Waits and measures

This is going to come as a surprise to a lot of people who know me, but raspy, gritty, gravel-voiced singers seem to be the ones I'm most drawn to. That would explain the Springsteen thing. But I haven't always been the hardcore Springsteen fan you know me as today. Before there was Bruce, long before, there was Tom Waits.

When I was growing up, I lived in West Hollywood not too far from the Tropicana Motel where Waits lived for years. There was a restaurant called Duke's downstairs from the motel (it's since moved to Sunset Blvd. near the Whiskey), and it was for a long time the best breakfast in L.A. My friends and I would eat there a lot, and more often than not - if it was early enough - we'd see Waits there. I never spoke with him, but I do recall a few nods were exchanged.

Anyway, by any criteria, Tom Waits is that word that's used all too often to describe considerably lesser talents. He is a musical genius.

There are a few genuinely great, timeless songs that transport you to another place, or capture an experience and moment so well they just grab you by the throat. Or the heart. Their sad poignancy and melancholy, with visual lyricism so precise it's as if you're watching a movie instead of listening to a song, washes over you completely. For me, one of those songs is The Heart Of Saturday Night.

Over the years I've heard him perform it many times in concert. This video - which is actually just the audio off the album of the same name - is how I first heard the voice of a young Tom waits sing it.

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Waits has always experimented with all kinds of sounds and instrumentation throughout his career. And while he's never strayed too far from music, over the years he's also carved out a respectable and varied acting career for himself.

Which I think is a good thing. Because, and I'm braced for the flack I'm going to get for saying this, after years of smoking, drinking, carousing and vocal strain, it is impossible to listen to the Tom Waits of today and enjoy it.

Every singers voice changes with age. Some get richer, deeper. Others lose the ability to hit the highs and lows. But where once the grit in Waits voice lent his songs their melancholy, power and romanticism, for me the truth is now he's unlistenable.

Take a listen to this recent recording and see what you think:

I guess it could be described as beautiful noise. Or a bold expression of his art.

For me, the Tom Waits of today sounds like gravel and broken glass in a garbage disposal.

I realize how harsh that sounds. But I'm angry that the Waits I loved didn't care better for his instrument, and let it have the emotional impact of his early years even if in a more mature sound.

To those who think I've turned on him, I haven't. I will always respect and admire his genius, and will always have his library of songs to listen to.

Only now, it's not the songs that make me sad.

Getting mugged

While my close friend and personal life coach Rich Siegel is busy over at Round Seventeen writing about issues of the day like Islamic clerics, Israel and Palestine, the Holocaust and the sorry state of advertising, I notice he has yet to tackle a vital subject that affects us all on a deeper, even more visceral level.

Of course I'm talking about celebrity mug shots.

It's always good, wholesome fun to have a laugh at someone else's expense. So let's start with one of the classics: Nick Nolte. Now the go-to choice would've been to contrast and compare a glamour boy shot of Nolte from the Rich Man Poor Man days with his now infamous Don King-esque, "Have you ever heard of conditioner?" hairstyle mug shot.

Instead, I chose an earlier mug shot of Nolte as a counterpoint to the one we all know and love. In fact, as you'll see, I've pretty much restricted all my choices to celebutards who have enjoyed the luxurious accommodations of an 8x6 holding cell more than once.

It's hard to know exactly what's more embarrassing about this early Tim Allen mug shot. The '70's stache? That he was busted in Kalamazoo (which coincidentally is the word magicians use when they forget "abracadabra"), or the fact people kept mistaking him for Geraldo Rivera?

Clearly his success from Home Improvement and voicing Buzz Lightyear is reflected in the more recent, more styled shot on the right. You can tell he's aware of the lighting, as well as his best angle. It could almost be the head shot his agent sends out for roles on shows like, you know, Oz or Prison Break.

Unfortunately for Tim, thanks to the interwebs these mug shots will be around to infinity and beyond. (See what I did there?)

