gore be damned.

Bumper. Car.

With cars, as with life, sometimes you're the bumper and sometimes you're the bumpee. In this picture, my car is the bumpee.

While I was stopped in a strip mall parking lot near where I live, questioning what this beat up Chevy Tahoe angled in front of me was going to do, the Tahoe gave me the answer. It backed up into me. No one was hurt, my car was still drivable, and the Tahoe driver was insured. All good right?

Not so fast.

As we were exchanging information, the woman's husband who apparently worked at one of the businesses in the mall - and didn't see the accident - came out and joined us. They were both just as apologetic as could be. They had a short conversation between themselves, and I happened to overhear him say to her, "You're going to lose your license over this."

Clearly there were implications and incidents I wasn't privy to. By the way, Implications & Incidents - great band. Saw them at the Roxy in '98 (Note to Rich: you're welcome).

After apologizing again for hitting me, the husband asked me how I wanted to handle it. I said I wanted to go through my insurance company, but he had another idea. He said, "If you're open to it, I'd like to pay out of pocket for it. I have the cash, and I know a body shop you can go to."

Sounds perfectly legit - I know, right?

You know what body shops are like in California? I'll give you a clue: everyone has one.

Even though every instinct I had was screaming not to do it, I told him I was willing to get an estimate on the repair and bring it back to him. He could look it over and give me an answer that night. If he agreed, he'd have to meet me at the bank in the morning to get a cashier's check made out to the body shop.

Here's what I learned: in my next life I want to own an auto body shop. The estimate for this seemingly minor damage was $1703.00. After I brought it back and he saw the total he grumbled a bit, then said he'd talk to his wife and call me that evening.

When the phone rang at 8:30, I was frankly a little surprised since I figured I'd never hear from them again and wind up going through insurance anyway.

It was all very civil, she apologized again for hitting me, and said she'd called her insurance company and I'd hear from them. I said fine, I'll call my company and we'll go from there.

I'm with Mercury. Have been for almost as long as I've been driving. They've never been anything but amazing in past dealings, and they were just as awesome in this one. They took the information down and had a claims adjustor call me this morning.

After going over a few things with the adjustor, we got into a discussion about how they might change their story. She said she'd call the woman who hit me and find out.

You'll never guess what happened next? No, really, you'll never guess.

Apparently her new and improved version is that we collided. I told the adjustor that if by collided she meant she backed her big fat SUV into the side of my stopped car, then yes.

So it's going in the body shop tomorrow, I'll have some awesome rental for about a week, and the insurance companies will duke it out. But I'm pretty sure mine will win. The thing is to get the kind of damage my car sustained, I would've had to have driven sideways into her. The Lexus comes with a lot of options, but not that one.

Frustrated, I told my adjustor that you'd just hope people would do the right thing.

In that world weary voice only insurance adjustors who've heard it all have, she replied "I hope that every day."

Rock and roll

There's an exhibit coming to LACMA (Los Angeles County Museum of Art) called Levitated Mass. At first I thought it was about me on a ladder. Come to find out, it's actually a display with a giant 340-ton boulder as it's centerpiece.

That's how I knew it wasn't about me. That boulder weighs at least twice as much as I do.

I had an advance viewing of the rock yesterday as I was coming home. Turns out they're transporting it, slowly, right through my very own city on it's journey to the museum. There was a huge line of traffic moving slower than the rock just so they could get a look at it.

Logistically it's like a presidential visit. Since the bed of the truck it's on is 32 feet wide, it can only move on specific streets wide enough for it. Roads have to be closed as it passes, and traffic signals have to be coordinated since it doesn't exactly blow through the intersection.

I know what you're thinking: it's a rock. Technically, true. But it's also one of the single largest items ever moved since ancient times. Maybe that's because they didn't have flatbed trucks back then.

As the video shows, the engineering behind moving it is mighty impressive.

I know what you're thinking. He's reached the end of the post, and here comes some quasi-attempt at a funny wrap up line involving the words "getting stoned" or "rocks in his head" or "sticks and stones."

You're way ahead of me.

Piercing observation

Picking up a prescription at CVS the other day, this woman was ahead of me in line. And, like you, I couldn't help noticing her neck piercing. In fact I was so focused on it, I almost overlooked the one in the cartilage of her left ear.

My first thought was how much it must've hurt getting it. The two reddish dots on each side of the piercing didn't look like the daily alcohol swabbings were going particularly well.

