Supreme stupidity

Never underestimate the ability of conservative, Republican Supreme Court justices to uphold a woman hating, base-pandering, self-serving, Obama-bashing, turning-the-clock-back decades decision.

In a 5-4 decision, the Supreme Court ruled today certain for-profit companies, on grounds of religious beliefs, can’t be required to pay for specific types of contraceptives for their employees.

Just when I thought conservative Republicans couldn’t stoop any lower. They must be breaking out the streamers and confetti at the Hannity house.

This decision would be comical and unthinkable – more like a parody of the Court on Saturday Night Live – except for the fact it’s so heinous, and so transparent in its agenda to derail Obamacare.

Justice Ginsburg, always a center of common sense and decency - not because of who she was appointed by but because of who she is and how she thinks - wrote the court’s dissenting opinion. I completely share her views, and certainly can’t word it any better than she did. Here are a few choice selections from it:

"Religious organizations exist to foster the interests of persons subscribing to the same religious faith. Not so of for-profit corporations. Workers who sustain the operations of those corporations commonly are not drawn from one religious community."

"Would the exemption…extend to employers with religiously grounded objections to blood transfusions (Jehovah's Witnesses); antidepressants (Scientologists); medications derived from pigs, including anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and pills coated with gelatin (certain Muslims, Jews, and Hindus); and vaccinations[?]…Not much help there for the lower courts bound by today's decision."

"Approving some religious claims while deeming others unworthy of accommodation could be 'perceived as favoring one religion over another,' the very 'risk the [Constitution's] Establishment Clause was designed to preclude."

"It bears note in this regard that the cost of an IUD is nearly equivalent to a month's full-time pay for workers earning the minimum wage."

"The exemption sought by Hobby Lobby and Conestoga would…deny legions of women who do not hold their employers' beliefs access to contraceptive coverage"

Conestoga Wood Specialties and the Hobby Lobby were the companies that brought the case to the Supreme Court. On the Hobby Lobby website, co-founder Barbara Green posts the decision as “A victory for religious liberty,“ which is one way to look at it - if you happen to share Ms. Green’s religious point of view, which I'm willing to bet not each and every one of the Hobby Lobby's female employees do.

What will probably, and should, happen now is the Obama administration will find a work around to this lamebrain decision. It will probably end up covering contraception in one way or another. And of course the lawsuits against the insurance companies will start shortly.

So hats off to the Republican party by way of the Supreme Court. Your misogyny, your hatred for Obama (Huh, wonder what could be the reason for that?), your desire to set back progress time and time again either by doing nothing or by undoing what's been done, has today handed you a victory I have absolutely no doubt will backfire on you in a way so huge, it'll have Karl Rove babbling like an idiot again saying you've won when the numbers say you've lost come election time.

If this wrong-minded, partisan decision didn't hurt so many, that might almost make it worth it.

Giving her away

Despite what it looks like from the picture, this isn't a post about the movie Father of the Bride. It's about what I learned at a wedding tonight about being one.

Someday my baby girl is going to get married, and I'll be the one who walks her down the aisle and gives her away. Well, I hope I'm walking. I could be rolling down the aisle in my wheelchair with my oxygen tank clanging behind me. I prefer to think that won't be the case.

Anyway, as my daughter will testify, I've been known to say some wildly inappropriate things sometimes (I know! I'm as shocked as you are). On the (frequent) occasions when that happens, my beautiful, brilliant daughter just rolls her eyes and says in a stern, reprimanding way, "Dad. So wrong." I'm sure I've embarrassed her more than enough in her life.

Tonight I learned that I will never do it on her wedding day.

The father of the bride this evening gave a speech before the father/daughter dance. He talked about how "dramatic" she was growing up. He mentioned all the things she'd wanted to be but never managed to accomplish. He went into some story about how one time she'd cut her eye on the zipper of a sweatshirt she was taking off and started screaming for a plastic surgeon. He told the groom he hoped he could deal with all the "drama" that follows her.

He stopped just short of saying, "Good luck. She's your problem now."