                                        

Ladies and gentlemen, the man who's single-handedly putting the glamour back in anti-semitism, the one and only Mel Gibson.

This suitable-for-wallet-size mug shot on the left is from Mel's drunk driving episode a few years back on Pacific Coast Highway. Clearly, Mel still has plenty of alcohol in his bloodstream. You can see the sly smile, the sparkly eyes - the look that says "Hey, I know Jews run the business, but guess which ten-year old, independently financed film shot in a dead language grossed the most money in history?"

I'll give him this: it was a good film, even if I did know how it ended.

But see, you can't smack talk the people who run the business and still expect to have a career in it, as an older, paler and jowlier Mel knows judging by the photo on the right.

I suppose everybody's human and nobody's perfect. But sometimes stupidity just rules the day, and the mistakes we make have a way of sticking to our shoes.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I was going to post Lindsey Lohan's mug shots. But even on the internet, there just wasn't enough room.

Guilty pleasures Part 5: The Faculty

Last night, while I was up from about 1:30 until 4:30 in the morning, I came out in the living and turned on the picture box. And as luck would have it, one of my favorite guilty pleasures - and part five in my series of the same name (feel free to enjoy parts 1, 2, 3 & 4) was on: The Faculty.

It's yet another variation on one of my all time favorite films, Invasion Of The Body Snatchers (I'm particularly fond of the 1978 Philip Kaufmann-directed remake with Donald Sutherland, Brooke Adams, Jeff Goldblum and Veronica Cartwright - with a hilarious turn by Leonard Nimoy as a psychiatrist).

This time, instead of mysterious pods blooming all over town and taking over everyone who comes in contact with them, an alien life force is taking over the students and faculty at Herrington High School in Ohio.

As a parent of two high school students my own self, there are many times I believe this may have already happened.

The trouble starts when students begin noticing a change in attitude among the teachers. Eventually, the chemistry teacher played by Jon Stewart (yes that Jon Stewart), discovers the alien connection. SPOILER ALERT: It doesn't end well for him.

They quickly realize they have to kill the Queen alien if they're going to put an end to the takeovers. But the trick is finding out who the queen is. Could it be the new student played by Laura Harris? Nurse Salma Hayek? Phys Ed coach Robert Patrick? Student Jordana Brewster? Principal Bebe Newirth? Teacher Famke Janssen?

One of those people I just mentioned has a scene where they're walking naked through the school gym locker room. Not saying which one. I point this out because, you know, it's essential to the story.

Anyway Elijah Wood plays Casey Connor, the student who eventually figures everything out and does something about it. And even though Josh Hartnett is in the film, I still like it.

Keep your peepers peeled for a pre-The Voice Usher (credited as Usher Raymond) in a cameo as one of the football team players.

I should also mention The Faculty was the fourth feature film directed by Robert Rodriguez, which explains why the effects look so good. If only he'd kept the alien threat alive in the Spy Kids series, they would've been a lot more enjoyable.

Anyway, if you like Invasion Of The Body Snatchers-esque films, make it a point to catch The Faculty on-demand or Netflix.

Or my couch at 2 in the morning.

Pharma it out

My late great friend Jim Benedict was talking to my wife one time about my somewhat confrontational style when I think someone is full of sh#t or something is worth fighting for, and he told her "Jeff draws lines." He was right.

And professionally, pharma is one of the places I draw them.

Now before you think it's just my relatively-in-check-for-advertising ego talking, I don't think I'm too good to do pharma advertising. And if you look at some of the...ahem...work I've churned out over the years, I'm certainly not above it. It's just that with the cliche stock photography, see-and-say headlines, painfully corny metaphors and miles of legal copy, I wouldn't know where to start in creating the kind of work pharma clients seem to buy. It's an extremely different sensibility.

I mean to me, two people side by side in separate bathtubs seems counter intuitive for an erectile dysfunction ad. Unless he has another condition we don't know about (insert penis joke here - yes I said insert and penis in the same sentence). But I digress.

