'Twas The Night Before Christmas - Revision 5

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of One Show Awards danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done all through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

Heaving her Christmas cookies

I can hear the season laughing at me, and it sounds like Ho Ho Ho.

Until now, this Christmas seemed to be shaping up nicely. It wasn't nearly as hectic as ones in the past. The lights were up in time. We found everything we wanted shopping wise. And it all managed to get here in time.

We still haven't gotten Christmas cards out, but the bright side is now they'll turn into New Year's cards. Yet another Christmas miracle.

We were going to have family over to our house on Christmas Eve, then visit more family on Christmas day. It was shaping up to be a Christmas full of fun, merriment, egg nog and family. And lots of bourbon in the egg nog.

That was right up until my daughter, through no fault of her own, started heaving her own cookies when we got home today.

She'd been complaining of a bad tummy all day, but she has that every once in awhile and it usually passes and then we move on to more important things- like what's for dessert.

She was a trooper today in spite of feeling bad. I took her to our dentist in Santa Monica and had her teeth cleaned (something she might be needing again). We had lunch at The Counter, although she really didn't have much appetite.

But once we were home, she asked for the bucket and started spreading a little Christmas cheer of her own into it. Very thankful her aim is true.

So it looks like our Christmas plans are in a holding pattern until we see if she's feeling better.

But as Christmas' go, sitting on the couch with my girly next to me, looking at our beautiful tree and watching tired Christmas movies isn't a bad deal.

The bad deal is having to empty the bucket.

Terms of endearment

The last time I looked, and believe me I don't look often, the iTunes Terms of Use Agreement had 38 pages. That's 38 pages that make liars out of all of us when it comes to having read it. Sure, we click the "Accept" button. We say we've read and understand it. But we've done neither.

Fortunately there are people who have way too much time on their hands that do go through them, and alert us to things we should know about.

Like the latest Facebook privacy invasion.

The disparagement clauses that don't let you post bad reviews of companies on Yelp.

How they collect and sell your information, even when they say they don't.

There's a lot of essential information in that Terms of Use Agreement. Not surprisingly, it's all skewed to protecting the site as opposed to the rights of those using it. And every site you visit, big or small has them. Except this one.

Until now.

Starting today, you're on notice that Rotation and Balance now has a short albeit strict Terms of Use policy that will have to be adhered to should you desire to continue using this site. And really, why wouldn't you?

Terms of Use Agreement for Rotation and Balance

Don't be a jackass in your comments. I'm not made of glass and I won't break if you disagree with something I've said or don't think it's funny. But try to be civil about it. Or at least be funny. I don't shy away from a good debate, but name-calling and insults don't make it one. If you do it, not only will I block your comment, I'll see to it you're put back in your cage where you can throw your feces at passersby and I don't have to watch.

Don't pretend to know me. Odd as this may sound, some strangers who leave comments assume an undeserved familiarity in their tone. This will come as a surprise, but I actually know who my friends are. I know who I know. And if I don't know you, don't pretend I do. By all means feel free to comment. Just not like you're a friend.

Tell me who you are. If you're going to take the time to comment, don't do it anonymously. Cause really - and I think you know this already - it's the coward's way to comment. If you're going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it. Anonymous comments don't count. Just look at the ones on any given Yahoo article.

Don't point out my typos. Let he who is without ever having had a typo cast the first stome (see what I did there?). It happens. I type fast - it's part of my job description. It's not like the boom mic hanging down in the middle of scene and taking you out of the movie. You'll still know what I mean. And I promise I'll eventually go back, reread and correct it. Keep in mind this isn't Miss Quigley's english class. It's a blog. You're lucky I can spell anything at all.

If you comment, check back for my reply. Don't just talk to me, walk away and never look back as if you were any one of my high school girlfriends (it's okay, I'm over it). If you're going to take the time to comment, I'll gladly take the time to reply if it calls for it. I'll probably reply even if it doesn't. What can I say, I'm a giver.

Never forget that you're appreciated. There are so many things you could be doing right now besides reading this. I never forget that, and I'm forever grateful you give these little musings any time at all. Often it probably takes longer to read them than to write them (does it show?). Anyway, nothing but gratitude.

So there it is. Not too bad, not too complicated. It's not like I'm selling music on here. I'm not even going to ask you to click on the "Accept" button.

First of all, I don't have an "Accept" button.

And second of all, if you've read this far, I already know you're pretty accepting.

Dr. Sarah

The Christmas season brings many things with it, not the least of which is Christmas handbell concerts. So tonight, I was at the third handbell concert for my daughter's high school, because my daughter is in the handbell choir.

But let me paraphrase a question: why is this handbell night different from all others?

The answer is because my daughter, whom shall be known from this night forward as Dr. Sarah, sprang into action.

I'm going to be completely impartial here, but as I was watching my beautiful, poised, talented, smiling daughter play the first song in the set, I along with the rest of the parents in the audience noticed Kaitlyn, the girl playing handbells next to her, was very suddenly in a great deal of distress. She stopped playing, was very disoriented, was trying to find some direction to walk in, the color drained from her face, she couldn't focus on any one thing and she was clearly about to faint.

Dr. Sarah sprang into action. She grabbed Kaitlyn, held her both up and still, speaking comforting words to her while Kaitlyn's father quickly ran up from the audience, scooped up his little girl and took her outside.

The concert continued, but as you might imagine in a room full of parents, most of whom have known these kids since kindergarten, they were very concerned with Kaitlyn's condition even as they listened to the music.

After the handbell choir, the high school orchestra took the stage. But before they begain playing, the teacher/conductor made an announcement that Kaitlyn was okay.

The roomful of parents erupted into relieved applause.

Afterwards, Dr. Sarah told me that Kaitlyn had fallen off the stage before the performance, and came down particularly hard on her ankle. She either severely sprained or possibly even fractured it. What looked like dehydration or the onset of the flu from where we were sitting was actually shock, her body finally surrendering to the pain of the fall.

Thanks to Dr. Sarah and her cat-like reflexes, Kaitlyn didn't fall and risk even worse injury. Thank to her compassionate words, Kaitlyn didn't spiral into any more of a panic than she was already in.

I'm proud of my daughter for the musician she is.

But that's nothing compared to how proud I am for the caring person she's become.

Rein it in

It's that time of year again. Actually it's been that time of year since before Halloween.

