AT&T Jew-verse

Everyone has to live with a certain amount of denial in life. Otherwise, we'd never cross a street, get on a plane or eat at Jack In The Box for fear of what could happen to us. It's how we manage everyday risk and emotion.

Since, according to this article, the average consumer can be exposed to between 3000 and 20,000 ads a day, and actually see and register about 250 of them, commercials - especially bad ones - have also become one of the things we have to deny in order not to be overwhelmed by them. Out of necessity, they become white noise.

It'd be a second career getting mad about all of them.

However, there is one commercial so bad, so hateful, so grating in the most primal way, I feel pointing it out is less of a gripe and more of a public service. It's this one:

Here's how I'm pretty sure the meeting went.

CLIENT: What do you think the kid should look like?

ART DIRECTOR: Well, he should be...

ACCOUNT PERSON: We were leaning towards a "New York" look. (actually does air quotes)

CLIENT: You mean Jewish.

ACCOUNT PERSON: Yes, you know, curly hair, big nose...

Laughter erupts in the room.

CLIENT: Can we have him say some Jew sounding words?

WRITER: Like fancy, schmancy or for cryin' out loud?

CLIENT: Yes!

ACCOUNT PERSON: (hamming it up - no pun intended) Oy vey, we'll do it.

ART DIRECTOR: Maybe an argyle sweater, so he looks like the old Je...uh, old "New York" guys you see in the jewelry mart.

CLIENT: I love it. What do they say?

ACCOUNT PERSON: Mazel tov?

CLIENT: That's it!

Laughter erupts again.

Don't get me wrong, I love the Jews on TV. I can even tolerate the stereotyping. But what I hate is a stale concept, long past its expiration date, that's been done a gazillion times before - in this case a kid talking like a wiser, older "New York" grandfather to kids slightly younger than him who, for some inexplicable reason, know how to act their real age.

And wagging the corn dog while he's talking must be a Jewish tradition I'm not familiar with.

It's frustrating because it's AT&T. A big client with a huge advertising budget and decent production dollars to spend, and this is the best they (and their 65-year old, Jackie Mason loving writer/art director team) could do.

Then, just to make sure there's absolutely no escape, they run the crap out of this spot. You can't turn on the TV without seeing it everywhere. Maybe the kid got them the air time wholesale.

The best advice I can give the team, or anyone else associated with this spot is that same advice that works managing life's risks.

If someone asks if it's your spot, deny it.

Kim Jong-un and a nice chianti

Cannibalism isn't something you run into a lot in real life. Sure there's the occasional Jeffrey Dahmer, or Rudy Eugene who liked to snack on homeless people, but I think it's safe to say it's frowned upon in most places by most people.

Unless those people are in North Korea.

According to this article, the sanctions against North Korea for being the bad boys they are have begun to take their intended toll. The already poverty stricken, brainwashed and fearful population is running out of what very little food they had to begin with.

Since Kim Jong-un, who, judging by his picture seems to be eating more than lady fingers (unlike his citizens who are eating lady fingers), has decided to put his country's money against military hardware and Hasbro rockets rather than food for his people, the people have been forced to turn to each other for sustenance.

And by turn I mean gently for one hour over a 450 degree flame.

Here in the US of A, where you can walk into a supermarket and get anything from fresh meat (which by the way is how North Koreans refer to their neighbors) to dessert toppings (the other way they refer to their neighbors), it's hard to imagine a situation so dire people have to resort to this kind of depravity just to survive.

But apparently some people can grasp it.

I just heard the Adele, Oprah and Rosie O'Donnell North Korean tour has been cancelled.

On retainer

Like a few of my high school girlfriends, retainers are not pretty, but sometimes they are necessary. Especially if you've spent thousands fixing your teeth and intend to keep them that way.

When I was a kid, I somehow managed to escape wearing braces. First of all, my teeth were always fairly straight (operative word is fairly - more in a minute). And, back then, braces were a subtle yet sturdy blend of heavy metals combined with chain link and eighty-gage wire. Also, my parents were struggling to make ends meet as it was, and braces were way down on the list below things like food and paying the bills.