It was a genuinely cringe-worthy speech, and everyone at the reception was praying he'd stop talking. I imagine no one more so than his daughter. And eventually he did, thanked everyone for coming to the wedding, and had his dance with his daughter.

As I was listening, it became clear with every word he was focusing on all the wrong things.

He didn't say how grateful he was to have a daughter as loving, beautiful and smart as her. He neglected to say what a lovely young woman she'd grown up to be. He never mentioned that his heart was breaking because his little girl was getting married, and even though he'd always be the man in her heart, he wouldn't be the first one anymore. He left out that the happiest day of his life was when she was born. And he never told the groom he'd better treat her like a queen, or he'd have to answer to him.

In other words, he didn't say all the things I will.

The inner circle

When it comes to friends, in everyones life there's the inner circle, the outer circle and the circles in between. If I'm minding my relationships properly, the ratio of people in the inner circle should be a lot less than the number of friends in the outer circle.

The in-betweens are really more acquaintances who I have varying degrees of fondness for, depending on things like what they do or say, how I feel that day or if they remember my birthday (hint: it's not on Facebook).

The thing about friendships is they aren't always clear cut.

Sometimes people move from one circle to the next, then back again. And the definition of what keeps them in which one is a moving target.

When that happens, the diagram starts to look less like a circle and more like a maze.

The point I'm taking my sweet time getting to is I have a group of friends who, even though I've known them for years, I don't know as well or as long as my best friends. I don't see them as often, yet they're quickly advancing towards the center ring.

These are people I respect. I think are funny. I get excited about seeing a comment from on Facebook or my blog. These are friends who challenge me, and push me past roadblocks to accomplish things I never thought I could.

These are people who aren't afraid to tell me when one of my blogposts starts sounding like an Apple manifesto.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about neediness. I'd call it more of an investment in friendship and feedback.

I feel like I'm rambling a bit here. But only because I'm rambling a bit here.

I'm not going to name names, because I don't want to embarrass anyone or hurt their feelings. Although, really, if you're feelings are so easily hurt by a blogpost that at most three people read on a regular basis, you're probably in the outer circle anyway.

Anyway, next time we meet, if you want to know what circle you're in I'll let you know.

Especially if it's the inner one.

The thrill of the chase

I've written here about how hard it is for agencies to let an account go, even when the hour is late and it's way past time for them to say goodnight.

The flip side of that, and no less sad and demoralizing, is when agencies somehow manage to get themselves an invitation to pitch an account they don't have a chance in hell of getting.

The advertising landscape is littered with storyboards from small, start-up agencies with one office, a purple bean bag chair, a five-year old laptop and a staff of three who all thought they had "just as good a chance as anyone" to land General Motors. Or American Airlines. Or Budweiser. Or Hilton.

It's only after these global accounts go through the review, and do what they were inevitably going to do in the first place - award their business to a global agency - that these agencies feel the cold water tossed in their face, and come to the grim and true-from-the-start realization they never had a chance.

Never. Had. A. Chance.

Despite the amazing creative they did. The unbelievably thorough presentation deck. And the supermodel receptionist, who's brother's cousin's nephew's best friend went to an improv class six years ago with one of the hundred and seventy brand managers, which is how they weaseled an invite to the dance in the first place.

Lot of good your principal involvement, unmatched agility, media agnostic positioning and social integration did you.

It's not hard to see why they take the shot. Every agency wants to play in the big leagues. They all want a showcase account they can hopefully do some killer work on, then use it as a calling card to get into pitches with other global clients they won't stand a chance with.

There's some lesson to be learned here about a sense of entitlement. And believing that just because you have some brilliant insights that's going to be enough get the job done.

Sometimes, many times, with clients that big, sad but true, great ads are the least of it. They're looking for infrastructure, global presence and some actual media leverage to support the effort. Or maybe they're just looking for an agency with some maturity, both figuratively and literally.

The point is, in every industry there's a hierarchy. Steps to climb. Dues to pay. Even if you've been in business a while, it still takes time to arrive.

Everyone wants to be the agency that has the insights the client is going to spark to. But even more valuable to them would be an agency who knows who they are. Knows what they can do and can't do.