Every Christmas season, the assault on our senses begins - bad commercials blaring out of the television and radio, all touting money-saving Christmas sales. Plastic Christmas trees at Costco. Indifferent, tired Santas at the malls. Salvation Army troops ringing that damn bell at me on every corner. Crowds at the post office. Another Mariah Carey Christmas album.

But I manage to take most of it in stride, and in fact even enjoy some of it. Whether it's despite of it or because of it, I usually find some way to get into the true spirit of the season.

However there is one pet peeve I have about Christmas: car antlers.

Granted, it's a seasonal pet peeve, but still. For some reason I don't think it's saying what the drivers of these oversized clown cars think it's saying.

As a rule you don't see this Christmas car decor on more upscale models. So Mr. PT Cruiser and Mrs. Hyundai Accent, I'm sorry you have to hear it this way, but you already look foolish enough without the antlers. Or the nose. Or the wreath on the grill.

Here's an idea: instead of spending the money on car decorations, spend it on gas and drive over to a nearby neighborhood that has a Christmas Tree Lane. You know, one where each house tries to outdo the next. Oooh and aahhh at the bright, colorful decorations.

Then drive home, secure in the knowledge that other Christmas revelers are laughing with you instead of at you.

Once you've come to your senses about decorating your car, if the urge to decorate something is still so overwhelming and you know resistance will be futile, may I suggest adding more lights to the tree.

Or the chimney.

Perhaps a few more ornaments on the mantle.

Or more stockings.

The point is, let's get the thought of putting antlers on something out of your head

Before you do something you know you'll regret.

Winging it

Like so many things, I just don't get it.

I've never liked chicken wings. Ever. From the wrinkled, bumpy skin that looks like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly, to the search and rescue party you have to send out to find any meat on the bone, there's absolutely nothing appetizing about them.

So I'm at a total loss to understand the seemingly endless proliferation of wing places popping up all over.

For starters, they seem like a food from a time when people were a lot smaller and had tiny little hands. Watching people eat them always reminds me of the scene in Big where Tom Hanks is eating the appetizer he thinks is a little corn cob.

Next, why all the different flavorings? BBQ. Cajon. Ranch. Asian. If these things didn't taste like dry little leftover chicken parts to start with you wouldn't have to smother them with sauce just to make them taste like something.

Obviously I must be in the minority because these restaurants are being built faster than mirrored buildings in Orange County.

And exactly at what point was the decision made that celery would be the perfect accompaniment to chicken wings? Maybe after a few too many Bloody Mary's the chef said, "Well, if celery works in a glass, maybe it'll work with chicken wings."

There's no accounting for taste, especially when it comes to these places. But to each their own.

At least I can still enjoy a real meal at the Frog and Peach.

Bringing it

There's something to be said for asking for the order. For example, when Michael Pollock, an accomplished pianist went to a Billy Joel Q&A on his college campus, he had a question for the piano man.

He wanted to know if he could accompany him on New York State Of Mind. And Billy said yes. Then, as you can see in the video, he went on to win over not just Joel, but the audience as well. The reason? Because he brought it. He saw his moment, and he carpéd it.

It's always bonus points if you can bring it when these once-in-a-lifetime situations present themselves. But, even if you can't, more often than not the audience is with you just for having the moxie to take the shot.

Sarah Horn is another person who brought it. When the person in front of her didn't know the words to the hit Broadway show tune For Good from Wicked, Sarah screamed out that she did and she was chosen. The fact she's a vocal coach probably has something to do with how much she loves musical theater. And how great she is.

Part of the fun of this video is watching how she knocks it out of the park, and the other part is seeing how blown away Kristin Chenoweth is by her talent.

Sometimes bringing it doesn't mean the voice. Sometimes it means the cute.

At shows where Bruce sings Waitin' On A Sunny Day, he almost always pulls a kid out of the audience to sing with him. And it almost always goes like this.

She gets to sing with a rock star. Twenty-thousand people cheer her on. She has a memory to last a lifetime. And she can watch it on YouTube whenever she wants.

My moment of greatness was within my grasp in Springsteen's Tougher Than The Rest video (don't blink or you'll miss it). You'll notice at the 3:29 mark, in the very lower right corner, second row, there's a guy with glasses wearing a black t-shirt with white lettering, fist-pumping to the music.

It's easy to recognize it's me, because I look pretty much the same as I do now - young, full beard, black hair and thin. What can I say? I have good genes.

Yes, it's me. Yes I was there. Yes I knew every song on the set list that night. Yes I was definitely ready to bring it.

Problem was nobody wanted it.

Remembering George

I just got back from a memorial service for my great friend George Roux, who died a little over a week ago. Having known George for almost thirty years, I have a lot of history and stories to tell.

Now sometimes at services like these, they open it up and ask whoever would like to say a few words about the dearly departed to come up to the podium. And there have been times when I've wanted to say something, but truthfully I'm not at my best off the cuff with emotions spilling over, and loud sobbing as background noise.

Plus, being a writer, I like to map out what I'm going to say.

So when I heard about George, my Boy Scout instincts about being prepared kicked into merit-badge readiness. I wrote down what I wanted to say, rehearsed it and was ready for the call.

Come to find out, the call never came. George's service was beautifully planned by his wife Julie, was beyond lovely and went off like clockwork - something you can't do if you just invite people to speak willy-nilly.

Anyway, had I gotten the call, this is what I would've said:

I think the thing that surprised me most is that George’s heart failed him. Surprising because it never failed any of us.

George and I met almost 30 years ago. Being in advertising, of course I’d heard of him, how talented he was, the classes he taught at Art Center and Ad Center. For a while there it seemed like you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone who was mentored by George.

George and I were first partnered as a team when we worked at Tracy Locke. And let me say, work was never easier or more fun. Great ideas flowed out of George fast and furious. Besides being an incredibly talented art director, George was a great writer.

And trust me, copywriters don’t love anything more than an art director who knows how to write.

Maybe it wasn’t so much that we worked together, but that I got to watch him work. I would’ve paid for the privilege.

George and I became great and lasting friends. We were also co-conspirators. At Tracy Locke, we came up with a plan to pitch the Yamaha Electronics business by personally delivering the VP of Marketing an invitation to come to the agency. It was during the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. So we made a poster with a headline that read, “We came to your party. Now you're invited to ours.” We went to the show, found him, talked for a few minutes and gave him the poster, which he loved.

