Blam! Blam! Blam!

Remember earlier in the year when I won my second LAPD Ride-Along at my kid's school fundraising auction? Of course you do. You're just that involved in my life. Thank goodness one of us is.

Anyway, tomorrow's the night.

At 7p.m., I'll be cruising the streets of South Central L.A. courtesy of the 77th Precinct, running plates, hoping for a high-speed chase and getting yet another taste of what these dedicated men and women face every day. I've already written about my experiences last time, and I'm sure I'll have more to tell the next time I post. Hopefully they'll give me a vest so there is a next time.

As you already know, having grown up on the mean streets of West L.A. (north of Wilshire), I already have some experience with dangerous criminal activity. I remember this one night there were these junior high school kids getting a little loud at the imported Italian gelato store. I'll save that story for another time.

Now that I have a sense of what it's like from last time, I'm in the be-careful-what-I-wish-for mode. The things I saw and participated in last time were fun (an odd use of the word, but I mean for a civilian) and exciting, but none of them gave me nightmares to take home. The kind of crime scenes that forever etch themselves in your memory and are out there night after night.

I think it's fair to say I'm hoping for the same this time out.

Meanwhile, if you happen to be in South Central tomorrow night and see a police car with the lights going on and off and different sirens being blasted, don't worry.

It'll just be me keeping the streets safe.

You're asking for it

Ever been with people when they fish for compliments? They'll say something like, "Doesn't this flowered hat with the lace veil look great?" Or, "Can that Tommy Bahama make great looking shirts or what?!" To me, there's always a certain sadness and desperation to it.

I feel the same way about posting birthdays on Facebook.

Now before I get the flack I already see coming from my friends who post their birthdays, let me say this: I do enjoy you giving me the opportunity to wish you a happy birthday.

I'd just rather you let me remember to do it on my own. If we're good enough friends, I will.

When you list your birthday for the world to see, my wishes for a great day mean nothing. They're lumped in with the list of birthday wishes from your other FB friends. I didn't have to remember your special day. It didn't take any effort on my part. You weren't making yourself special enough for your really good friends to think of you.

Instead, essentially, you fished for everyone to wish you a happy birthday. Wishes like that are as genuine as Mitt Romney's concern for the middle class.

As you might've guessed, my birthday isn't posted on FB. Yet on that day, on my wall, I receive birthday wishes from good friends who take the time to remember. It means the world to me because I know they've made the effort, instead of just shifting into auto-response when they saw it on the corner of their page.

It seems to me it's just one more example of Facebook revealing its true identity: anti-social network.

At any rate, please be sure to also list the date and time of your birthday party.

I'm always up for free cake with 847 of your closest friends.

Whole hell

Eating the right things takes a discipline I greatly admire and sadly lack. I'd do it more often if I could, except I fear the shock of ingesting healthy food might be too much for my body.

However, like most people, I'm not going out of my way to actively search out food loaded with pesticides, food coloring and hormones.

By the way, how do you make a hormone?

If the chickens eggs come from are free-range and cruelty-free, I'm all for it. That being said, I think we can agree that after all is said and done, it's still food. And when it comes to food, there are some things that just go against the laws of nature.

Don't pay her (read back, it'll come to you).

On the way home from lunch today, my wife wanted to stop at Whole Foods. I wanted to wait in the car. Guess who won? I don't go in there very often because all that "healthy" food just makes me feel bad on so many levels. But today I'm glad I went in, if only to reinforce my decision not to go in all the other times.

I don't think I have to tell you people how much I love bacon. I've already told you here. Just to reiterate, you know what bacon has that's good for you? Nothing. That's why it's bacon. That's why it's awesome. If I wanted my bacon to be healthy, I wouldn't be eating bacon in the first place.

So when I saw this sign, it made me sicker than the chemicals in real bacon - you know, the good bacon. No one on God's green earth is eating bacon and thinking that it's healthy for them in some way. Selling a form of it that is, or trying to make people think that way is like putting earrings on a pig.

I know, it was a long run for a short slide. But worth it.

As I walked the aisles, I found myself wondering who hurt the store's food buyer when they were a child. Obviously someone did. How else do you explain the shelves being stocked to the rafters with things that should taste good, but don't.