Not that you asked, but my suggestion would be to play to your strength. Build your story by going after accounts you can actually win.

If you're as smart as the presentation deck says, you'll know who they are.

A deliberate cover up

I've never been particularly paranoid. But I will cop to the fact I have a little OCD about certain things.

For example, I check the door several times when I leave the house to make sure it's locked. Then I start to walk to the car, forget whether I locked the door or not, and come back and check it again.

I also check the oven at least two or three times to make sure there's no gas flame on the burners.

Admittedly, I unplug the chargers around the house before I go, not to save on the electric bills but, like the oven, to make sure there's not a short and the house doesn't burn down.

Call it what you will. I prefer to think of it as being thorough.

The other place I always happily err on the side of caution is when it comes to guarding my personal information. At least as much as I can in the age of the interwebs.

When I sort through my mail, I have two piles. One goes in the trash as is, and the other - almost always the larger pile - goes in my heavy-duty, industrial strength, cross-cut, fifteen-page-at-a-time feed shredder.

Next to my kids laughing, hearing credit card applications, bank statements and old tax receipts being shredded is the sweetest sound.

My friend, and occasional art director partner Mike Kelly likes to make fun of me for taking precautions the way I do. When we work together, he loves to chide me with the fact he does all his financial business - banking, taxes, loans - online. He knows it makes me crazy. I always tell him he's an identity theft waiting to happen. But he's never worried about it, and it's never happened to him.

It's happened to me twice. Maybe he has the right idea.

Anyway, my family certainly knows this aspect of my personality, which is why when it came to giving me the perfect gift, they gave me one they had no doubt I'd love.

What this little baby does is pictured above. Basically, it's a home redacting system. Simply run it over the document you want to render unreadable, and then it is. Despite it's diminutive size, it packs a powerful punch when it comes to my sense of security. Okay, maybe I have issues. What's it to you?

Anyway, it's my kind of gift and I couldn't be happier about it.

And let's face it: I can't carry the shredder everywhere.

King of pain

Maybe his real name's the one Steve Martin introduced him with on Saturday Night Live.

Stingy.

Today Sting announced not only do his kids not have trust funds, they also won't be getting any of his money when he goes to that Royal Albert Hall in the sky. Apparently, he has two reasons: one is there probably won't be any left. And the other is he plans on spending it all.

So the second reason makes the first one a certainty.

I'm sure that'll just add to all the good feelings his kids have already when they think about dad missing all their formative years with them while he was out earning a living and getting after show, um, backrubs (this is a family blog) from 20-year old groupies.

He's quoted as saying his vast wealth would just "be albatrosses" around the necks of his six children. I'm very sure it's a burden they could learn to live with.

As so many multi-millionaires have said, they don't want their children to have a sense of entitlement. I'm not sure when the idea of good parenting and leaving your kids financially comfortable became mutually exclusive. Seems to me you can teach children to be responsible, have a good work ethic, be good and charitable people, and at the same time provide them enough financial support to let them focus on doing what they love, and making a difference in the world.

The environment is competitive enough as it is today. I can't even imagine what it'll be like when my kids are out on their own in the world. If I could give them a head start and a soft landing when it comes to keeping themselves afloat, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I wish my parents had been able to do it for me.

And while we're on it, what's the deal with Sting cutting them off entirely? Even Warren Buffett said, "I want to give my kids just enough so they would feel that they could do anything, but not so much that they would feel like doing nothing."

That sounds about right.

Lest we forget, the one percent of money left after Warren gives it all to charity while he's alive will still be more than most people earn in their lifetime. Sigh.

But maybe Sting is just being pragmatic. He probably realizes that, based on his most recent album sales, his next experimental Neo-soul electronica jazz fusion Peruvian Ska African Norse album featuring folksongs in their original Aramaic from the sixth century isn't going to sell as well as Synchronicity did. He's just planning ahead.

Meanwhile, I'll keep trying to explain to my kids why they can't go to an Ivy League school, and try to convince them that trade schools are very underrated.