He never came to the agency, but George and I had three awesome days in Vegas.

I’m not saying that was the plan all along, But I'm not saying it wasn’t.

George and I also shared an appreciation for crappy horror films. Every time another one came out, we’d sit through it, then come out of the theater saying the same thing: “There’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back.” But we kept going, I think not so much for the films but to spend the time with each other.

George has been there for me at almost every pivotal point in my life. My dad’s death. Break ups, break downs. He was one of the groomsmen at my wedding, as well as self-appointed videographer, lending his incredible eye and talent to turning a wedding video into art. If only the DMV had known about him.

He was the first person I called when my son was born. At every juncture, George was there, offering his experience, insight, jokes, strength and friendship for me to lean on.

We freelanced as a team at several agencies over the years. I remember one conversation with him where I told him how jealous I was because he could do so many things so well: he was an art director, commercial director, illustrator, photographer. He had options. All I could do was write.

He looked at me and said, "That may be true, but nobody writes like you do."

I think he meant it as a compliment.

When George met Julie, he fell and fell hard. And while I’d seen him in relationships before, it was clear he’d just been biding his time. This was the one he’d been waiting for. Julie brought a joy to George’s life all of us who loved him will be forever grateful for.

We used to spend a lot of time together, but as often happens, life overtakes intentions and in the past few years we haven’t seen each other nearly often enough. The last time I talked to George was on his birthday in July. We had a long conversation, checking in with each other and catching up on our lives and families.

I called him on his birthday, he called me on mine. So while the call this year may be long distance, I’m pretty sure one way or another I’ll hear from him. I know he’ll hear from me.

It’s hard to get almost 30 years of a friendship into a few minutes, or to find exactly the right words to tell you about all the experiences George and I had.

It’d be a lot easier if he were here. Not only would he tell the stories better, he’d have pictures to go with them.

When Julie told me the news, we talked about George and how one reason this is so shocking is that he seemed indestructible. He’d been through a bad car accident, by-pass surgery, a home invasion robbery. All of them were like bullets off Superman. Julie also said she knew he’d had an entire life before he met her, and that she knew what she’d signed up for when she married him.

But Julie, I’m here to tell you, he also had an entire life after he met you. A complete life. The one he wanted. The one he was looking for. The one that counted. The one he found with you.

I’d also like to say something to Rachel and George. Your father was an exceptional man, and he loved you both beyond measure. I’m sure you know that. I’m also sure he’d want you to know this: life will be challenging sometimes. It’ll make you angry. It’ll make you weary. There’ll be times you’ll stumble and fall. But in those times, when you don’t know if you can get up or go on, remember, in your hearts, your dad will forever be smiling down, sending his love and cheering you on.

Let me wrap it up by saying words I’d have much preferred to say to him in person.

George, thank you for your kindness, your friendship, your brilliance, your humor, your heart, your decency, your encouragement, your work, your talent, your downright brutal good looks, and your love.

I’ll miss you friend. Before you know it. Love you George.

Pretty woman. OK handwriting.

Here's how it happened.

There was a point in time, when I was younger and she was younger, that I had a little crush on Julia Roberts. This of course was during the Mystic Pizza, Pretty Woman, Steel Magnolias and Sleeping With The Enemy era. It was kind of rekindled during the Notting Hill days, but one too many close-ups and articles about her bitching out her Malibu neighbors and I was done.

Anyway, during the early days, my friend, best man and a fine actor in his own right Scott Thomson was working on The Player with her. He found himself at the craft services table, and, knowing how much I liked her at the time, said "I know this is very uncool. But a friend of mine's a big fan of yours and he's home with the flu. I was wondering if there's any way you could give him an autograph?"

I felt fine.

To almost everyone's surprise, she did - the one you see here. The Player was twenty-one years ago, and I didn't even know I still had this. I just found it cleaning out a drawer.

But it does make me smile, and reminds me of a time when a movie star caught my attention and kept it onscreen and off. Color me old-fashioned, but I'm just a little starstruck and romantic that way.

I wonder what I can get for it on eBay.

Maids' day off

The living room is a little out of control. So is the bedroom, the hallway and the garage.

It's not for lack of good intentions, and it's no one's fault. It's just that there's life in progress. In fact, there are four of them in progress. And sometimes, in the ebb and flow of volleyball games, client meetings, board meetings, jazz concerts, getting some writing done and walking the dog, cleaning up a bit as you go gets bounced to the bottom of the To Do list.

Of course, like everyone, we do have a threshold. We measure it with those sticks they use in the south every time a river overflows its banks. When it gets to three feet, we stop every thing and clear the battlefield.

Like some people, we have a housekeeper that helps us stay on top of it. Well, she tries. Honestly, she's not very good. On days she's here, we come home to dirty dishes in the sink, unfolded laundry on the couch and cleaning rags on the washer as opposed to in it. Instead of cleaning for the maid, we have to clean after the maid.

Suffice it to say she's not here for the long haul.

I recognize it's a first-world problem, and that families all over the world are struggling with far more serious and pressing issues than a clean house. I see stories about it all the time on the TV.

That is, I would. If I could see the TV.

R.I.P. Lou Reed 1942 - 2013

Breaking news

The radio said breaking news.
The announcer called it another tragedy.
Parents were told to stay clear of the area.
As if that was possible.

Ambulances on both sides of the freeway.
No traffic mid-day, yet not moving at all.
Chaos and yelling.
All those red lights.

The playground is closed.
Yellow tape makes that clear.
I see other kids running.
I see bodies under blankets.

Did he wear those shoes this morning?
Shit, they all wear those shoes.

Some teachers have taught another lesson.
About the unpredictably of life.
The meaning of sacrifice.

Gurney wheels rattling. Children screaming and crying.
They can't get to sleep. They can't stay awake.
Just like when they were babies.
Remember life before them? Of course not.

Others have been through it.
Forced smiles, empty eyes and broken hearts
Say you learn to live with it.

The truth is life will go on.
The real truth is it won't.

Guilty pleasures Part 4: Carrie

I know we're all thinking it, so I'm just going to man up and come right out and say it.

Few things are more fun than watching a girl covered in pigs blood take out after the mean girl and give her what she deserves. See, it's better when you talk about it.

