Hot tuna

Good news for people who love tuna melts.

Radioactive bluefin tuna from Japan's nuclear disaster have made their way to the west coast. Think of them as 10 feet long, 1,000 pound mini-nuclear subs that have invaded the western waters of the United States.

I bet you can't guess what the officials are saying. Well, maybe you can.

They're saying that despite the fact the levels of cesium-134 and cesium-137 are ten times higher than in previously tested fish, the public shouldn't worry: the radioactive tuna is safe to eat. Of course it is.

The tuna fishing lobby says so.

Apparently the only thing actually in danger is the bottom line for sushi restaurant owners.

That's because now the spicy tuna rolls are really spicy. And the regular tuna rolls can't help cooking themselves.

Let's do lunch

Like most parents, I want my kids to realize all of their dreams and have all the things I never did. I want them to have a really good life, one that brings them as much happiness as humanly possible.

I also want them to be better people than I am. From the looks of it so far, that's going to be a cakewalk for them.

The other morning was my turn to drive the kids to school. They go to school seven and a half miles from our house, which for those of you keeping score is a fifteen mile round trip. Don't get me started. Anyway, at the freeway offramp we use to get there, there's always a homeless person sitting there. It's not always the same one. They, along with the standard-issue sad-eyed dog and cardboard sign, usually work the ramp a few days in a row before the shift change.

I call it Homeless Depot.

This particular morning my son had to bring a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts to school. We bought two dozen, because we wanted to have a few for ourselves on the way up (we love donut mornings around here). By the time we reached the red light at the top of the offramp, we had half a dozen extra donuts left.

My daughter said, "Dad, give him the donuts."

It took me a minute to realize who "him" was, but then I handed the donut box out the window to the homeless man who gratefully blessed our day and took them.

The next day before she left for school, my daughter put together a lunch for our homeless friend. A real lunch - sandwich, plenty of snacks, several water bottles. My wife took her to school so I didn't actually get to see her give him the lunch, but I heard all about it. He was visibly touched. My daughter and him exchanged God-bless-you's at the same time.

One of my daughter's many strengths is her kind and caring heart (definitely from her mother's side). It's hard to conceive how so much love can fit in one little girl.

But it does. And it only goes to prove what I've known since she arrived.

That she's as beautiful inside as she is outside.

The commissioner

It's one thing to hear about naval ships, and quite another to actually see them up close.

Last Saturday morning, my son's school orchestra and band were invited to play on the U.S.S. Midway in San Diego. He rode down there on the school bus with them at 6:45 a.m. But because he had to be back up in L.A. later in the day to work at the Hero Complex Film Festival, I had to drive to San Diego in the morning to be ready to whisk him back immediately after his, if I may say, stellar performance.

Normally this is the part where I'd bitch and moan about having to wake up early on a Saturday morning and drive a couple hundred miles. But I'm not going to. Instead I'm going to tell you how glad and grateful I am that I did.

Not only did I get to see my son play crazy trumpet, which is a treat I never get enough of, I also got to see something I've never seen before: a naval ship being commissioned.

Christening and commissioning a ship are two different things. The first is where they crack a bottle of really good champagne over the hull and launch the ship into the water. Commissioning a ship is where the shipbuilder officially hands it over to the Navy, then the sailors and Marines board the ship and bring it to life (more on that in a minute).

The U.S.S. San Diego, the ship pictured here, was in the berth next to the Midway so I had a bird's eye - make that crow's nest - view of the proceedings.

It's all very ceremonial. There are lots of speeches and proclamations about what the ship means to the people who built it, the men and women who'll sail on it and to the defense and protection of the country. It's all very patriotic and extremely emotional.

And it all feels very right.

After the ship is handed over to the Navy, the command is given: man the ship. At that, the band strikes up Anchor's Aweigh and the sailors board it. Then the Halls Of Montezuma is played, and it's the Marines turn. Once aboard, they literally bring the ship to life. The radar dishes start turning. The flags are raised. The horn sounds.

It is very, very stirring.

The U.S.S. San Diego is a Naval transport ship for soldiers and equipment. You can see by the hard angles of it's design that it's meant to be a somewhat stealthier craft than older transports. As I watched these young men and women board the ship, I couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead for them, and sadly, how many of them wouldn't be coming back.

When I see their enthusiasm, sense of service and professionalism, I can't help but be overcome with an unfamiliar feeling that's been in short supply for far too long. It took a minute, but then I recognized it.

Pride in my country.

The laws of freelance

In the same way there are laws of nature (gravity, motion, slow drivers when I'm in a hurry), there are also laws of freelance.

The most inevitable one is when it rains it pours.

In the past week, I've had no less than four inquiries about my availability - two directly from clients, and two from agencies.

That's the good news.