Case in point: Pizza. Like bacon, pizza isn't supposed to be good for you or healthy or low-fat. It's supposed to be pizza.

It's also not supposed to be called Tofurky (actually that applies to anything you eat). Non-dairy cheese? Meatless and delicious? As if these words weren't enough to make your head (and stomach) hurt, there's one word on the box that's like Kryptonite to anyone who enjoys food with...what's the word?...oh yeah, flavor.

That word, reversed out in capital letters, is VEGAN.

Now, some of my best friends are vegans. Some of my better ones aren't. And some of my friends that once were are no longer.

I can appreciate not wanting to consume animal products in any form. And I'd never advocate cruelty to animals in any way. But here's the thing: when I'm having my burger at Five Guys, the truth is the cow was dead before I got there. I'm just seeing to it that he didn't die in vain.

Alas, even Whole Foods knows their shoppers aren't always disciplined enough to stay on the straight and narrow. They know occasionally, something from a real market must make its way to the floor, if only as a bait-and-switch lure to get customers to stock up on the Kale Chips.

Vegans like barley and oats, right?

Think different

One thing ad agencies - I mean integrated marketing communication collectives - are supposed to do, in fact the main thing, is differentiate their clients' product from competing products. Even if the competing products are exactly the same.

Yet it seems agencies aren't able to carve out any real differentiation between themselves. It's a little like the cobblers' kids not having shoes. Well, maybe not. But you see where I'm going.

I'm not talking about the work. From agency to agency, it can be vastly different. I'm talking about the way they position themselves on their websites to clients looking for agencies.

One agency with some letters in its name has "...a process that welds together creativity and accountability to produce ideas that deliver a return..." Fair enough.

An older Madison Avenue shop that's constantly trying to reinvent itself says "...we refuse to take a backseat to the creativity of any competitor when it comes to the impact of our work." If you have to say it...

Yet another says, "We deliver the precise and most powerful combination of talents and resources, customized for superior execution." I'm sorry, I dozed off at the beginning of that description.

One big westside shop is just "a group of hard-working, independent-minded, and passionate problem solvers who live to build brands.."

Yeah yeah. Sure sure.

In many ways, like cars and laundry detergents, agencies are parity products. They all do essentially the same thing. They all have essentially the same players. It's how they do it - meaning the work (and the thinking but I'm including that since the thinking results in the work) that sets them apart.

But when an agency is able to differentiate themselves on philosophy, in a way that gives you a genuine sense there are actually people using it as a northern star guiding the work they do, it's hard to ignore.

I read a lot of agency sites for this post. And the only one I could find that did what I'm talking about was Venables Bell & Partners.

I don't have any stake in naming them. They don't know who I am. I'm damn sure they don't read this blog. I've never worked there, and I don't know if I ever will. I don't even know anyone who does.

What I do know is after reading their philosophy, I'd like to.

The itch

I go to Vegas at least once a year for SEMA. But truth be told, it's not nearly enough (I mean Vegas, not SEMA: three days of that is plenty).

Every once in awhile, like now, I get the itch. To feel the dice rattling in my hand before I roll them down the crap table. To get that jolt of adrenaline when I hit the point. To be in a town that understands you should be able to get a watered-down screwdriver 24 hours a day.

When I talk to friends of mine about going, what I hear a lot is, "I have to see if my wife'll let me go." Fortunately I'm blessed with a wife who says, "Get out of here. And bring back a little for me will ya?" I love that woman.

I like to think that I base my friendships on more substantial and meaningful things. That's why I have some friends that don't care for Vegas. But I have better ones that do.

My friend Mardel and I have gone to Vegas for years, and in the same way the tables run hot and cold, so have our trips.

However one of the great times we had was a few years ago when we were there for the Consumer Electronics Show. It's one of the biggest conventions held every year in Vegas, and an excellent excuse, er, reason to go there.

This trip, Mardel and I found ourselves at a crap table at Treasure Island at three in the morning (I know, I was as shocked as you are). Mardel was the shooter, and he was on a smokin' hot streak. He must've had the dice for over forty minutes.

