Can we talk?

It's easy to take cheap shots at Joan Rivers. What with all the plastic surgeries that've gone both right and wrong, the raspy voice, the machine gun delivery of her material and the tacky red carpet shows, she practically invites it.

Plus she's been known to take a few cheap shots of her own (if you don't believe me, Google "Elizabeth Taylor fat jokes Joan Rivers"). All of that makes it easy to forget what Joan Rivers really is.

A pioneer woman.

Without her, there's no Sarah Silverman, Roseanne, Kathy Griffin or dozens of other female comics. Women like her, along with Phyllis Diller, broke through a comedy barrier by doing three things. Having great material, persistence and ignoring the fact there was a barrier at all.

There's no doubt that she's a polarizing figure. Her jokes seem to have gotten more pointed as she's gotten older. Or maybe she just continues to prove what a genuinely unfrightened comedian she really is.

And if she goes off the rails or crosses the line occasionally, she's earned the right to be forgiven for it.

Yesterday, during a routine procedure on her vocal chords, she stopped breathing and was rushed to an ER a mile away. On the way she went into full cardiac arrest, but the EMT's were able to bring her back. As of this writing, she's in serious but stable condition, and in a medically induced coma.

Love her or hate her, Joan Rivers legacy is every comedian who came after her, every woman (and man) she inspired to stand up at a mic and make people laugh.

She's also, like Don Rickles, the last of a breed of comedian from the golden age.

The night before her surgery scare, she joked to an audience, "I'm 81. I could go at any minute."

Let's hope not.

Get back

© Universal Pictures

I overheard a conversation, well, okay, I was eavesdropping on this conversation between a couple of businessmen-at-lunch-wearing-yellow-power-ties today. I feel sorry for anyone who has to wear a starched shirt and a tie on a 93 degree day.

But then I remembered that this is America damn it, and we all can make our own choices. Then I didn't feel sorry anymore. I just felt sad for their poor weather-related fashion choices.

Anyway, the part of their chat that caught my ear was when one of them said, "If I could go back twenty years I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't want to live through those years again."

It struck me as strange, because if you tell me I can go back twenty years, I'm saying, "What time do we leave?"

Of course the one caveat I have is that whole "If I knew then what I know now..." thing. I'd have to be able to take back everything I've learned in the back twenty.

For starters, Apple stock at 1994 prices. And lots of it.

Same for homes. And lots of 'em.

I'd lock up long-term CD bank accounts for as many years as I could.

I'd eat better and exercise more (well, it sounds good).

I'd buy up that run down warehouse district, and develop it. If you gentrify it they will come.

Finally, I'd be nicer to the people I knew I was going to lose. I'd make a point of spending more time with them. I'd make their lives easier in any way I could, knowing full well what the road ahead held for them. I'd be less cynical around them, despite how often it's required - they don't need the negativity. I'd steer them towards the personal habits and medical studies that might help prolong their lives, if only for a short while.

And I'd write down all my memories of them. The little turns of phrase, or crooked smiles or knowing looks exchanged. It would be a detailed journal that would keep them vividly alive for me, even after they'd departed twenty years on.

I'd also love them more. I'd be demonstrative and free with it. I'd let them know as often as I could. And when they looked at me with that "Who the hell are you?" expression, and asked why the love fest, I'd tell them the one bit of wisdom that I brought back with me from the future.

Life's too short.

The best offense

There's a line of thought in advertising that creative work isn't really effective unless it makes someone mad. By that standard, I'm living a very effective life.

The problem with writing a blog, posting snarky little quips on Facebook and Twitter, and just generally mouthing off without a filter is that you're bound to offend someone. Still, that's no reason to quit doing it. In fact, just the opposite.

It's always teenage fun seeing how far you can push things. And getting a rise out of people, well, that's just icing on the cake. It's more than that - it's encouraging and enabling.

I try at all times to delineate between being a jerk and being funny, although I'm sure there's a long line of people who will vouch that I wouldn't know the difference if it hit me in the head.

Also something there's a long line for.

Anyway, let me apologize in advance for any future posts, comments, off-the-cuff remarks or unfiltered punchlines I blurt out.

Know that going forward, I'll try to be more considerate, and restrain from saying or doing things that offend your delicate sensibilities.

Whiner.

Here come da judge

I don't expect nor would I want everyone to agree with me on everything. But it does strike me odd when people disagree with me over nothing.