The bad news is all four are asking if I'm available to start working the first week in June. I know, it's a champagne problem to have.

But as nice as it is, another law of freelance is the gig ain't there until it's there. On the long list of things I can count on, like my kid's asking me for money, I know for a fact at least three of these jobs - or all of them - will not happen. Why? Well for one thing, asking about availability is not the same thing as being booked.

Jobs get pushed back all the time for a million reasons. It needs more research. The direction changes. The release date changes. The product changes. The need for freelancers changes. Any number of things can wish a job out to the cornfield.

So the only thing I can do is deal with what's on my plate at the moment for that first week of June, and say yes to all four. Because until someone books me, I'm available.

And if I'm not available when the job actually happens, then they'll either wait for me (yes, it's happened), or they'll move on to the next name on the list (happens all the time).

What I always hope is if I'm not available when someone calls, they at least ask me for the name of a writer they can call. I like being able to refer my friends and hopefully return some of the goodwill I've received many, many times over from my copywriting pals.

Now the waiting begins to see who, if any of them, get back to me.

In the meantime, if you want to have lunch or see a movie, guess what? I'm available.

I laugh at Despair

For years one of my favorite websites has been Despair.com. They create and sell de-motivational posters like the one above, and the requisite paraphernalia to go with them: calendars, t-shirts, coffee mugs, etc.

They like to remind their visitors that "Motivational posters don't work. But our demotivator posters don't work even better."

I think I like the site so much because in every one of their posters is the seed of truth. If you work in advertising, you'll recognize that seed immediately in this one:

There are a couple other things I like about Despair.com. First, it's a great go-to site for gifts, last minute or otherwise. And second, there's a part of the site where you can create and then print out your own demotivational poster. I have a folder on my desktop full of them.

It so speaks to my kind of humor. It's one of those sites I kick myself for not having thought of. But I didn't. It was co-founded by this guy:

The funny part is I've seen that "Welcome To Despair" sign many times in my mind as I've walked into certain agencies I've worked for (you know who you are).

If you're up for a laugh, check out the site. And if you're feeling a little down, just try to remember this gem:

Look who got it right

Yesterday General Motors made the overdue decision to pull all paid advertising from Facebook. My question is what took so long? And how long will it be before other companies come to the same conclusion?

As I've said many times, including here, online advertising just doesn't work as advertised.

I'm also a bit glad. Facebook has played fast and loose for so long with its privacy terms - weighing them mostly in their favor - that I can't be sorry they're taking a hit, albeit a small one, financially.

I know it seems like I'm biting the hand that feeds me. Lord knows it isn't the first time and it won't be the last. But the fact is that with so few people actually clicking on internet banner ads, page takeovers and in-app advertising to Learn More, Get Info or Buy Now, it's just not worth the expenditure.

It was only a matter of time before companies wised up. It's just surprising it was GM, not a company known for making prudent financial decisions in the past.

As both advertisers and users grow weary of Facebook and leave, which has already begun, Facebook will have to try to reinvent itself in a way that gives the customers what they want. And what they want, as proven by their total disregard for Facebook ads, is less advertising.

That's not going to help the projected earnings statement promised to investors in this week's IPO.

On the other hand, as a lot of companies head for the exit, it's going to give smaller ones the opportunity they wouldn't have otherwise had to reach whoever is left on Facebook.

Which can only be good news for these guys.

My second career

I own a black car. Do I own it because I think it looks sleek and stealthy?

Of course.

Because it matches my limited wardrobe on most days?

Absolutely.

The statement it makes about me those other colors can't?

Definitely. Although I do think it'd be a better statement if it were a black Porsche instead of a black Lexus.

Which reminds me, I have to raise my day rate. These agencies have no idea what a bargain they're getting. Recession my ass. They're whining like babies "waaa waaaa our budgets.." "waaaa waaaa client won't let us..." "waaa waaaa you know if it was up to me...." all while they grind freelancers so they can pad their bottom line. Don't get me started.

I feel I may have wandered off point.

What I was going to say is that the main reason I own a black car is because I'm a glutton for punishment. If you've ever owned one - and I've owned five of them, in a row - you know it's nothing short of a second career keeping it clean.

I don't know what percentage of cars that go through car washes are black, but I'm going to guess it's disproportionally high (not unlike some agency people I work with - BAM! Thank you, I'll be here all week).

And really, why even bother washing it? As the car is drying, you can actually see the dust settling on the hood, laughing at you on its way down.

But for that minute and a half they're actually clean, they do look, dare I say, sexy (again, Porsche not Lexus).

Every once in awhile I try to convince myself I could be fine with another color. That's right up until I see my car on the road in Champagne, or Desert Sand or Dusty Rose or whatever the hell that color is. Right then is when it hits me: I don't have any choice. I'll keep buying black cars.