However I was reintroduced to the world of braces when my kids needed them. Apparently brace technology - a term you don't hear often - has made big strides over the years. Materials are lighter, they blend with the tooth color more easily and, in fact, some are even almost invisible.

Hence the name Invisalign.

When I took my son and daughter to get their braces, I asked the orthodontist what it would take to correct my one tooth in front on the bottom that was overlapping another one. No one else had ever noticed or commented on it, but I had focused on it for years. When I would smile - which was a lot of the time, because as anyone who knows me will tell you I'm a happy-go-lucky, easy goin' guy - it's the only thing I'd see. The good news was he said it was a simple correction and could be done with Invisalign, a plastic brace molded to the shape of your teeth that you change every two weeks to accommodate the teeth moving. Sounded good to me.

Besides, once you're in for a few thousand on the kids hardware, what's a few thousand more?

After a year, my teeth were straight, bleached and beautiful. And I thought that was the end of it and I was done. All I'd have to do from now on was smile. But apparently I didn't read the small print.

Seems teeth, like creative directors, have a memory of their own and always want to retreat back to their original position. To prevent that, I had to wear top and bottom retainers at nighttime. When I asked how long, my orthodontist kind of looked down at his very expensive shoes I'm sure I paid for and said one word: forever.

Since forever is a long time I opted for the traditional plastic and metal retainers shown here. I'd be wearing them at night so no one except my wife would see them, and she was stuck with that "better or worse" clause. Also, I was fine wearing plastic during the day, but for some reason sleeping with it on my teeth bothered me.

To keep the retainers clean, I have to soak them for fifteen minutes every night in a glass of Efferdent Denture Cleaner. Nothing makes you feel young again like using denture cleaner for anything.

But let's not forget the point of it all (yes there is one). My teeth are straight, I'm happy and having to wear retainers each night is a small price to pay to keep it that way.

And when I say small price to pay, I'm speaking figuratively.

Rate of exchange

If you've followed this blog at all - and really, don't you have better things to do - you know that I've written here about the pure extortion the Ahmanson Theater practices if you want to upgrade season tickets.

Yes, I understand this is a terribly first world problem to have.

Anyway, the wife and I were supposed to go see Backbeat there yesterday. But as so often happens, once we actually looked at our calendar, we had a divide and conquer day which would leave both us getting home around five and in a state of complete exhaustion.

Once we realized this, we also realized we'd better exchange the tickets. As Ahmanson season subscribers, we have that benefit as well as the convenience of doing it online, as opposed to having to drive up to the box office and do it in person.

Their website not only lets you see available dates and select seats, it shows you the view from those seats. I wound up with center orchestra seats that are 10 rows closer to the stage. And they only cost $10 each more to upgrade from where our season seats are.

In my other Ahmanson post, I mentioned we donated $600 once and didn't get an inch closer to the stage.

So here's how the math works out: for four shows, if we're able to upgrade at least 5 rows for an average of $10 a ticket, it would cost us $80. Much better, and much less than any donation we'd have to be robbed of before they'd consider moving us closer.

Getting good seats at the Ahmanson has always been filled with intrigue, double-crosses, jealousy and greed. After all, it is the theater.

And where I used to have two words for the Ahmanson management that made it so hard to improve our seats after being subscribers for over a decade, after discovering this little loophole in their rules about upgrading I only have one.

Bravo.

Meeting the deadline

Let me apologize right up front for the New Age-iness of this post. It's very unlike me, and yet here it is.

The other day I heard someone say they were "getting close to the horizon." It was a romantic notion, a wistful way of perhaps saying they, at this point in their life, had more yesterdays than tomorrows. They were looking out to what the future holds.

I'm pretty sure it was a metaphor for dying.

My guess is they felt time was moving too fast (SPOILER ALERT: It is). And there were things they wanted to accomplish that, as they were getting "close to the horizon", realized they'd probably never get around to.

To which I say, join the club.