I have an art director friend of mine who's been working on pharma accounts for the past year. It's not pretty, but she approaches it like she does every assignment she gets at any agency: she gives 110% and tries to create the best work possible. But it's like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football: she'll never be able to move them beyond where they are. It's a big industry, and they. know. what. works.

Which may be the reason my friend, like so many of my friends, has adopted my tried and true philosophy: the checks clear. And the silver lining is pharma checks clear bigger than most.

I used to pride myself on the fact I could work on any account in any category. But, as Clint Eastwood said in Magmum Force:

I wouldn't know where to start if I was asked to write one of those Sit 'N Sleep spots that litter the radio landscape. And I wouldn't know where to start on an ad for painkillers, catheters, arthritis medicine, yeast infection ointment or any of the other pharma ads that seem to show up on every third commercial.

I suppose as those ads become more and more prevalent, and the drug companies need more and more creatives to do them, none of us should ever say never.

But remember, talk to your headhunter before taking a pharma assignment to see if the job is right for you.

Working on pharma accounts may cause side effects including migraine headaches, vomiting, nausea, dizziness, ringing in the ears, verbal diarrhea, overall discomfort, rash decisions, elevated blood pressure and thoughts of career suicide.

Greetings

Here's a trend I could do without. Greeters.

It's not that I'm an unfriendly person. I think if you asked anyone who knows me, right after they stopped laughing they'd tell you I'm actually pretty much of a social butterfly.

But really, this trend of having greeters at every business has to stop.

Of course Walmart is where it all started. It was originally hailed as a great idea, letting retirees earn some money and interact with the public by giving them smiles, handshakes and fist-bumps.

Plus, what with the blue vest, it gave eighty-year olds yet another fashion option.

But like weeds, now greeters are popping up all over. The place that it irritates me the most is at my bank, Wells Fargo.

Already known as a bastion of friendliness and personal attention (cough, cough), now I can't even run into the bank without being stopped in my tracks with "Welcome to Wells Fargo" and "How's your day going?" and other assorted small talk.

Here's the thing: when I run into the bank, I want to run into the bank and run back out again. What I don't want is to be intercepted by a teller walking the floor, who should be behind the counter making that winding line move faster.

As if that isn't annoying enough, now the tellers are suddenly all chatty and small talk. "Is it nice outside today?" Really? Here's an idea: look out the fuckin' window while you're taking my deposit. "Busy day for ya?" If it is, standing here talking to you isn't going to help is it.

I appreciate that they're trying to humanize the experience and promote a friendly image. But the needs of the customer have to come first, and no one's in there to make friends.

So stop talking to me, do your job, and get me out of there as fast as you can.

And have a nice day.

No no, thank you

One time I said to my great friend (more on that in a second) Janice MacLeod, "I'm a giver." To which she replied, "Giver? You hardly know her!"

This of course is one of the many reasons I love Janice.

I met Janice when we worked together at the advertising agency Y&R in Orange County. I remember us both complaining about the commute one day, and we came up with a solution. Every morning, she’d have her coffee, then make the slow, excruciating drive from her apartment in Santa Monica to my house in Long Beach. Then we'd hop in my car and fly in the carpool lane from my place to the agency.

And we'd talk about everything.

The problem was we always seemed to have way more things to talk about than time to talk about them. And while I don’t remember each and every subject we covered, I do recall there was a lot of laughing in the car. It was the best part of the work day for me. I’ll assume it was for her. What the hell, she’s not here to say otherwise.

What with all the talking, confiding, gossiping, joking, planning, singing, eye-rolling in meetings and saying the same thing at the same time, Janice quickly became my “office wife.”

It’s a tribute to Janice and the person she is that my real-life wife approved (which is also a tribute to my real-life wife).