Number four in my Guilty Pleasures series is the remake of the 1976 film Carrie. The original starred, and made a star of, Sissy Spacek. This new one stars Chloe Grace Moretz as the prom queen not to be messed with.

A quick recap: Carrie is the daughter of a religious fanatic who sees sin everywhere and in everything. As a result, she shelters Carrie from the world around her, which apparently includes telling her that her Aunt Flo will be arriving when she hits a certain age.

When that time of the month finally arrives for Carrie, it comes in the girls shower room at the school gym. And it terrifies her.

Apparently the only kind of girls that attend her high school are mean girls, because they throw tampons and pads at her then videotape her on the shower floor in her bloody towel and post it online.

Thus begins the theme of blood that courses throughout the film.

The leader of the mean girl pack is a girl named Chris, and if you know anything about Carrie's powers of telekinesis, you know it's not going to end well for Chris.

Julianne Moore as her mom doesn't pack the authentic craziness of Piper Laurie in the original, but she's fine and manages to color all the fanatic numbers.

But because we know what's coming at the end, basically the film is ninety minutes of waiting for the pigs blood to be poured on Carrie and her date at the prom, and Carrie to exact her revenge on everyone who did it. And laughed at her. And tried to be nice to her (say goodbye to the sympathetic swim coach).

Special effects are considerably better as you'd expect, and Moretz gives a good creepy-eyed performance as she's crushing bad boys in the accordion bleachers and causing cars to stop, throwing bad girl Chris' face through the windshield in slow motion.

I know I'm not supposed to like it, but that's why it's a guilty pleasure. Like I said in part 1 of the series, which was about the Final Destination films, there's nothing more entertaining than watching snotty, teenage stereotypes behave badly and then get what's coming to them.

In fact, in this movie, it was bloody good fun.

Springsteen & I. Almost.

I swear to God, sometimes I don't need to have anyone else working against me. I can do a fine job of it myself.

Ridley Scott made a documentary about this up and coming singer named Bruce Springsteen. You may have noticed I've mentioned him a time or two on here. Anyway, it's called Springsteen & I, and it's a series of concert footage (already worth the price of admission) and video from fans talking about what Bruce means to them.

It should come as no surprise I knew about the filming and call for videos long before the general public. I have my ways. When the website went up and the call went out, I was one of the first people there.

Bruce stories? I'm lousy with 'em.

Unfortunately, one of the first things I read on the site, word for word, was the release I'd have to sign in order to submit my video to Ridley Scott's production company. And things like using my likeness in any media, existing now or in the future, in perpetuity just didn't sit well with me.

Fast forward. The documentary had a brief theatrical run, and is now about to premiere on Showtime. I just saw this trailer for it on Showtime, and the only thought I had is one that, sadly, is not unfamiliar to me.

What the hell was I thinking?

It reminds me of the time my wife-to-be and I were fighting in the middle of Bullock's in Westwood about the pattern on our wedding china. I was dug in, and I was not going to budge. Right up until I had a revelation: I didn't care what the pattern was. It was important to my bride, but I wasn't quite sure just why or what I ground I was trying to take. So I just let it go.

That's what I thought when I saw the trailer - I should have just let all my concerns about the release go. I deeply regret not having just signed it and submitting a video of myself (the camera loves me) telling one of my many, many Bruce stories.

This is a lesson I seem to have to keep learning over and over again. The one about getting over myself, and being a little less stressed out about the things that really don't matter in the long run. Maybe one of these times it'll sink in.

So when it airs, and all my friends who know how I feel about Bruce ask if I submitted a video, or why I wasn't in it, I'll have the self-inflicted pleasure of looking them right in the eye and telling them the truth.

Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

Parents, prepare for takeoff

Like her brother before her, tomorrow morning my daughter will be going with her eighth-grade class to New York, D.C. and a few other stops on the eastern seaboard.

The wife and I will be getting up at 3a.m. to take her to the school, where she'll board the bus to the airport with her friends as she gives us a cursory wave goodbye and heads off on her Big Apple adventure.

Of course we're happy for the time she's going to have, the things she's going to learn and close friends she'll be even closer to by trip's end. What we're not happy about is the fact she'll be away from us for a week. Three-thousand miles away from us.

It's every parent's dilemma: how to let them go without worrying about them the second they're out of your sight. The answer of course, as any parent can tell you, is you can't.

In a book about her daughter, author Joan Didion said, "Once you have children, you're never unafraid again." As a parent there is the continuous loop of white noise, playing at a very low level in the back of your brain always wondering if your kids are alright.

I know my daughter will be fine back east and have the time of her life.

I also know I won't be fine until she's back home.

UPDATE: This was originally written in June. My daughter went on the trip, had a great time and returned safely to me. When she came down the escalator at the airport, she ran into my arms and held me so tight I thought she'd never let go. For my money, best way for both of us to end her trip.

Two heads are better than one

Heart and lung transplants? So yesterday. Hand and feet transplants? Child's play. Post-chimpanzee attack face transplants? You're getting warmer. In fact, according to an Italian neuroscientist it's almost here.

Head transplants.

I'm not going to go into too much detail. What with spine-severing, blood-draining and tissue-fusing it gets a little...squishy. Feel free to read about it here.

When you're done reading, think about the obvious potential health applications. For example, taking someone's head off their cancer-ridden body and putting it on a healthy one.

But while that may be the most obvious and intended one, I'm thinking there are also other possibilities that could be even more lucrative. I mean, sure it'll benefit society once the cost for the procedure comes down, but I see uses for it that will turn it into a case study volume business.

Like that losing weight New Year's resolution I've had every January since I was 11 years old? Screw that work. I'll just have my head put on the 6'2", ripped body like the one I'll never have if I exercise from now until doomsday. Or maybe I'll try out for the Kings. I can't ice skate, but now I don't have to because my new body will.

I think this transplant technology is just the beginning. There are other applications I can think of to improve the quality of my life. But this is, after all, a family blog.

Discuss amongst yourselves.

Don't ask: Sharing my food

Here's how it's supposed to work.

I go to a restaurant with friends or family. We each look at the menu, and everyone orders something they're in the mood for and that will, in a delicious and pleasing way, satisfy their hunger.

What's not supposed to happen is for one or more people at the table to decide they should've ordered what I did, and ask me, before they've even had the first bite of their meal, "Do you mind if I have a bite of that?"