I don't have enough blog space to list the things I'd like to do before I go. But while I keep trying to check items off the bucket list (I know, I don't like the term either), I do try to focus every once in awhile on what I actually have done.

I posted here about my attempts to get my helicopter pilot's license. I was talking to someone about it, bitching and moaning (so unlike me) that I hadn't seen it through to the finish line. They reminded me even though I didn't get it, I did at least fly helicopters for a while. How many people can say that?

Well, I suppose every helicopter pilot can, but I choose not to think about that.

The point is to own my accomplishments instead of constantly lamenting the (yet) unfulfilled ones. I have a house, something my parents never had. I have two beautiful kids, again, something my parents never had (they just had one beautiful kid). I've met people of note, traveled places and seen and done things I've always wanted to.

I think when people start talking about approaching the horizon, it's good to keep in mind life's accomplishments aren't always marked with a bang (insert agency Christmas party joke here). Sometimes they arrive with a whisper.

The minute we're born, all of us begin our one-way trip heading closer to the horizon.

I keep reminding myself the trick is to enjoy it.

Stop sharing

It probably says something about me that I won't let go (figuratively, not literally) of the fact Al Roker admitted on national television to pooping his pants. Or as the kids so delicately call it, sharting.

It bothers me because, and feel free to color me old-fashioned, I still believe that even in these Kardashian-esque days of everybody revealing everything, there's still some information that just doesn't need to be shared.

Here's the thing: we just don't need to know this. I believe that Roker believes he's doing a service by disclosing this information. After all, he had gastric bypass surgery, and the occasional pants pooping is a common side effect. So I hear.

Being a very visible public figure, my guess is he felt he was relaying essential information to everyone watching who's either had or is thinking about having the procedure.

But you know what? That's what the doctors are for.

You don't see Mary Tyler Moore or Halle Berry rattling on in interviews about the digestive issues, nausea, constipation and diarrhea that comes from living with diabetes.

I happen to like Roker. On the Today Show he's often the honest breath of fresh air, for example here where he ripped Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag a new one, or here where he busts Matt Lauer for getting Anne Curry fired.

It's when he starts discussing business south of the border that I have to draw the line.

Life is good for Al Roker. He's got one of the best jobs on television. He makes tons of money every year. He has his own production company. And he's recognized, respected and loved by millions of people every day.

The only thing he doesn't have is a filter.

Emotionally loaded

It's 2:30 in the morning on a starless, black night.

You're suddenly awakened out of a deep sleep by the harsh sound of shattering glass - a sound you intuitively know means nothing good is about to happen. As you get out of bed to see what it is, extreme unease fills you. Your heart is pounding, all senses are on high alert. As you get to the bedroom doorway, you discover an intruder, a stranger you immediately recognize as a very bad man, moving quickly with very bad intentions down the hallway towards your daughter's room.

You see him, but he doesn't see you. Yet.

The question is what would you like to have on you at this moment. A phone to call 9-1-1 in the hopes they'll get to you faster than he'll get to your daughters' room. Maybe a baseball bat, so you can run up behind him (which he'll hear) and engage in physical combat with him. A flashlight so you can shine it on him and let him know you're there and exactly where you're standing. How about a whistle to blow, so you wake everyone in the house up making it easy for him to know where they are, and who the most vulnerable one is.

For me, the answer is a gun.

If this were the scenario in my house, I'd have no qualms about taking the guy out before he ever reached my kids' room.

I have friends who disagree strongly on this viewpoint. In fact, one of them recently posted on Facebook that you're a moron if you even own a gun. Obviously a much more emotional response to the issue than an informed one.

But that's what the emotion on both sides of the issue drives people to do: paint in broad strokes, and make assumptions that simply aren't true.

Everyone who owns a gun is not a moron, or a killer waiting to happen. I know people who own guns. In fact I know people who own arsenals. Their weapons are legal and registered. They're well trained, responsible people who secure them when not in use. They know and practice gun safety.

In the light of the Newtown tragedy, both sides have a hair trigger when it comes to the other. And it's irrational fear that's driving both of them.