There are so many things to admire about Janice it’s hard to know where to start, so I’ll start here – Not only did she think about leaving her job in advertising, a job that was making her profoundly unhappy, to pursue the life she wanted, she actually did it. That new life included traveling the world, unburdened by time or possessions, and leaving herself open to whatever experiences she chose to have along the way. She planned it, figured out how much money she’d need and saved for it.

Dare I say it’s a dream shared by, what’s the word I’m looking for…oh yeah, everyone.

I had dinner with Janice at Joe’s in Venice the night before she left for France. It was a great dinner, one of those “why don’t we do this more often” dinners. Here's one thing I remember from that meal: I don’t want to spill any state secrets, but let's just say her fall from a full vegan diet may have started a little before she fell in love with and married a butcher.

Another thing to admire is she wrote a book about the experience. Paris Letters is the third book Janice has written in the warm, humorous, observational, razor-sharp, inclusive style that is her voice.

She is what I like to call a real writer.

As opposed to myself, who’s still waiting to be found out by the word police.

The book journals her decision, her travels, meeting and falling in love with her now real-life husband Krzystzof, who is a butcher by trade and apparently has invested heavily in the consonant market.

In Paris Letters, there is a Thank You page, and the very first person Janice thanks is me. Shortly after that, she thanks Bruce Springsteen for writing Thunder Road.

Coincidence? I think not.

I haven’t read the entire book yet, but so far the Thank You page is my favorite part.

But if I’m going to be honest with myself – and if you know anything about me you know how rarely that happens – it is I who should be thanking her.

She was the one who encouraged me to start this blog when I told her I have nothing to write about (something that after 472 posts, many people would still agree with). She always says that venom is my best medium, but that’s mostly about the snarkier posts. She is equally supportive of the vast majority of them that are not written in that tone. She is living proof that there is nothing getting in the way of your dreams but yourself - always a good lesson to keep in mind. And she comments on my posts, which of course all bloggers love.

At that dinner the night before she left to travel the world, I told her that if it didn't work out to just say the word and I'd fly over and bring her back. That offer still stands.

Although I'm beyond happy for her knowing that with her new life, the life she's made for herself, the life she wanted, she won't be taking me up on it.

Apply words as needed

There's been a lot of discussion about the death of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and not all of it as sympathetic as you might expect.

There are people inflamed at how selfish it was to shoot heroin when you have kids. It's a point of view I understand, but it's an awfully unforgiving one usually put forth by people who have no concept about the grip heroin can have on a life.

Until the beginning of last year, Hoffman had been clean and sober for over 20 years. When he fell off the wagon, he sought help by enrolling himself in rehab last May.

Sadly, as we all know, it didn't stick.

But beyond a brilliant body of work, he also left us these words, that can be applied to virtually any job.

It's a simple message: do the best you can at every opportunity you're given. You're not better than the work. And if you want to be noticed and remembered, then give them something to notice and remember.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman did that every time at bat.

Despite his sad and most certainly tragic death, he left us words to live by.

Who's doing the talking here

I've always had a morbid fascination with ventriloquists. What other kind of fascination could you have with them?

Years ago, I was freelancing for the Fox Family Channel. One of the programs I had to write about was a special called the World Of Magic that was filmed at the Hollywood Palladium. I went to the show, and saw a lot of poofy sleeves, tired doves and startled looking rabbits.

But towards the end, there was a magician that had a grotesque looking mask on his face. He removed it, and underneath was another mask. And another one. And another one. He was pulling them off one after the other at an insane speed. He must've had fifty masks on.

I turned to the girl sitting next to me and said, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say he had a pretty screwed up childhood." She said, "If you think that's messed up, you ought to see the vents." By vents she meant ventriloquists. Come to find out she was Erica Larsen, daughter of the founder of the Magic Castle. We talked for a bit, and she told me about all the vents that performed at the Castle.

I was hooked. I decided then and there I was going to make a documentary showing the bizarre world of ventriloquists.