Before you ask, the answer is no.

Nothing is more annoying, rude or meal-joy sapping than having someone ask for a bite of my meal. You see that plate full of food you ordered and they brought to you? Here's a thought: eat that.

If I decide at some point to offer you a bite of my food, then that's another story. But this "Oh that looks good. Can I have a bite?" crap has got to stop.

I want to enjoy my entire meal. That includes the bite you're sacrificing your pride and self-esteem to beg for. Grow up, make up your mind, order what you want and be satisfied with it. And even if you aren't, act like you are. You can always order what I'm having next time.

Besides, if I give you one bite of my meal, what's to stop you from wanting another?

That's a rhetorical question. I'm not giving you one bite.

Breaking Dad

This is a picture of Bryan Cranston as Walter White. It's also pretty much the same position I've been in for the last ten days, minus the stacks of cash and plastic storage containers full of 99.1% pure blue meth. For the record, I also had an open laptop in front of me.

The reason is that after several conversations with extremely insistent friends who wouldn't take no for an answer, and a Twitter feed that was on fire as the series finale approached, I finally jumped on the Breaking Bad train. And it was every bit the wild ride everyone promised it would be.

I'd heard of the show of course, but frankly - what with Homeland, Dexter, Person of Interest, Modern Family (which one of these is not like the other?) - I felt I already had enough tv show commitments.

Besides - FIRST WORLD PROBLEM ALERT! - recording everything in HD only leaves so much room on the DVR.

But once I saw the opening scene from the first episode, I was - pun intended - hooked.

Fortunately I wasn't working the last couple weeks so I had the time to devote to it. I sat in my chair, streaming seasons 1 through 5 on Netflix. Season 5 has 16 episodes, broken into two parts. Netflix has the first 8, and I had to pay to download the rest from iTunes. Money extremely well spent.

I would watch in the day, the night, late at night, middle of the night and early in the morning. My daughter said it should be called Breaking Dad because I was neglecting pretty much everything and everyone to get through this extraordinary show.

A little OCD sometimes? Perhaps. And check again to make sure that door's locked on your way out.

The beauty of it was no commercials, so instead of a full hour each episode was around 45 minutes give or take. I went through all 62 of them, many of them twice because I couldn't believe how great they were.

As far as series endings go, it was genius. Every loose end was tied up, every question answered. And it all made perfect sense and felt right. It was brilliant.

The downside is now, unsurprisingly, I'm experiencing severe withdrawal. Going through all 5 seasons in less than 10 days didn't give me nearly the fix I need. But thanks to iTunes, season 5 is on my laptop and I can revisit it whenever I want.

You should know you can't immerse yourself in the meth world for such a concentrated period of time without lingering after effects. For example, I now recognize every RV on the road as a mobile meth lab. I use the phrases "Tread lightly" "I am the danger" and "Say my name" almost daily. I'm suspicious of fried chicken restaurants.

And worst of all, I like a Badfinger song.

You shouldn't have

First, I'd like to send my sincere thanks to everyone for all your emails and notes asking why Rotation and Balance has been taking weeks between posts lately. All of us here at RNB International Headquarters have been deeply touched by your demonstration of enthusiasm for our blog, and your genuine concern why we haven't been posting more often.

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya. No one cared.

The truth is I could never put up another post, and the impact on your life would be zip. Zilch. Zero. And some other "Z" word.

Don't feel bad, as apparently you don't. I'm used to it. I work in advertising.

You wouldn't think it at first glance, but the product is essentially the same between this blog and advertising. When it's there, and it's clever or engaging on an emotional, humorous or intellectual level, you like seeing it.

But when it's not there you don't miss it at all.

It's a lot like my high school girlfriend that way.

At any rate, we've been undergoing an "organizational restructuring" here at the main office. Our editorial and contributing writer staff has been streamlined for better efficiency, more frequent postings and articles that you can relate to and that will help you find happiness in being your true self.

Oh, wait, that was the staff over at O. Disregard that.

What we've done here at RNB is fired all the planners wearing knit caps (for a good laugh, see what my pal and Round Seventeen auteur Rich Siegel thinks of knit caps). So the work should be more frequent and a lot better, even without their unique insights.

Here's hoping you'll (continue to?) enjoy the renewed, reinvigorated, recharged, re-tooled and some other "R" word Rotation and Balance.

Up, up and away

There’s no shortage of complaints about the commute. And it doesn’t even matter where the commute is. If you live in the greater Los Angeles or Orange County area, you are, as we say in the driving biz, screwed.

When I worked recently in Santa Monica for a few months, it took almost an hour to get from the west side to the freeway at rush hour. We’re talking mere blocks. And then another hour to crawl home. Everyone has a commute-from-hell story.

It’s not as if there haven’t been solutions offered to relieve gridlock. Like the picture above from 1954. Yes, 1954.

A monorail system that rides over the center lane of the freeway. It follows the same route, and the property is city owned reducing the cost. Stations would be on a platform, visible, reducing crime.

Then there was the time in 1955 when Walt Disney offered to build a monorail system like the one at Disneyland from the beach to downtown L.A., fifteen miles of track for the then crazy price of free.

But L.A., being the forward thinking city it’s always been, decided to yield to the auto companies and not implement any form of mass transit beyond buses in order to drive up car sales. (Just a side note: years ago when there was a bus strike in L.A., the late comedian Steve Landesberg said it was the first time in history there was a strike of a non-existent industry.)

If you want the full story about it, watch Roger Rabbitt. It’s closer to the truth about public transportation than you think.

Anyway, I write this as I sit in my office in Orange County on Friday night, getting ready to make the drive north. I can see the 405 out my window, and trust me, even with all the lights it’s not very pretty.

The trick to making the ride bearable, or something close to it, is to arm yourself with a few things that can help distract from the congestion, and even make the trip go a little faster.

Which is why I have a nice car, E Street Radio and a carpool partner.

What is it with getting better?

This past Thursday night I saw Jerry Seinfeld at the Long Beach Terrace Theater. It was the second time I've seen him perform there, but not the second time I've seen him.

The first time was many years ago at the Paramount Theater in Seattle, just as his summer replacement series The Seinfeld Chronicles (later just Seinfeld) was picked up by the network. I have to admit prior to that I'd always had kind of a non-opinion of him. I felt he just did the observational humor, stayed away from anything political or edgy, and was just middle of the road.