My second thought was why her neck?

As a rule, I don't have any problem with piercings. In fact I wear two earrings in my left ear (it used to be three, but the third hole never healed - let's leave it at that). I got them years ago while I was working at Tracy Locke, and I asked this cute girl I worked with if she liked guys with earrings.

After she said yes, I broke a land speed record getting to a store on Melrose called Maya and had my ear pierced by yet another cute young girl.

Just for the record, that was the last thing I did that either of them liked.

To me, the secret of a great piercing is like buying a house: location, location, location. Why squander a perfectly good one in a location no one is going to see it? Or at least not enough people to make it worth the effort.

But I suppose that's better than going completely overboard like Pinhead over here with so many that absolutely everyone can't help but noticing.

Moderation, so I'm told, is the trick.

The issue occasionally comes up with my own kids. When my daughter was 9, we were on a trip to San Francisco and walking through the Emporium Mall on Market Street. She asked me if she could get her ears pierced while we were there. And, you know, thinking I actually had a say in the matter, I told her sure. She was ecstatic, right up until she saw the horrified look on my wife's face. The one that says to her "You're too young for earrings." And says to me "Maybe you should've discussed this with me before you just blurted out she could have them."

I get that a lot.

The deal we struck was that when we got home she could get them pierced. The plane hadn't even touched down before we were at a Claire's in some mall getting her ears pierced. I would've bet her allowance she was going to cry. She didn't. That was her mother.

My 15-year old son has started rumblings about getting his ear pierced. And I'm well aware that I don't have a lot of ground - as far as setting examples go - when I tell him no.

But he's mighty involved in acting, and nothing looks worse than a piercing hole in a close up shot. So far that's keeping the discussion at bay.

That and the fact I keep telling him if he gets me a potato, an ice cube and a pin I'll do it for him.

Al Franken called it

It was true then and it's true now.

I've always been a fan of Al Franken. Beginning when he was half of a comedy team called Franken & Davis, through the years he was head writer for Saturday Night Live (to me, it'll always be the Al Franken decade) and today as Senator from Minnesota.

Sorry about the ad in front of the clip. Curse you Hulu!

Hysterically funny, wildly entertaining and, the part I like best, vicious in the way it exposes not just the glaring hypocrisy and inaccuracies of almost everything Limbaugh says, the book also calls out the entire conservative party for the lies they shamelessly continue to peddle.

An easy example of the hypocrisy: Newt Gingrich and Rush Limbaugh both taking a righteous stand about family values as they're on their third and fourth wives respectively.

The amazing thing is the book's title - which Franken gave it because he knew it would be controversial and get noticed - has proven even more true in the last week than it was when it came out.

I think it's only fitting that we take a moment and enjoy some of Limbaugh's more entertaining and insightful quotes:

''Have you ever noticed how all composite pictures of wanted criminals resemble Jesse Jackson?"

''She comes to me when she wants to be fed. And after I feed her -- guess what -- she's off to wherever she wants to be in the house, until the next time she gets hungry. She's smart enough to know she can't feed herself. She's actually a very smart cat. She gets loved. She gets adoration. She gets petted. She gets fed. And she doesn't have to do anything for it, which is why I say this cat's taught me more about women, than anything my whole life."

You're forgiven if you thought that one was from Rick Santorum.

And of course, it wouldn't be complete without this past week's words of wisdom:

''A Georgetown coed told Nancy Pelosi's hearing that the women in her law school program are having so much sex they're going broke, so you and I should have to pay for their birth control. So what would you call that? I called it what it is. So, I'm offering a compromise today: I will buy all of the women at Georgetown University as much aspirin to put between their knees as they want. ... So Miss Fluke and the rest of you feminazis, here's the deal. If we are going to pay for your contraceptives and thus pay for you to have sex, we want something. We want you to post the videos online so we can all watch."

I hope Al Franken is working on a Rush Limbaugh Is A Big Fat Idiot 2.

God knows there's enough material to work with.

No sir Sirhan

If you've had even the most remedial course in recent history, you know the initials RFK are shorthand for Robert Francis Kennedy.

Of course after reading Sirhan Sirhan's latest attempt at a get-out-of-jail free card, no one could blame you for thinking they stand for R u F#@%ing Kidding me?

After 44 years, his attorney's are pushing their "second gunman" theory. Again.

Let me know how that works out for you.