Perhaps this story sums it up best. A few years ago my wife and were in Seattle. We were going to have dinner with Jim Walker, a creative director I used to work for. My wife called to tell him we were running a little late, to which Jim replied, "How come? Is Jeff having trouble deciding which black shirt to wear with which black pants?"

Ned Reyerson & Mother's Day

I had this idea for a post about Mother's Day being like Groundhog Day. The movie, not the holiday. It was going to talk about how, like all holidays, it's the same year in and year out. How through a carefully planned program of brunch and flowers we show our appreciation for all the moms in our life.

Something we should be doing every day.

Frankly, it was going to be a thin thread connecting the two. And the only real reason for it was because I wanted to post this clip from the movie.

So consider the clip my gift to all the moms out there. Enjoy your day.

Over and over again.

What is sis-boom-bah

Unless you like your jokes professionally tamed, the edges sanded off, watered down and served with an extra helping of corn, you already know that night after excruciating night, Jay Leno proves he isn't worthy. Certainly not of the job he's had hosting The Tonight Show since 1992 - with the exception of the seven months Conan did a far better job of it.

Jay Leno wants you to believe he's a good guy, a man of the people. The kind of talk show host you can have a beer with, and who'd never take your show away from you just because his new one flopped and he wants his old one back. Well, not so much on that last one.

To realize how bad Jay Leno actually is in the modern late night era, all you have to do is watch Letterman. Or Jimmy Kimmel. Craig Ferguson. Or Jimmy Fallon (who ever thought anyone would be saying that?).

But before all of them, there was Johnny.

Johnny Carson owned late night in a way no one else ever will. Every night, almost, for thirty years Carson put America to bed with style and wit that was at once ahead of and very much a part of its time.

When I was a kid I remember watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson one night when I was up late fighting a particularly nasty flu. It happened to be the night of what was perhaps his most famous line as Carnac the Magnificent:

Carnac: Sis boom bah.

Ed McMahon: Sis boom bah.

Carnac: Describe the sound made when a sheep explodes.

It was the first thing to make me feel better in a week. If Johnny was on, things were okay in the world. Even if they weren't.

The reason Carson's on my mind is this week's Newsweek features an article by Bill Maher remembering Johnny twenty years after his retirement. It's a good article.

The first night Leno hosted The Tonight Show in 1992, he didn't mention Carson's name once. Not to thank him, not to acknowledge him, nothing. When asked about it, he blamed it on Helen Kushnick, his notoriously overbearing manager and agent who got him the show. Many people say she orchestrated Johnny's retirement so Leno could get it.

For all his posing about being a good guy and putting out this straightforward "you know me" "I'm a regular guy" image, the fact he didn't ever thank Carson betrays Leno for what he was at the time: an ungrateful coward who didn't have the guts to stand up to his manager and do the right thing.

I'll never forgive him for it.

But his punishment is what he's become. Jay Leno, before he got the Tonight Show, used to be the best stand-up working anywhere. He'd do Springsteen-length sets. I used to love seeing him, and hearing material that was fresh, original and edgy with cleverness and insight. I imagine the Leno that did that material isn't the same one he sees now when he looks in the mirror.

Despite his publicity machine, and because of his slighting Johnny that first night, Leno will never be a class act.

Certainly not anywhere near the one he replaced.

Don't call me Toto

While I love my German Shepherd more than any reasonable person – even a dog person - should, the truth is he’s not the only dog that’s fetched my heart and not given it back.

There was Fred, the one before Max.

Fred actually belonged to my wife. Having grown up with dogs as she did, I would've expected her to research the breed thoroughly, talk to breeders, get medical checks before she bought one. She did none of that. Instead, she let her heart do the window shopping and got Fred at a pet store years ago at Beverly Center.

When she held him, he spoke to her and said he needed to come home and live with her. Which coincidentally is the same way I wound up here.

I'd always been more of a big dog person. But the thing about Fred was he had no concept whatsoever that he wasn’t a big dog. He’d take on anything: Great Danes, Dobermans, Pit Bulls, FedEx drivers. Fear just wasn’t anything he knew about it. He was a great burglar alarm. Nothing got near the house without us knowing about it. And since Cairn terriers were bred to be ratters, we never had any trace of vermin anywhere near the house (not that we do now, but when Fred was around they didn’t even think about it).

The one downside to having a Cairn terrier was the way people reacted to him. As if it was the most original comment in the world and they were the very. first. person. EVER. to think of it, they’d inevitably say, “Oh look, Toto.”

Toto my ass.

Fred was a fighter, a lover, a guardian angel. He had a sense of humor. As he got older, he was also a cranky old man. He’d lay at the foot of the bed, and when you’d touch him, like a squeeze-toy he’d emit a “grrrrrrrr” letting you know exactly how happy he was about being touched while trying to sleep.