You know, what Leno turned into.

That was when I went into the Paramount. When I came out, I was a convert.

I've also seen him in Vegas on New Year's Eve at the Thomas & Mack Center at UNLV.It's a tough crowd because everyone is just waiting to shout at midnight. But within one or two jokes, he had them. The show started at 9:30 so he was onstage at midnight, and he brought us all humorously into the new year.

And by the way, try getting a cab in Vegas on New Years Eve. You'll need a few laughs.

Anyway, each time I see him, it begs the same question: How good can this guy get?

His standup is the most highly polished, precision tuned performance you'll ever see a comedian give. And the real beauty of it is you feel as if he's delivering it off the top of his head, in the moment, just for you for the first time.

The observations are astute. They are dissected in a way that points out the foolishness or brilliance of the subject at hand. The material is eminently, frighteningly relatable. Take for example his description of being married:

It's inspiring not only to see someone like Seinfeld, who doesn't have to work another day in his life, but in spite of that continues to keep whittling, honing and improving his material to such a glossy sheen that it's brilliance seems to come so easy.

It's really electric to see a comedian so at the top of his game. And everyone else's.

Shamu's tale

We just returned home from our annual week at the Hotel Del Coronado. It was our twelfth year, and in almost all of our past stays one of the most anticipated parts has been our visit to Sea World. The visit is usually driven by me, because I love the Shamu show and getting splashed.

What can I say? I'm easy that way.

But this year, we didn't go to Sea World. It was on the itinerary, until we decided to see the extraordinary documentary Blackfish. It's about the many trainers that've been injured or killed by these whales, and particularly Dawn Brancheau who was killed a few years ago at the park in Orlando by Tilikum, an orca that had already killed two people before it came to the park. Blackfish also speaks to the conditions that make the whales so aggressive: small tanks, ripped from their families, attacked by other whales in their pens, lack of food and more.

I won't run the litany of excellent points this film makes, but I will say this: it doesn't take a documentary to know that these beautiful creatures, who once had the run of the ocean and swam over a hundred miles a day are not enjoying the same quality of life in the small (for them) tanks at Sea World's Shamu Stadium.

Understandably, we don't see any of the mistreatment from the stands. Instead, we see the show, take the pictures then buy the stuffed Shamu dolls. I'm as guilty as the next person.

I find myself at a crossroads, because my feeling is that, like zoos, if you can't see these animals in person you can't get a genuine understanding of their beauty and grandeur. In my way of thinking, contradictory though it may be, the ability to see them in captivity makes me want to protect them more in the wild. That's the effect it has on me. So much so, I even wrote about it days after Dawn Brancheau's tragic death.

I don't know if I'll ever visit Sea World again. But I do know after seeing Blackfish, my involvement and contributions to organizations who protect and preserve these animals will be an ongoing commitment.

cANT handle it

There was a time in America, a more innocent time, before we were all wired for sound and obsessed with electronic entertainment, when a two simple pieces of plastic, a little sand and a few industrious ants could provide hours of entertainment for children.

Whatever. There was also a time when gas was thirty cents a gallon, but we won’t be seeing that again either. As far as now is concerned, ants are a royal pain in the ass.

It’s summer, and it’s hot and humid. Apparently ants don’t like it anymore than I do, because they’re busy looking for a place to cool off. The problem is they’ve chosen my place.

It seems to be relegated to a few, about 5 at a time that I see in the kitchen, and one or two at a time in the main bathroom. I know what you’re thinking and thanks, but I don’t need to be reminded that for every ant I see, there are probably thousands that I don’t.

Denial is a river that runs right through my living room.

Anyway, right now it’s not unmanageable. I’ve made the trip to Loew’s, bought the ant traps and have strategically placed them in those rooms. And when I say placed them, what I mean is my wife has actually put them down where they need to be.

Truth be told, I have a little issue with ants (what other size issue would I have with them?).

For the most part, bugs don’t bug me. I can deal with spiders, bees, roaches, junebugs, wasps (the kind who sting and the kind who wear button down shirts), ladybugs, dragonflies, worms, whatever. But the one thing I cannot deal with is ants.

It has to do with a giant, sci-fi invasion we had in our house about ten years ago.

Under the heading of no good deed goes unpunished, I had the exterior of our house sprayed for ants after I'd seen a trail of them milling around.

What we didn’t know at the time was there was not one, but two gigantic forty-year old colonies under our house. When they couldn’t get out to do their shopping and take the little ants to school, they came inside.

We tried everything to stop them. And again, when I say we I mean the wife.

I think I completely shut down the morning I walked in the kitchen, looked at the back wall and asked, “Why is that wall black? And why is it moving?”

There were four, three-inch wide trails of thousands of ants coming in the back door, across the floor, up the refrigerator, down the refrigerator, across the counter, in and out of the sink and eventually to our coffee maker, where they were crawling on top of each other inside that clear water level indicator. They were trying to move the entire colony inside.

It was actually a few days before it reached this point, and I was trying desperately to avoid spraying inside the house. But when I saw the kitchen that morning, only two words came to mind.

Nuke ‘em.

After clearing out the bottom shelves in the kitchen, we moved in to the Marriott Residence Inn for three days and two nights while the pest control people had at it. When we got home, we still found thousands of ants, but we found them in the best condition possible.

Say it with me: dead.

Since then, we've had the exterior of the house sprayed quarterly and haven't had any problem. I'm hoping the few I've seen are just a few that've been trapped inside after our quarterly treatment and will die off quickly.

Because if it gets any worse, it's going to be hell on the wife.

What weekend?

Here's what I think happens. Every Friday after work - when I'm lucky enough to be working - unbeknownst (five-dollar word) to me I get kidnapped and placed into a time machine set for Monday.

Then, as if there was never any weekend at all, it's just me and Monday morning.

The kidnappers are smart. They implant false memories in my head, like what happened on Dexter (someone got killed), True Blood (someone got turned) and The Newsroom (someone was walking and talking fast) when they aired on Sunday so I'll believe I've actually had a weekend.

But I haven't. I know this because they also give me memories of running around the entire weekend I didn't have doing errands, then doing chores when I'm at home. For some reason, they don't want me to have any memories of a pleasurable, leisurely weekend.