As I've posted about before, I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist. But even if I was going to subscribe to this one, it wouldn't be easy what with the smoking gun - literally smoking gun - in his hand as a crowd of onlookers watched him kill Robert Kennedy.

Here are a few of the more - oh, let's call them convincing facts - we know about Sirhan Sirhan.

On January 31 1968 his diary entry was "RFK must die."

He decided to elaborate on that on May 16, 1968 with "My determination to eliminate RFK is becoming more of an unshakable obsession."

Then on June 1, 1968 he decided he needed to pick up a few things, so he went shopping for two boxes of .22 hollow point ammunition.

And of course, on June 4, 1968, Sirhan waited for Robert Kennedy in the kitchen at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. When Kennedy was leaving through the kitchen after his California primary victory speech, Sirhan repeatedly fired his gun at the Senator, fatally injuring him.

He died the next day.

Apparently though killing one Kennedy wasn't enough to satisfy his "unshakable obsession." In 1977 he offered a fellow prisoner a million dollars and a car to kill Edward Kennedy.

I'm not easily offended, but reading the article about his lawyer's new strategy - and how unjustly his client has been imprisoned - comes pretty close.

Sirhan has been denied parole 14 times since shooting Kennedy. Some guys just can't take a hint. The truth is he's never getting out no matter what theories his media-whore attorneys decide to bring forward.

Unfortunately California ruled the death penalty unconstitutional at the time he was convicted, so Sirhan will get to spend the rest of his life behind bars, at taxpayer expense, where I imagine he'll die of old age.

Which if there were any real justice, is the way Robert Kennedy would have gone.

Siren song

My friend Rich at Round Seventeen has a series of posts called Things Jews Don't Do. I'm pretty sure this would qualify.

Nevertheless, the mean streets of south central Los Angeles are calling to me. Again. And just like last year, I'm answering. At least for one night.

Remember when I posted about winning an LAPD ride-along at my kid's school fundraiser auction? Well, this year's auction was last night, and I did it again.

Because it was such an andrenaline-rushing, eye-opening, amazing experience the first time, I've been waiting a year to get back on the streets.

And last night was my chance.

I'm sure I was very inconspicuous hovering over the silent auction table with the ride-along bid sheet. But the truth of the matter is I wasn't going to let this opportunity get away (see what I did there?). I was prepared to take down parents, grandparents, students or whoever else I had to to have my chance riding shotgun in the cruiser again.

Last year it was a domestic violence call, a guy waving a gun around and an AIDS patient threatening to commit suicide. I have no idea what it'll be this year, but I'm sure it'll be just as memorable.

So I'll set a date, sign the release, and I'll be ready to go.

I texted the officer giving the ride-along, and who I was with last year, and let him know I won it again.

His text back was, "Great! Looking forward to rocking and rolling."

My sentiments exactly.

Remembering the best actor in the world

As I was intermittently paying attention to this year's Academy Awards (Billy, the Borscht Belt called - they want their jokes back), I did happen to catch the segment of the show they do each year honoring people in the business, mostly actors, who've passed away.

I call it the Cavalcade Of Dead Stars. The Academy calls it In Memoriam.

Watching the familiar names and faces go by, I was waiting for one actor's name in particular who died last year: Pete Postlethwaite. Come to find out since he passed away on January 2, 2011, he was actually honored in last year's on-air cavalcade.

Postlethwaite was one of my favorite actors of all time. Apparently I was in good company - Spielberg called him "the best actor in the world."

His craggy face and nose that'd been broken several times in bar brawls all but insured he was never going to compete with more classically good looking actors for lead roles.

But as he proved time after time, role after role, you don't have to be the lead to be unforgettable.

Most people remember him from his Oscar-winning performance along with Daniel Day Lewis In The Name Of The Father.

Hard to believe it was his only Oscar.

He lent an air of credibility and realism to popcorn fare like The Lost World. And he riveted my attention with his unshakable confidence mixed with just a hint of threat as conduit to Keyser Soze in The Usual Suspects.

My favorite performance though was one of his last - Irish mobster, and florist, Fergie Colm in the Ben Affleck directed film The Town. Menacing, fearless, understated and terrifying, the scene where he's pruning roses while he tells Affleck how he got his mother hooked on drugs before she killed herself is a master class in acting.

I'm glad the Academy didn't inadvertently leave him out of the cavalcade this year. It would've been almost as criminal as nominating him for just one Oscar after a lifetime of Oscar-worthy performances.