We noticed on the other side of the table was a heavy hitter, betting A LOT of money. In fact at one point, they had to stop the game so they could bring this guy another rack of chips to play with.

I don't know how much money he had down on hard six, but Mardel rolled it. The roar was deafening. The gambler on the other side won $25,000 off that one roll.

I turned to Mardel and said, "If that guy had any class he'd tip you $100." As I was saying it, the stickman handed Mardel a $500 chip and said, "This is from the gentleman over there."

As I recall, there were drinks and more gambling. I'm not sure how long that money lasted, but it was sure fun while it did.

Those things don't happen every time I go to Vegas, but they happen just often enough to keep hope alive.

Of course, there are other things that happen there. But you know the saying.

Father's Day

Since today is Father's Day, I thought I'd take a minute to pay tribute to the great dads of our time. No, not the real ones, the tv ones.

It occurred to me as I was looking for these pictures that the fictional dads are as varied as the real-life ones are.

The difference is that they make great decisions almost all the time. And even when they don't, they get to resolve the situation properly in a half hour or an hour.

Sometimes they're just as much a mystery as the real ones are. For example when they appear to us after they've died and we've crashed on an island. As they so often will.

And sometimes, the people you think are least equipped to be a dad turn out to be great ones.

I used to joke that ninety percent of the job was just showing up. But two teenagers later - while it's still a big part of it - I've learned the percentage is way off.

To all the real world dads, who need more than thirty or sixty minutes to make things right, who are there for their kids at breakfast, after school, after dinner and in the middle of the night, doing their best day in and day out to provide everything and more for their kids, Happy Father's Day.

Plastics

FADE UP:

We see a four car garage attached to a large, white, modern mansion on the side of a hill in Malibu. It overlooks the Pacific Ocean. From inside, we hear a car door close.

The garage door rattles opens. As it rises, we see a pool of blackness inside.

Suddenly, two, low red lights peer at us like bloodshot eyes out of the darkness, and a throaty roar of a sports car engine blasts our ears. White reverse lights come on, and as the car backs out the morning sunlight hits it.

It is a perfectly mint, red 1967 Alpha Romeo Spider. The driver is Benjamin Braddock, Chairman and CEO of Braddock Plastics..

He turns the car and drives out of frame.

CUT TO:

Overhead shot of Benjamin Braddock speeding down Pacific Coast Highway on a postcard sunny day.

CUT TO:

CU of his hand turning on the radio.

We hear the first notes: "de dede de de de dede de de dede de..."

Suit up

I have a very extensive wardrobe. One pair of blue jeans. Two pairs of black jeans. And twenty-five hundred black t-shirts.

Crap, I need to lose weight.

Anyway, what I haven't had in my collection for a long time is a suit that I've been happy with. And by happy with I mean that fits.

Every man should have a good-looking, well-fitting suit in his wardrobe. You never know when a wedding, funeral, bar mitzvah or job interview for casino pit boss will present itself.

While I was perusing the "suit" websites, I came across this one. It's not unfamiliar to me - I hear their exceptionally bad radio spots all the time: "Get two wool suits, two dress shirts, two ties, two pairs of dress shoes, two belts, two cufflinks, two pocket scarves, two parking spaces, two soft drinks and two hot dogs for just $199!"

I thought, "What the hell." Their suits can't possibly be as bad as their radio.

I decided I'd pick one of the three days and pay a visit to their store nearest me. While I was looking to see where it was, I learned this little tidbit about 3 Day Suit Brokers:

See the irony?

Now, I've never really been much of a math wiz (although I can add up day rates like a bandit). Apparently whoever named the store wasn't either.

But I will admit it does make it a lot more convenient, especially when that $199 is burning a hole in my worsted wool pocket.

Everyone needs a hero

He's mine. Everyday, but especially today. Here's why..

If you're not following Hero Complex you should be. You'll find it here herocomplex.latimes.com and here @LATherocomplex.

Tip worthy

I'm not sure when it happened, but once it did it spread like wildfire. I'm talking about the ever present "tip jar."

In the film Reservoir Dogs, the character Mr. Pink goes on a rant against tipping (I haven't included a link because it is, after all, a family blog). I have to say I agree with some of his rant, particularly the part about being obliged to tip when the service doesn't merit it.