I don't think there's any one answer, but we have to start somewhere. The 23 items Obama put forth today - from assault weapons ban to increased and in-depth background checks - is as good a place as any. I believe monitoring and follow-up should also be part of the mix.

It's ridiculous and ignorant in equal parts to think all people who own guns are morons, or all guns are going to be banned, or the government is going to raid your house and take your guns. What all this talk does is drive gun sales. And the most fearful people who are doing the buying are probably the ones who shouldn't have them.

Do we have a gun culture? Are our children exposed to too much violence? Does it have a detrimental effect? I don't know. Does playing with toy fire trucks mean they're going to grow up to be firemen?

These are all appropriate questions that deserve considered and thoughtful answers.

Right after I take out that guy on the way to my daughters' room.

What is glutton for punishment

I was just trying to think of something I could do to make people say, "I.Q. over 60? Please."

And I've come up with the answer (which may be the only answer I come up with - that'll be funny in a second). I've decided to do again what I've done so unsuccessfully before. I'm taking the contestant quiz to be on Jeopardy.

As you may recall, I posted here about how well it went the last time. But I'm older and wiser now. Well, at least older and fatter. And frankly I consider myself much better versed in European Capitals, Rivers Of The World and Renaissance Artists than I was last time.

The good news is in the test, I don't have to ring in with that impossible buzzer you see contestants wrestling with on the show .

Anyway, if you need me between now and tonight, you'll find me studying up on Civil War Generals, Architecture, "R"eal Words, and the ever popular Potpourri.

And of course I'll also be working on my interesting-yet-humorous-although-not-too-humorous 30-second story for when Alex briefly interviews me after the first commercial.

Wish me what is luck.

My eyes are open

I've posted before here about my problem with floaters and flashes. And I'm not talking about the kind you see downtown at midnight. Ba dum bum!

Because of all these little suckers floating around in my eyes, I have to go to my world-renowned ophthalmologist once a year so he can make sure my retina isn't detached. And every year, he gives me the same answer.

It's not detached, it's just more of a loner. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, in order to do the exam he has to dilate my eyes. An assistant comes in and puts two drops of the dilating elixir into each eye. I think one of the main ingredients is gasoline because that's what it feels like.

Once my eyes - or anyone's eyes - are dilated, they let in a whole lot of light and there's nothing you can do about it. Usually I get this exam during the day, and I have to wear three pairs of sunglasses (not kidding) to reduce the light coming into my eyes so I can see well enough to drive home.

But since this time the exam was at night, I thought I could get away with not wearing them.

So you're asking, "How'd that work out for ya?"

This is what every headlight looked like on the way home. Each one was a starburst, and every lamp shining from a lamp post looked like fireworks. It was very pretty. I think they design it that way because they know it may be the last thing you ever see as you go careening out of control across four lanes into other cars on the freeway.

The good news is it eventually wears off in about four or five hours, and then once again I'm able to see things as they really are.

Which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, was never a strong suit of mine to begin with.

Mint condition

Good news for anyone who knows a close-talker or people with absolutely no respect for personal space. Now more than ever, there's simply no excuse (was there ever?) for bad breath.

I used to think this was just a problem made up in Listerine and Tic Tac commercials. That was until I worked with a creative director who had the problem. It was the only agency I ever worked at where people arrived early for meetings, then jockeyed for the seat furthest away from him/her (I'm not telling). It was bad, and it may explain why the agency didn't do well in new business meetings.

But now with the plethora of mints to choose from at checkout, usually right below the tabloids featuring some escapade of the Kardashians (why doesn't anyone ask them where their dad put OJ's knife already?), your breath can smell minty fresh in a variety of ways.

When I was growing up (I can't believe I just started a sentence with those words), the only choice you had mint-wise was a nickel or dime York Peppermint Patty. It was awesome because it was essentially the Borg of mints: half candy, half mint.

However with the popularity of Altoids, Tic Tacs, Trident and Orbit (alright, the last two are technically gum - but really, what are you using it for: "chewing pleasure?"), we now have a choice of dedicated breath fresheners in paper, metal or plastic containers.