Retiring the bit

When it comes to comedy, there's been no shortage of male/female teams.

Nicols and May. Stiller and Meara. Lucy and Desi. Sid and Imogene. Burns and Allen.

Each of them has a famous bit, a signature routine that always kills when they perform it.

My wife and I know the feeling.

We happen to have a few comedy stylings of our own. And while our teaming isn't nearly as famous as some of those others, hilarity still ensues when the occasion calls for it, and we decide to bring the funny. It's safe to say our most popular bit by far is "The Wedding Guests."

If you haven't caught our act at any nuptials lately, here's how it plays. When the requisite wedding videographer finally wanders over to us to record a comment for posterity about the bride and groom, or the DJ starts passing around the mic for a toast, we launch into it.

The premise is that we stumbled into the wedding by accident, get the bride and groom's name wrong, and then the wife corrects me.

Let's for arguments sake say the couple's real names are Bob and Susan. It would go a little something like this:

ME: We actually don't know anyone here. We were driving down (name of street the wedding venue is on) looking for the Boot Barn, when we heard this music coming out of here. So we came in, and it was great cause there was all this free food. But, as long as we're here, we'd like to give our best wishes and congratulations to Steven and Christina...

(The wife taps me on the shoulder, pulls me aside and whispers something in my ear)

ME:...I mean Bob and Susan, for a long, loving happy marriage.

And end scene.

It always gets a laugh from the crowd. And the fact that they've probably had a few champagne toasts before they get to us doesn't hurt. But still, funny is funny.

Well, it is right up until the couple thinks you've actually forgotten their real names. Then, not so funny. I have a sneaking suspicion that's what may have happened at our latest performance.

It's never happened before, and actually it never occurred to us that it could. But the last thing we'd ever want to do is add additional stress to what should otherwise be the best day of their lives.

We apologized right after in case they thought we really got it wrong. But let me apologize again. Here. Worldwide. (I don't know if the comedy will translate to the many countries who read this blog, but humor is the universal language. Right after money, prestige and oil).

Anyway, to avoid any future misunderstandings, the wife and I have made the decision to retire the bit. From now on, when we go to weddings and are asked to say a little something for or about the bride and groom, that's just what we'll do. And we'll use their correct names the first time out to make sure they know that we know exactly who they are.

Besides, if I'm going for laughs, I can always do the scene from The Graduate at the ceremony.

Take a beat

As yet another unintended consequence of technology taking over our lives, there's now a new experience for every driver on the road to look forward to.

The beat.

That moment, seemingly frozen in time, when the asshat in front of you is so deeply involved in their texting that they don't realize the light's turned green.

Whenever it happens - and it happens on a daily basis - the ball's in your court. Do you sit on the horn the second the light changes? What's the new etiquette? How long should you wait before letting them know you'd like to get where you're going before Social Security kicks in?

I think the right answer is only as long as it takes to realize what they're doing. On the horn-honking equivalency chart, texting equals fifty putting-your-make up ons, twenty-five changing the radio stations, fifteen eating in the cars and thirty-seven reading somethings.

Texting is by far the most egregious offense. So honk away Merrill (Signs movie reference. Now you know).

This isn't the first time I've posted about texting and driving. That was here. And it probably won't be the last. But it never ceases to amaze me how oblivious drivers can be. In the military, awareness of the environment around you is called situational awareness. When someone's texting at a red light, it isn't called anything because it doesn't exist.

Of course, just as icing on the texting cake, once they realize the light is green thanks to your horn rightfully blaring at them, they usually give you a hearty and friendly wave as their way of saying "thanks conscientious driver behind me for bringing to my attention the fact I was being selfish and rude by texting and thereby being inconsiderate of every other driver's time, also possibly endangering them by my lack of attention to the road. I'll try to do better."

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya. They usually return the favor with a one-finger salute, or by speeding away as if it'll reverse the time space continuum and make up for the extra time you had to sit at the light.

Which is ridiculous, because only Superman can reverse time by flying counter clockwise around the Earth. True fact. Look it up.

If you feel you have to text while behind the wheel, just don't.