Because they know that would just make me want them more.

Even though I think I'm writing this on Sunday night, I know that can't be and it's probably actually Monday morning.

Fortunately after this coming week I'll be on vacation. Then every day will feel like Saturday.

At least that's what I'm hoping.

Getting the clap

Get your mind out of the gutter and north of the border. I'm talking about handclaps.

I like guitars, drums, bass and all the instruments that go into a rockin' good song. I also like bands named after streets with large, black men playing saxophone.

But I believe I've already covered that territory.

Anyway, a sound I particularly love, and coincidentally the easiest instrument to carry, is handclaps. From streetcorner doo-wop groups in the Village in NY, to the polished sound of a studio album years in the making, handclaps bring an energy and reality to the song in a way nothing else can.

I have a few handclap favorites - there are hundreds of them.

Here, in no particular order, and without any regard for the quality of the rest of the song, are some for your watching and listening pleaser.

Oh, and one bit of handclap trivia: on the last one, the sound you hear really is handclaps and not a studio clapboard.

Please to enjoy.

Mercury Rising

It's not often I find myself with a reason to speak highly of an insurance company. But since my auto accident a couple weeks ago, I have nothing but good to say about Mercury.

When you're in an accident, the first thought after you (hopefully) realize you're not going to the hospital, or worse, is that anything having to do with your car is going to be difficult for the foreseeable future.

I'm still here to tell you, from the moment I reported it to the Mercury claims department, everything became easy. My claims adjustor called me minutes later and explained the entire process. He had a flatbed tow truck to the scene within minutes. My rental car was ready and waiting for me at Enterprise by the time I was done filling out the paperwork at the body shop.

Since my car was totaled, I was concerned how much Mercury was going to give me for it. But they were more than fair with their offer.

I've been with Mercury for many, many years. Their customer service, in my experience, has always been exceptional. More importantly, it's been compassionate and caring. Important traits considering the high stress situations when you need to contact them.

Our family is insurance agnostic. Our auto is with Mercury, our life and homeowners with two others. We'd save money if we bundled all our policies. But while it's nice in theory, in the real world when there's pieces of my car from the freeway to the road where I finally pulled over, a couple hundred in savings doesn't matter.

Having a company like Mercury, that has proven to me I can rely on them, is much more important.

The only unfortunate part of the whole experience is while I was looking for a visual to go with the title of this post, I found this poster for a Bruce Willis movie of the same name.

From the reviews I read, I'm pretty sure you enjoyed this post more.

Totally totaled

There's good news and there's bad news about my car that was plowed into last Wednesday morning on the freeway.

My insurance company said my car was right on the borderline of being totaled, and they gave me the choice of whether to cash out or repair it. I'm going to consider it totaled and cash out. That's the good news. It's also the bad news.

As if I don't have enough things to keep me busy, now I have to add negotiating with the insurance company for a fair price and shopping for a new car to the list. I'm trying to look at the bright side.

My insurance company, Mercury, has been stellar so far in helping me with this claim. Actually, I believe they'll continue to act that way in cashing me out. I believe I'll get fair market value for the car - after all, that's what they do.

I think the issue will be exactly what constitutes fair market value.

There's a formula they use that involves comparing then averaging the price of cars similar to mine to arrive at a payout number. But the numbers I can find may be different (read: higher) than the numbers they find. I'm getting ahead of myself here. I will hope for the best.

What's nice about getting totaled is I'll get more money for the car now than I would if they fixed it and I sold it down the road. This is my moment to get as much as I'll ever be able to for it.

As my friend Pete said, the decision couldn't be more clear. The integrity of the frame was compromised. The body shop would literally have to cut the back third of it off, then re-weld it back on.

And when it comes to integrity, I work in advertising. I'm already compromised enough.

Of course, my car was paid off and I'm not looking forward to car payments. I'm also not looking forward to driving a pre-owned (used) car. The Lexus was my first brand new car in twenty-one years.

First world problems. I know.

So tomorrow begins the frantic online search of Certified Pre-Owned cars, then planning exactly when I'll have time this weekend to test drive the ones I'm interested in.

Just in case you think I've lost my perspective, I haven't.

Considering how severe the hit was, I'm grateful to be around to have to do it all.

Mr. Lincoln

Since my car accident last week I’ve been driving a rental. It’s not a car I'd ever buy, much less drive voluntarily. But it’s all that was left on the Enterprise lot at 1PM last Wednesday, after what was left of my car was flat-bedded to the body shop.

So choice wasn’t an option.

It’s this little beauty, a 2013 Lincoln MKZ. It’s also a stunning example why I haven’t bought an American-made car since my very first car, a 1965 Plymouth Fury.

On the outside, it's not bad looking. That is unless you compare it to almost any other car in its category on the road. Especially the foreign ones.

Inside, the fit and finish are neither. It is a cheap, plastic-y looking mish-mash of desperation trying to work in unity and failing miserably. Despite all the bells and whistles it's loaded with, it seems like all it's doing is trying to say, "Look how contemporary I am!"

Everything is electrical on it. Electric push-button transmission. Electric volume and air-conditioning adjustment bars you slide your finger across. Electronic instrument display.

There are controls on the steering wheel for audio, various navigation menus and cruise control. But they feel cheap, like they'll break if you press them to hard. The layout is confusing, and if they're going to plaster that many on there then they really should have a bigger wheel.

Also, for all the electronics there's only has one heavily overworked battery. And when the car is running all its gizmos, I bet it's a lonely battery.

Behind the wheel is cramped and crowded. My knees hit the inside of the center console. I thought maybe this was because I'm not exactly a tiny person, but come to find out it's the same for my smaller friends who've sat in the drivers seat.

Don't get me wrong: some of the best cars ever made have been American automobiles. It's not like we don't know how to do it. It's just that with full-salary pensions and giant bonuses, the money that should've been going into R & D on the cars has been lining the pockets of executives and union leaders.

The truth is I'd go out of my way to buy an American car that could go toe to tire with the foreign counterparts I've owned.

But the Lincoln MKZ isn't that car.

Taking the e-asy way out

I fully intended to have a new post up tonight. And like we've all come to expect, especially me, it was going to be witty yet insightful, terse yet pithy, lengthy but well written. But here's the deal: after the past five days I'm feeling more beat up than Tyler Durden.