I met Erica at the Castle for lunch and told her the idea. She liked it a lot, and said she'd be happy to connect me with some vents. I also wound up going to the International Ventriloquist Convention in Las Vegas, where I shot a lot of video and interviewed many of the participants.

One of the things I remember most is the woman who'd only talk or answer question through her dummy.

It's a little surprising I could even look at a ventriloquist dummy after a prank my roommate Ned pulled on me years ago.

Ned owned a Jerry Mahoney dummy he knew creeped me out. He also knew I got up in the night to go to the kitchen. So he put the dummy on the kitchen counter right next to the frig. That night, about two in the morning, I went to the frig. I believe there's still a hole in the ceiling from when I saw the dummy sitting there.

And of course, I still get a chill thinking about the Twilight Zone episode pictured above, where a ventriloquist dummy is alive, eventually changing places with his owner - Cliff Robertson.

Anyway, add my documentary on ventriloquists to the list - along with accordion lessons, several screenplays, helicopter flying lessons and marathon training - of things I've started and never finished.

But the idea haunts me, and I imagine eventually I'll come back to it. After all the time and thought I've given it over the years, I'd be a dummy not to.

Goodbye to one of the greats

This picture of Phillip Seymour Hoffman is what he looked like when I met him. On the right is my best friend and best man Scott Thomson. As you can probably guess, the photo is from the movie Twister.

Scott was in Ponca City, Oklahoma for months filming Twister, and it just so happened he was going to be there through one of his more significant birthdays. My wife and I decided we'd surprise him, so I called Bill Paxton (under his alias at the hotel) and together we arranged a surprise party for Scott.

Let me just say you haven't lived until you've partied on a Saturday night at the VFW in Ponca City. Helen Hunt and I were playing barrel of monkeys. Long story.

Anyway, Scott introduced my wife and me to many members of the cast, including Phillip. My memory of him is just this electric energy, this bigger than life character that also came across in the movie.

Obviously you didn't have to meet him to be a huge fan of his remarkable talent. From the music critic in Almost Famous, to the author in State And Main, the sad sound man in Boogie Nights, the disgruntled team manager in Moneyball, the heavy in Mission Impossible, his Oscar-winning performance in Capote and fifty-eight other films, to me he was like the Gene Hackman of his generation. It didn't matter if the film was good or bad, Hoffman was always a shining light, the extraordinary performance to look forward to that would elevate the work to an entirely different level.

I think the fact I got to meet him makes his death even sadder. He'd struggled with heroin addiction for years, even entering rehab last May.

I always used to wonder about stars of a certain era and stars of today. I used to say will we feel the same way about, for example, Bruce Willis passing as we did about Jimmy Stewart? Phillip Seymour Hoffman was one of today's golden era. He was the real deal.

At one point in Charlie Wilson's War, Hoffman's character says, "It was nothing."

Watching Phillip Seymour Hoffman on screen was something.

Rest in peace.

Typo happens

Has this ever happened to you? You work on a commercial for weeks, concepting it, selling to the client, getting the budget approved, shooting it and then finally seeing it on the air. Only to discover there's a typo in it.

Not talking about a little teeny typo buried in the legal copy. I'm talking about a big ass typo right out there for the world to see.

It happened to me years ago. I was working on the Coco's Restaurant account, and they wanted to promote a Prime Rib, Steak and Shrimp offer. Should've been easy enough.

Except when the spot got to air, the end title card read "Prime Rib, Steak and Shimp."

The interesting part is the spot ran for three weeks before some eagle-eyed viewer called to say there was a typo.

Afterwards, I did a little math and figured out that between myself and my partner, all the account people, all the clients, all the production and editorial people who had seen it before it was released for air, over 61 pairs of eyes had missed the typo.

The promotion was over before we had to do anything about it. To this day I don't know if the client even knew.

In today's marketing wars, I'm sure heads would roll if an obvious mistake like that somehow made it out the door.

But back in the day, we all had a good laff about it.