Remember, beat is just three letters away from beating.

Best practices aren't

Clients and agencies both love to take refuge in "best practices."

The general definition, at least when it comes to advertising, is that they're a method, technique, style or set of defined guidelines that've shown results in the past better than had they not been used. They're tried and true. They've worked before. They'll work again.

Which begs the question: how do you know?

The truth is best practices make both sides feel they're doing the right thing - the optimum that can be done. It provides acceptable and universally understood cover if the effort fails.

In reality, what they do is slam the door (or block the road - it was the better picture) on new ideas. "Best practices" is the quintessential synonym for "It's worked before, it'll work again."

The problem with that line of thinking is the same one dice have at the crap table: they don't care what the odds are. In other words, best practices are just that. Until they're not.

Next time someone asks if you're using best practices, tell them not a chance. If they ask why not, say it's your best practice against mediocre work.

Call it a loaner

Yesterday, my car started making what I like to call an expensive sound.

When I hit the gas – or as we say in my country, accelerator – there’s a loud clunk as the car moves forward.

At first I thought something in the trunk was being thrown back against the lid. But since the clunk was coming from the front of the car, since this isn’t 1973 and since I don’t drive a VW Super Beetle, I quickly ruled that out.

Next I did what you’d think I’d have learned by now not to do. I went on the interwebs to research the noise. If I wasn’t filled with wallet anxiety before I went on, I sure was after.

Googling (I don’t care how large that company is, it’s still a stupid looking word) the sound and my car model brought up 11,300 results - everything from transmission to power train to wheel bearings to differential to radiator cap (?) and more.

The good news is when I took my car into the dealer this morning, they gave me a loaner to drive today while they gouge, I mean, figure out what’s wrong with my car. The loaner, like the above picture, is this year’s model of my car which coincidentally I’ve been wanting to drive. And it’s a hybrid.

Now, if you know anything about me - and you should, because really, we don't have secrets between us - you know I’m not a fan of hybrid cars. But I’m just going to say it: this one is awesome. Just as much power as mine, all the new model’s gadgets and gizmos, and, most importantly, that new car smell.

I'm also in advertising and understand the meaning of upsell. I realize it's no coincidence they gave me a loaner that's a newer model of a car they already know I love, and would probably want to have the latest model of with all it's bells, whistles and new body styling.

Damn if it's not working. Ad people are the most gullible even when we know the tactics.

Anyway, while I’m hoping and praying my clunking noise turns out to be something minor and inexpensive, I’m also hoping it takes them overnight to figure it out so I can enjoy the loaner just a bit longer. Which I'm sure it will.

After all, that's how loaners turn into keepers.

Guilty pleasures Part 7: Edge Of Tomorrow

Yet another installment in the Guilty Pleasures series. If you haven’t been following it, I won't take it personally like so many other things - bad weather and heavy traffic to name a couple. Instead, I’ll just make it easy for you to catch up here, here, here, here, here and here.

But like a well written sequel (chuckles to himself for pretending to know the phrase “well written”), you don’t have to see the original to follow along with this latest installment.

Edge Of Tomorrow is part of the repeating-until-you-get-it-right genre of films. Also in the cannon are Groundhog’s Day, Looper, Source Code, Frequency, Run Lola Run and several others. It stars Tom Cruise and Emily Blunt, who clearly work well and have fun together.

Cruise plays a smarmy military PR hack who winds up getting volunteered into being a soldier and winds up having to kill the alien brain, which then kills all the aliens.

Or something like that.

The problem is he dies each time. But because he’s been exposed to the alien’s blood, he keeps rebooting his days and learning more each time out.

It’s clearly not an original concept, but it’s dished up in an extremely fun way. It’s an action and humor filled two hours of pure entertainment, which is what a summer get-the-aliens-before-they-get-us movie should be.

I’ve always liked Cruise. I don’t pay attention to the Scientology craziness, or how his marriage du jour is doing. I think he’s an extraordinarily talented actor, and a brave one.