The challenge of course is to let the mint dissolve all the way instead of chewing it. I usually get about three-quarters of the way, then chew it like rock candy. Peppermint Altoids is my mint of choice. I have a tin in the car, in my briefcase and - when I'm working at an agency - at my desk. I think of it as the crack of breath mints. I pop 'em three and four at a time, and have built up a disturbing immunity to their "curiously strong" flavor.

Often co-workers, spouses and friends aren't aware that their breath smells like a landfill. Fortunately, Altoids also come in inexpensive, small tins as well. Which makes it that much easier if you have a colleague who could use a little breath freshening to discreetly leave one on their desk.

After all, there's a reason mint rhymes with hint.

How big is that bulge

Sorry about the somewhat provocative headline. My close, personal friend and fellow blogger Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen always tells me the more suggestive the headline the higher the readership. So be sure and tune in for tomorrow's post: Keeping A Breast Of The Situation.

Anyway, my back went out about three days ago and it hasn't come back yet. Four days ago, I was clearing a path in our garage so the termite guys could come hit a few spots where the little wood-chompers were having their winter buffet.

And not to get too much off track here, but why do all termite and pest companies have those stupid cars: VW beetles (no pun intended) with rat ears and a tail, or giant ants crawling up the side of the car? If they're carrying all that pesticide shouldn't the bugs be gone? Don't get me started.

Where was I? Oh yeah. So at one point, I lifted an extremely heavy box of books, and as I was doing it I immediately knew two things: I was lifting it the wrong way, and I was going to pay for it.

The next day, as I sat down in my big, soft, swallow-you-whole reading chair, I heard a pop in my lower back that could only mean one thing. I'm so screwed.

Since it was a holiday weekend, my chiropractor - the incredible Michelle Zarzana - was closed. I texted and asked if there was any chance she'd be in the office on New Year's Eve day. She wasn't planning on it, but said she'd be glad to come in for me.

The woman's a saint and I'm guessing has a special spot in heaven reserved just for her.

After she worked on my back I felt slightly better. Following her advice, I went home and iced my back the rest of the day. Then, going against her advice, I went to see Les Miserables with the family for New Year's Eve. Can I just tell you how good my back felt after sitting in a theater seat for almost three hours?

I dreamed a dream I hadn't done something that stupid.

On January 1st, we went to our friends house in Topanga for the annual New Year's day brunch, and I was at least able to move around.

Today, I went back to Dr. Zarzana. After working more on my back, and talking about my symptoms and pain, she concluded it's probably a bulging disc (between 1 & 2 or 2 & 3 for those of you keeping count). I asked if I'd need surgery for it, and she said no. But she did say I'd have to work on increasing my core strength, and that I definitely had to lose weight.

I get that a lot.

So now, it seems the impossible has happened. If I don't want the lead in the revival of Sunrise At Campobello (look it up), I'm actually going to have to follow through on my annual resolution to lose weight and get in better shape.

Meanwhile, if things get any worse, I may have to have an MRI and see how bad my disc actually is. Which would be okay.

At least then I could show my bulge to anyone who wanted to see it.

Sirius-ly

On the giant fun-o-meter that is my life, taking my car to the dealer for repair rates right up there with root canals, status meetings, prostate exams and parent/teacher nights. Each in their own way, they're all equally enjoyable.

However there is one rockin' benefit when the car’s in the shop: they give me a loaner with Sirius Satellite Radio.

The reason I enjoy it so much is the same reason my family dreads it: E Street Radio. It’s like a big, double dose of disappointment. First I pull up in a different car that for a brief, fleeting moment they think is our new car. Then, not only is that initial surge of excitement snuffed out, but the realization dawns on them that for the length of time I have it, any music they want to listen to is only going to be a fond memory. They’ll only be listening to one thing: Springsteen.

It's no secret I'm a hardcore Bruce tramp. And since, so far, I've been unwilling to pony up for Sirius in my own car (which happens to be satellite radio ready), when I have the loaner it's E Street Radio 24/7 until the car has to go back. Which of course I make sure is at the very last minute.