The jars assume everyone and every job is tip worthy. It just ain't so.

I will say however that whoever thinks of the "tip jar humor" may be deserving of a tip.

You make the call: here are a few examples:

Rotor-y club

Being the underachiever I am, I have a long list of things I've started and never finished, most of them involving musical instruments (guitar, violin, piano, accordion - you heard me) and screenplays.

But the one I most wish I'd seen all the way through was getting my helicopter pilot's license.

A long, long time ago, I had a bad fear of flying (freelancing and commuting from Santa Monica to San Francisco for nine months put that to bed). So if you'd have told me back then I'd be piloting helicopters, I would've thought you were crazy. I may still think you're crazy. Frankly, it's a separate issue.

Anyway, years ago my future wife and I had to go to a friend's wedding on Catalina. We took the boat over, but because she had an early meeting the following Monday, we decided to take the helicopter back.

From the minute we lifted off, I saw the light and heard the angels sing (which as you know is not always figurative on flights to and from Catalina). Everything I disliked about flying in an airplane I loved about the helicopter.

Instead of a long running start, the helicopter lifted off effortlessly. Because I was sitting in the co-pilot's seat up front, I could see everything he was doing and ask questions about what it all meant. I could also see everything around and under us through the bubble. Fifteen minutes later, we were gently touching down on the pad on the mainland.

I decided then and there I was going to learn to fly a helicopter.

To everyone's surprise, I started taking lessons. My first helicopter was a Robinson R22. Small, squirrelly and more fun than anything, the basic idea was if I could master it then anything I flew after would be easier.

I took lessons out of Burbank airport as well as Long Beach occasionally. It was all fun and games until we got to the part about autorotation.

Basically autorotation is when the power goes out, and the blades rotate by the air coming up through them as the chopper descends. It's an essential part of helicopter instruction, and everyone has to do it. Here's what it looks like:

The part you can't see in the video is the pilot crapping his pants. You really don't know what a good time is until you're at 1500 ft. and the instructor shuts off the engine. I did it exactly twice. Once where he showed me how to do it, and then once setting it down myself.

One great thing about helicopters is the ability to hover. My friend George Roux used to call it cartoon physics. It's awesome. I've hovered over downtown, over Dodger Stadium and over the 5 freeway at night during rush hour, looking at the bumper-to-bumper headlights that go for literally as far as you can see, and laughing hysterically at why anyone would put themselves through that day in and day out.

For my birthday one year, my instructor who was a pilot for the Glendale PD let me rent a Bell Jet Ranger like this one at cost for an hour (cost was $450). It was like going from a Volkswagen to a Ferrari. I took two friends with me. Once we were in the air, my instructor handed me the stick (figuratively) and we were off.

It was so fast and easy compared to the R22, and at that point all I wanted to do was fly them for a living. Towards the end of that flight, my instructor took control and flew us low through Verdugo Hills, riding up and down and fast just a few feet over the ridges. It was like a combat film and it was the very definition of exhilarating.

During the period I was taking lessons, my wife had a business convention in Kauai. Needless to say, one of the things I wanted to do there was take a helicopter tour. So I researched it more thoroughly than I've researched anything before or since, and found out that the man who actually started helicopter tours on Kauai - Jack Harter - was still doing them.

As opposed to the more touristy-feeling tours the other sixteen helicopter companies on the island were offering - flying by waterfalls with Vivaldi blasting in the headphones - Jack Harter took more of an environmental approach to his. It made for more time in the air and a much more interesting and educational tour.

The chopper seated six or seven people, and I managed to snag the co-pilot's seat. As we were flying over a 5,000 ft. ridge in Kauai, it occurred to me that if Jack Harter keeled over, I could get us back safely. Not that I wanted to test that.

I have to be honest and say I still have the itch whenever I see a chopper fly by, or when I drive by Los Angeles Helicopters, ironically located at Long Beach airport. But even though the 28 or 30 hours I logged are still valid, I've forgotten almost everything I learned during them. So it really would be starting over.

Which is okay. Except, as we all know, for me starting something isn't the hard part.