Interview With The Vampire. Born On The Fourth Of July. Tropic Thunder. Collateral. Magnolia. Not a safe choice in the bunch. But Cruise takes them on – putting his vanity aside - and commits to the performances with an intensity not often seen in actors at any stage of their career.

He also happens to have been in several of my favorite movies: Jerry Maguire. A Few Good Men. Rain Man (where I felt he had a much more difficult role than Dustin Hoffman, who won an Oscar for his performance).

From the minute he slid across the hardwood floor in his underwear in Risky Business, Tom Cruise has been willing to do what it takes to entertain his audience.

Just like he does in Edge Of Tomorrow.

Taking the temperature

I happen to like colder temperatures. Not just at home, but at the office as well.

As long as I remember, people in offices have tried to break into that locked plastic, wall-mounted thermostat to control the temperature. And if you’ve ever tried to do it – not that I ever have because that would be wrong – it’s never been an easy thing to do. So I hear.

Occasionally, some maintenance guy will leave the cover unlocked, and you’ll have access to it for awhile. But despite the painstaking effort to put the cover back in a position that makes it look like it’s locked, eventually some thin-skinned whiner who wears a mohair sweater and scarf when it’s 90 degrees will rat you out because “it’s just soooo cold in here!” Then they lock it up again.

These thermostats don’t just control where you’re sitting. They control different zones in the office. The problem is it’s the same kind of common-sense zoning you find on Bourbon Street, or the Vegas strip. Maybe it controls the temperature where you’re sitting, as well as a corner on the complete other side of the office.

Fortunately, technology has made changing the temperature and messing with people much easier. Sort of.

Everything’s digital now, so you can set the temperature much more accurately. Instead of turning a dial, and waiting for that “pfsssst” sound, now you just hit an up or down arrow.

The problem is the locking system has also gotten better. Screens and their housings can be locked so only a designated person can change the temperature.

But the good news is, since so many agencies have drunk the Kool-Aid on the value of open office plans, which either limits the “zones” or makes them much larger depending on how you look at it, the opportunity to irritate a greater number of people in a shorter amount of time is very real.

Carpé freeze ‘em.

Working on my tan. Camry.

What do the Holy Grail, the lost city of Atlantis, mermaids and a particular tan Camry have in common? I have exactly the same chance of finding any of them.

I wrote here, and here about the auto accident I had almost a year ago that totaled my 2008 Lexus ES350. The only glimpse of the person who hit me, then ran, came from the other car she hit. The person who crashed into us was driving a tan Camry.

I work a lot in Orange County, so I have the (clears throat loudly) pleasure of slogging it out on the 405 South quite frequently – the same freeway I was on when I was hit. And even though I know I’ll never find it again, every single time I'm driving down there, I keep looking and hoping I'll stumble across the tan Camry.

Of course by now, the driver has either repaired the front end damage to her car, painted the car, sold it or all of the above. And because there are so many Camrys on the road, many of them tan, my adrenaline and hopes are on a constant roller coaster ride during the daily commute.

In this case, like the lottery, I know the odds and I keep playing anyway. I’m not even sure what I’d do if I saw the car. I know what I’d like to do.

But of course it'd depend whether I was driving my car or the wifes Land Cruiser.

Father's Day 2014

I don't usually re-post on here, but today's my day and one of the perks is I don't have to write a new post if I don't want to. Especially when this one - which did fine last year and the year before that - will do just fine again.

I think you dads know what I'm talkin' about..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The back room

A few years ago, for about nine months, I had the good fortune to work at FCB in San Francisco. It was a fun, jet-setting kind of gig because I had to commute back and forth from Santa Monica, where I was living at the time. I’d leave Monday morning, and fly back Friday night. Racked up lots of frequent flyer miles, and also got to know a lot of the airport personnel by name. Thank you for the free upgrades.

That was the good news.

The bad news is it was on Taco Bell.

If you’ve followed this blog for any amount of time – and if you have, thank you, but you really need to spend more time outside – you may remember I wrote here about my time up north. One thing I happened to leave out was the night I went looking for trouble.