Fred's time to go came two weeks shy of his 17th birthday. Truthfully it probably came sooner, but none of us, especially my wife, were ready to let him go.

When we went to the vet for the final time, my daughter held him while he got the shot. We all cried - sad that he was gone, happy he'd live such an outstanding life for so long (17 is 119 in dog years).

The one thing I've learned is it doesn't matter whether I own a small dog or a big one.

They all seem to have the same giant heart.

I rest my case

It's not easy to read, so I'll tell you what it says: not guilty.

I love it when things work out.

You'll recall back in January, I posted about the fact that I went out and treated myself to a nice new speeding ticket since I hadn't had one in awhile. In that post I mentioned I was going to wish it out to the cornfield by taking traffic school.

That was until I found out the fine was $360. Then I posted about how I was going to stand up to the system, fight the man and take my battle to the courtroom - figuratively speaking.

Just to refresh your memory, I fought the ticket using a little known loophole called Trial By Declaration. Basically you write your side of the story, submit it to the court, then they wait for the officer to write his side and submit it (which they usually don't do, because unlike appearing to fight you in court, they don't get paid extra for the additional paperwork - that comes out of their time). The other thing about it is that if the decision doesn't go your way, you have twenty days after receiving it to request a court appearance where you can ask for traffic school.

In my country, we call that a win-win.

So yesterday, I got this verdict in the mail from the court. Oh, did I mention not guilty?

Today, I drive as a vindicated man, knowing that wherever that officer who gave the citation is, the shoe is finally on the other foot.

Of course my shoe still has lead in it. But we'll keep that between ourselves.

ADDENDUM: There seems to be some confusion about whether I was actually not guilty, or got off on a loophole. The Trial By Declaration is not a loophole (probably shouldn't have used that word to describe it), but a lesser known and not at all publicized way of fighting a traffic ticket. According to the Basic California Speed law, which states "No person shall drive a vehicle upon a highway at a speed greater than is reasonable or prudent having due regard for weather, visibility, the traffic on, and the surface and width of, the highway, and in no event at a speed which endangers the safety of persons or property." I was not guilty by the states own definition. Don't think less of me just because I played by their rules. There are plenty of better reasons to think less of me.

We'll have a gay old time

You may have seen this video making the rounds today. It's an audio track of Pastor Sean Harris of Berean Baptist Church in Fayetteville, North Carolina telling his congregation to punch their children and break their bones if they exhibit any sign of behavior not gender specific.

I couldn't make that up.

So, a few things. Not that it makes him any less dangerous, but in no way do I believe this represents a majority opinion of the country's, or even the south's for that matter, pastors. Not even close.

He's an anomaly, like a two-headed snake. Or a viable Republican presidential candidate.

Next is that as scary as this guy is, even scarier are the homophobes - and really, what other name is there for them - in his church that are "amen-ing" every hateful thing he's saying.

But we know how this ends, right? Of course we do.

At some point in the very near future, someone will come out (see what I did there?) with pictures of the good pastor on his knees in an airport men's room, or dressed in assless leather chaps dancing to Donna Summer under the mirrored ball in a North Carolina gay bar.

Then that'll be that. His fifteen minutes will be up and hopefully he'll blow his brains (or whatever is in his head) out.

There's only one thing any pastor should be preaching to parents about their children.

To unconditionally love and accept them for who they are.

Mr. President, could you pick up the soap

It's looking more and more like John Edwards is going to get his wish. He's eventually going to be moving into the big house. Just not the one he was hoping for.

Seems the hundreds of thousands of dollars he got from two rich supporters to hide his mistress and love-child mama Rielle Hunter, which Edwards called loans, were actually illegal campaign contributions.

The government just doesn't have any sense of humor about things like that.

While the tide has turned against him now, I think Edwards, in the years to come will be hailed as the biggest boost ever to male self-esteem this country's ever seen. Years from now, husband's who get into hot water, thanks to him, will be able to say, "Okay, I'm not perfect. But at least I'm not John Edwards."

Even for a politician, it's amazing how much slime can fit into one well-dressed, perfectly coiffed package. John Edwards scum-o-meter reading is so far in the red, he made Newt Gingrich look like a saint just for asking his wife to sign divorce papers while she was battling cancer in the hospital. No easy feat.

The thing to remember is how smart Edwards thought he was, and how stupid he really is. When asked in an interview about cheating on his terminally ill wife, he replied he thought she was in remission. Which of course, as we know, makes it all alright.

We all know the illegal contributions are a cover. He's being tried for being a monumental asshole even by Washington standards.

I just hope when he gets to prison, the first thing he asks his fellow inmates is how his hair looks.