Not only is my back killing me from my lovely and unexpected auto accident last Wednesday that I told you about here, but I'm also exhausted from four days sleeping on grass, standing in line, walking in halls and sitting in chairs at Comic Con.

I'm not complaining about the Con. It was teenage fun.

I am complaining about the car accident. That sucked.

Anyway, if you've been online anytime in the last couple years, you've probably noticed the explosion in Your e-cards and someecards. These are cards you make online and have added to a library for all the world to use.

I've custom made a lot of them for various posts on here, and I've also used existing ones.

Anyway, since I'm falling asleep in my soup, I'm putting up a few I like for your enjoyment.

By the way, I'm fully prepared for the lecture I'll get from my friend Rich over at Round Seventeen about taking the easy way out on this post.

I just hope he doesn't wake me when he calls and yells at me.

Hello dummy

I know I was going to be writing Comic Con posts this week, but then I remembered this.

I had to take my daughter to Sports Authority, or Sports Chalet, or Sports Concierge or wherever the hell it was to buy yet another pair of volleyball shoes and shorts. On the way to whatever department that stuff was in, I passed this.

The sparring dummy. I think every creative department in every agency should have one of these.

I mean one that doesn't scream like a little girl when you hit it.

Beyond the exercise benefits, it's an excellent way to alleviate frustration with account people. Just dress him up in that light blue, button-collar shirt with the yellow power tie and have at it. I don't know how much he costs, but I'm sure it's cheaper than all the wall repairs and replacing all those dented trash cans.

Now to be fair, I appreciate every once in a great while account people get frustrated with creatives. So to help them relax, and really, who doesn't want a less uptight account person, they should also have one of these on their side of the office. They could put a knit cap on him, a t-shirt with something ironic yet retro on it and have at it.

Of course, nothing unites people like a common enemy. In which case you can dress him up in one of the clients' company uniforms - if you have a fast food client you're already ahead of the game - and have at him your way (see what I did there?).

No matter how long you pummel him, he still won't go as many rounds as the work.

But it'll be much more satisfying.

Open letter to the person who hit my car yesterday

Dear hit and run driver,

I hope your day went better than mine did yesterday after you plowed into my car on the 405 South.

Well, actually I don't.

What I really hope is you had the worst day of your life, maybe something along the lines of crippling fear and paranoia you'll be caught for hitting two cars on the freeway then taking off on the nearest offramp.

Since the CHP said you must've been going about 80 mph when you plowed into me, the front end of your car must be in pretty bad shape. Surprised it was still running well enough to leave the scene. I hope your car was at least damaged to the tune of the estimated $10,500 dollars - so far - that you did to mine.

Also, thanks for worrying whether I was hurt or not. It's easy to understand why you'd think driving off after knocking my car, which was already going 55 mph, forward a couple more car lengths and sending me flying forward with all the inertia that kind of collision brings with it (good thing I had my seat belt on, huh?), would leave me relatively unharmed.

But enough about me. What about the other girl's car you side-swiped as you veered across three lanes of traffic to make your getaway? I'm going to bet she's not too happy with you either. I think if you ever start passing out apologies, you've better save one for her.

I know you don't know this, but she actually saw your face and remembered your tan Camry. Sadly she didn't get the license plate, because to follow you off the freeway would've meant her racing across three lanes to catch up with you. And unlike yourself, she didn't want to cause an accident.

But I hope you're losing a lot of sleep wondering if the she got the plate or not.

I wish you'd stuck around because I would've loved to know why you hit me. I wasn't stopped. You must've taken your eyes off the road for a sec. Texting maybe? Putting makeup on? Maybe looking for the nearest offramp in case you hit something - that'd be ironic wouldn't it.

I'd also like to know why you fled the scene. The CHP officer said it could be one of several things. Maybe you were driving with a suspended license. You could've been getting an early start being drunk or stoned. He also said you might not have had insurance so you were afraid you'd get arrested. Which you wouldn't have.

But you will now if someone calls in the damage on your car.

Odds are in your favor that unless you have a guilty conscience and call it in, you'll probably get away with it. I hope not. Even though I have nothing to base it on, in fact I have evidence to the contrary with you leaving and all, I'd still like to think you'll do the right thing.

If not, then all I can hope for is that kharma wreaks a nasty, ugly, expensive and unexpected revenge on your ass.

Because after all, kharma, like you, is a bitch.

The Con is on

Don't say you haven't been warned. For the next four and a half days, my son and I will be living amongst 'em (well, actually we'll be living at the Hilton and walking amongst 'em, but no one's under oath here): the Stormtroopers, Wolverines, Lara Crofts, Jokers, Iron Men, Darth Vaders, Zombies, Batmen, Supermen and other assorted, costumed inhabitants of Comic Con.

As you can see here and here, this isn't the first time I've written about the Con. And it won't be the last.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not saying it's the only subject I'll post about for the next few days. But if you happen to notice my writing in the Thursday through Sunday posts have a nerdist, geekesque, maybe-I-ought-to-get-a-life, gee-he-sounds-REALLY-tired quality to them, then I've done my job and you'll know we're having a fine time.

For those who've never been - and really, like the Rolling Stones or Rick Perry trying to complete a sentence, it's something you need to see at least once in your life - please to enjoy this little taste of my next four days.

Welcome to my world.

Analyze that

“That” is a funny word. Not funny ha-ha, but funny in the sense (that) a lot of people think (that) you need to use it when you don’t.

As my fellow copywriters will attest to, one of the items on the job description is being able to edit your own copy. Not with a machete like account people or clients are prone to do, but with a scalpel. What’s usually required is a surgical, precision paring down of the word count to bring whatever brilliant idea it is into sharper focus. And down to time.

For me, the first place (that) I direct this effort is at “that.”

I don’t think (that) there are a lot of words as expendable as “that.” I know for a fact (that) most agency proofreaders don’t agree with me at all about this. They think (that) they’re not doing their job unless they put back all the “thats” (that) I’ve taken out.

Apparently it's true (that) proofreaders are paid by the word.

Anyway, next time you’re writing a letter, note, list, blogpost, copy or whatever, when you go through it to make revisions and fine tune it to a sharp, brisk read, the first place I’d start with is “that.” You may have already noticed (that) all the “thats" in parenthesis are completely unnecessary.

Now that I re-read it, the same might be said for this post.