Normally, trouble usually has no trouble finding me. But on this night, I decided to act on something I’d heard. I don’t remember if it was in a noir motion picture from the fifties that took place in San Francisco, or whether the concierge at the hotel had mentioned it to me in passing. I'd heard there were all sorts of backroom crap games in Chinatown, and I was setting out to find myself one.

I also don't remember where I heard this little tidbit: the best way to find one was ask one of the many Asian cab drivers.

So, very late in the evening, I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Chinatown. When we got near it, he asked for the exact address, and I told him I didn't have one. I wanted to be taken to a crap game.

He laughed, shook his head and told me there weren’t any. By the way he said it, I could tell I’d struck gold with this driver.

I told him not only did I know there were, but I knew that he knew where they were. I was insistent he take me to one of them. After a lot of back and forth, denial and more denial, he finally said he did know of one. But he wasn’t going to take me there.

When I asked why, he said because the games were closed to outsiders, especially Caucasians, and if I went into one I might not come out.

Even if I didn't hear about them in a movie, it was beginning to sound like one.

You know how seeing a police car in the rear-view mirror after you’ve had a couple beers sobers you right up? That’s how fast I lost my desire to play in a back-room crap game.

He took me back to the hotel, where I tipped him generously and thanked him for being so honest with me.

He said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Summertime, Spartans and bagpipes oh my

I have to admit as open and freewheeling as I like to think I am, the truth is I'm probably much more a creature of habit.

For example, there are two staples of my summer every year. The first is a four-and-a-half day trip to San Diego for Comic Con with my son. The second is our family tradition, now in its twelfth year, of a few days in late summer at the Hotel Del Coronado. I look forward to each of them equally, but for obviously different reasons.

I mean, you almost never see women scantily dressed as Spartans from the movie 300 at the Hotel Del. And try as you might, it's just impossible to find a four-piece shrimp cocktail for forty-five dollars at Comic Con (I've taken the liberty of not including a picture - you're welcome).

Each place is unique in its own way.

This year however, in a fit of wanderlust and gypsy channeling, the wife brought up the idea of going someplace different. When I heard her say that, two thoughts went careening through my head: first, by different I hope she means in addition to, because there's no way I'm giving up my two summer traditions (cue Tradition from Fiddler on the Roof).

And second, how much is this going to cost me? Especially at this late date.

Still, I like the idea of adding a third leg to the summer routine.

In summers past, before Comic Con and the Del, we’ve gone up north and spent a few days in San Francisco. One particular time, we enjoyed a week in the Hapsburg Suite at the Fairmont that we'd won in a charity auction. I like to file it under worse things could happen.

But I'm afraid the wife is thinking of a somewhat larger, more distant trip - more along the lines of Scotland.

Now don't get me wrong. I've been told more than once that I have legs that were meant for a kilt. And once I get past the idea that bagpipes sound like a bag of cats screaming to get out, I actually enjoy them.

The problem with a trip like that, as with so many things in life, is timing. We’re already late in the game as far as booking air fare and hotels at any kind of reasonable price. Plus – and this is a good problem to have – I seem to be getting fairly booked up work wise, so I don’t know how I’d clear the days. With freelance, no worky no money.

Still, because I've been known to occasionally act on a whim, pour gas on the credit cards and ask forgiveness later, I’m going to brush up on my brogue and see if I can acquire a taste for porridge and kippers just in case.

If it does turn out to be Scotland, the only thing I know for sure is I’m not playing golf when we get there.

Quick warning: clip has language not be suitable for the youngsters.

The rude of the problem

Being interrupted is right up there on my list of pet peeves, along with paper straws, napkins made from recycled material and one-ply toilet tissue.

I think it stems from the ugly-American-in-a-foreign-land practice of thinking if you just talk louder and repeat the same thing over and over, they'll understand what you're talking about. Even though they speak a different language.

Not always, but much more often than I'd like, I work in an industry that runs on equal measure of rudeness, ego, asinine comments, loud and I know better than you do.

It usually goes like this. You'll be in a conference room, either on your first or thirty-seventh meeting of the day. You have the floor and you're speaking. Without warning or reason, someone starts talking over you. Then another person joins the chorus. Pretty soon, they're not all just trying to talk over you, they're also jockeying to talk over each other.