My kids initially give me some pushback about it, but at the end of the day I remind them if they want to go to a good school, maybe they should just stop talking and enjoy Thunder Road, Born To Run and Rosalita for the billionth time.

It usually does the trick.

The downside is that in the same way they feel an immediate loss of their music when I pull up in the loaner, I feel a profound grief when I have to turn it back in. I actually watch the attendant drive off with it before I go inside and claim my car.

I know, I have issues.

Anyway, now as I’m writing this I’m thinking it’s a new year and a new day, and maybe it’s time to just take the plunge and put that languishing satellite radio button on my car to use.

After all, that's what college funds are for.

What have you done lately

Hey, you know what's a really bad thing to do if you're trying to feel good? Compare what you've accomplished in your life to what others have accomplished in theirs.

Always a lose-lose proposition.

I was watching the Kennedy Center Honors the other night. Every year, a select group of artists is chosen for their contribution and lifetime achievement in their field. This year, as in years past, was a stellar group: Dustin Hoffman, David Letterman, Buddy Guy, Natalia Makarova and the surviving members of Led Zeppelin. All were received earlier in the day by President Obama, and during the broadcast each had tributes paid to them by colleagues after a reel showcasing their contributions was shown. To give you a little flavor of the show, here's the entire segment honoring Letterman, and a portion of the one honoring Dustin Hoffman.

I could have a reel of my accomplishments, but it'd look decidedly different. For starters, there'd be very little of my work on it (I'll wait a second while creative directors all over town nod in agreement). Not that I wouldn't be proud to display it, but as I've said many, many times here, it's just advertising. (My friend Janice, who has a fine, Parisian blog of her own, rightfully calls what we do a "legacy of garbage.")

No, my accomplishment montage would have more of a personal than universal touch to it, more of the things that matter to me. There'd be shots of my beautiful and ever so patient wife, my awesome kids and Max, the world's greatest dog. It'd have before and 14-year later after shots of my house. Did I mention Max, the world's greatest dog?

And just so you don't think I'm completely neglecting the industry that's been so good to me, I'd also include pictures of friends I've made in the business who've become real life friends as well. People who've inspired me with their monumental talent, and are constantly giving me something to aspire to. (I'll save their names for a later getting-sloppy-in-my-beer post I'm planning to do on gratitude.)

I realize I may have started this post on a somewhat less than positive note. But just so there's no confusion, I feel pretty good about my accomplishments.

Although dinner at the White House does sound nice.

The right direction

Contrary to what you may have heard, I usually don't make a habit of looking to boy bands for positive messages in an otherwise cynical and demanding world. But as you know, I have a 13-year old daughter (who is also quite the poet), and boy bands just come with the territory.

I file it under things could be worse: at least it's not non-stop Justin Bieber. Anymore.

Anyway, in a rare moment of good parenting I thought I should take a listen to what's blasting out her headphones and into her brain. And since One Direction's the group she's crazy about right now, that's where I began. I'll admit I was cynical about them right from the get go. Even though they've sold over 15 million albums, they've only been a group for a little under two years. And they only became one after Simon Cowell told them that if they wanted to return to X-Factor, they'd have perform together instead of individually.

Of course, thanks to my daughter, I'd heard their first all-handclaps-and-percussion monster hit You Don't Know You're Beautiful a bazillion times. I never paid much attention to the lyrics, because first, since when have boy bands been about lyrics? And second, none of them sound like Springsteen. But when I found this song of theirs called Little Things, I started to see an encouraging pattern.

It's about a girl who isn't in any way happy about her appearance, and how her boyfriend loves her and thinks she's perfect because of all the things she doesn't like about herself. I went back and listened to their first hit, and realized it was also telling girls that others can see the beauty in them even if they don't see it in themselves.

I know, I have way too much free time on my hands.

Still, as any dad will tell you, these are big issues in their daughters lives.

I was discussing it with my wife, saying that it's a great message considering their audience is screaming, teenage girls. Fortunately, my wife as she so often does, set me straight.

She said the songs aren't targeted to teenage girls.

They're for every woman.