They don't hear or care what you're saying, because, you know, what they're saying is So. Much. More. Important. It's like those drivers on the freeway who're behind you, pass you, then pull in front of you because that one car length makes All. The. Difference.

I hate those people. And I hate when it happens - in meetings, on the road and in real life.

Apparently I'm not the only one in advertising who hates this. Linda Kaplan Thaler and Robin Koval, principals at the Kaplan Thaler agency in New York, wrote a book called The Power of Nice. In it, they point out the many times being nice in business has turned potential clients into actual ones. By the way, that's not the reason they suggest being nice - it's just a side benefit.

Don't get me wrong. There are many pleasant, decent, courteous people in the business who are just as frustrated by the rudeness and bad upbringing all too frequently on display.

They're just not in my meetings.

Right turn

Despite what several people think, if I had to position myself on the political spectrum I'd say I'm a centerist Democrat. There are things that make sense to me, and instead of aligning these positions with a party affiliation, they should be labeled as "common sense."

I know, it's a quaint notion.

I come from a time of wildly liberal thought. And, in spite of the fact I closed down my junior high school for two days by organizing an anti-war protest with my friends Sandy and Mark, who belonged to the Young Socialist Alliance, and whose parents belonged to the Socialist Worker's Party, it's safe to say currently my views don't fall that far left on the spectrum.

Because they don't, they often run counter to my more liberal friends. But I think a lot of opinions - on both sides - are knee-jerk (or in the case of the right, just jerk - BAM! I'll be here all week) reactions fueled by emotion instead of reason.

The point I'm taking the long road making is while I've moved more to the center, I've noticed some of my friends have swung to the way far right. These are people I grew up with. We came from the same circumstances, environment and educational background. We all held the same positions on issues during the years we were in school together.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, they started posting things on Facebook revealing just how far right they've become in their thinking.

It's not just their opinions, which they're certainly entitled to, that disturbs me. It's their seemingly complete lack of compassion and empathy disguised as political opinion. It reflects a hardening towards less fortunate people that's as callus as it is unreasonable. Maybe they always felt this way. Maybe it's the way their parents felt. Maybe they just don't like to think. Or compromise. But the mindless vitriol that spews from them makes me mourn for their humanity. And it also makes me think maybe I never really knew them as well as I thought I did.

Despite how it sounds, I don't judge my friends on their political views. But I do judge those views. It's a fine distinction, but one nonetheless.

What I'm getting at is it just makes me sad. Sad some of my friends, some who I've known since elementary school, have become so hardened in their souls. It seems their true selves are being held captive somewhere in a deep, dark basement at Fox News, being forced to watch the insane, angry, petulant, hostile, aggressive, misinformed, manipulative ramblings of Hannity, Beck and O'Reilly 24 hours a day.

Mental waterboarding.

I'm for the death penalty. I support gay marriage. I don't believe guns should be outlawed. I believe a woman is the only one who should be making choices about her body. And I also believe in compassion for the less fortunate. This casual disregard, Fox News mentality, taking refuge behind comments like "Let 'em pull themselves up by their bootstraps." is all bullshit. You can't do it when you don't even have bootstraps.

There for the grace of God goes anyone who thinks otherwise (during the recession, I knew a lot of people who were one paycheck away from reconsidering their opinion on government assistance).

It's hard to believe Arizona once had a senator who wasn't an angry, old grandpa who traded his dignity and reputation by choosing a uniquely unqualified airhead to be his running mate. But it did. During his tenure, Barry Goldwater was referred to as Mr. Conservative. Today, because of some of the common sense views he arrived at later in life - like a woman's right to choose, accepting gays in the military (His quote was "they don't have to be straight, they just have to shoot straight") and not letting religion into politics - he's been denounced time and again by the right, with their philosophy that you have to think or behave a certain way to be a good and moral American.

If someone like Goldwater, who many consider father of the conservative movement, could eventually arrive at reasonable, common sense views on the issues, maybe my more conservative friends will too.