Here's the thing about social media: You have to be willing to suffer the slings and arrows of people who don't like what you're saying, posting or advocating.

Everyone has an opinion. And we know what opinions are like.

Nevertheless, I understand having a forum where everyone sees what you post is the price of admission for being able to post it. I get it.

I've never been thin skinned. After all, I'm in advertising. I have a superhuman tolerance for rejection of things I think are funny.

Plus I'm all over the interwebs with my little musings, things that strike me funny just because they do. Once in awhile they mean something more than face value. But most of the time they don't.

Yet for some reason, some people who should know better (was that a judgement? Sorry, you know how I hate that) make the decision to run their blood pressure up forty points, start calling me names and get all medieval on my ass for posting meaningless things.

Meaningless to me anyway.

The thing about it is, there's no hidden agenda to postings that just strike my funny bone. No political statement being made. Not even a lot to get angry about (another judgement, sorry about that).

But like ghosts, UFOs and truth on FOX News, sometimes people see things that aren't there. They start frothing at the mouth, hurling judgments about me, my work, my humor or my political leanings (BTW, I'm for whichever party likes bacon) based on something I just thought was funny.

They attach meaning where there is none.

Whatever. If you believe you're the arbiter of my taste, capabilities and standards, and if you see some deeper message in the crystals and think you're fighting the good fight by judging my talent, intellect, sensibilities and unloading on me with lots of exclamation points, have at it.

Or even better, be a little discerning, realize it's not worth the effort, say "There he goes again" to yourself, roll your eyes and move on.

It's not that I don't stand by what I post. I do. I stand by it and laugh.

Blade runner

It's not easy being devastatingly handsome. Oh, I know, I make it look easy - and thanks for noticing. But really, it isn't.

The sly smile, the deep, inviting brown eyes you can get lost in. The imperfect nose, that used to be perfect until Eddie Petroff broke it in junior high (whole other post). The distinguished, full and luxurious silver mane. The proudly displayed crow's feet around those knowing brown eyes that say, "Yes, I've lived a life, I know things you don't and I'm ready for more."

When you take all that into consideration, the question really becomes why would I ever want to hide a face like that? The answer would be so I don't have to shave it.

A long time ago, in a life far, far away, I sported a full beard. It was a popular look at the time, and while I thought it made me look serious and intense like Al Pacino in Serpico, or compassionate and magnetic like Jesus, the truth is it was probably closer to Hagrid or Carlos the Jackal.

Still, it served the purpose. I didn't have to drag a razor across my sensitive skin every morning, or afternoon or whenever the hell I woke up. I'm freelance. Sometimes it's all a blur.

Over the years I tried various versions of the beard: A goatee. A mustache. A soul patch. The full Amish. But the problem with all of them was that I had to do some degree of shaving. And not just shaving, precision shaving to keep the lines straight.

I finally settled on a goatee for a number of years.

Fast forward to one of our annual trips to the Hotel Del Coronado. I was out by the pool, and between the Bloody Mary's and banana smoothies (I never was much of a swimmer), I had an epiphany.

An epiphany is three parts tequila and one part pineapple juice.

Then, I had a realization. I couldn't deny the world this face any longer. That, and I didn't want the weird sunburn lines I was getting. So with my rusty seventy-nine cent plastic Bic blade, scalding water and a lot of effort, I was off to the races.

When I got back from the races, I shaved the goatee.

Even though I didn't like the process, I did like what I saw. So for a few years now I've endured the unpleasantness of shaving every morning. Nothing good comes easy.

Then, Father's Day rolled around. And instead of another ten black t-shirts, gift certificates to AMC Theaters and dinner at Walt's Wharf, my son got me one of the best gifts ever: a membership in the Dollar Shave Club.

The initial kit comes with a tube of Dr. Carver's easy Shave Butter, Dr. Carver's magnanimous Post Shave Daily All-In-One Moisturizer and one of three mighty razors - in my case, The Executive, with six stubble-hating stainless steel blades of fury. I get four cartridges a month, so the blades never have the chance to get, how you say, unusable.

For a guy who was used to speed shaving with a Bic in the shower while racing to get to work, taking a little extra time to do it right took some getting used to. But well worth it.

The feeling is extraordinary. It's a closer shave than I ever thought possible, and once you've experienced the silky smoothness of Shave Butter you'll never go back to foam (or hot water) again. I can see my skin glow, and not just from my years at the nuclear plant. I now look forward to shaving every day.

It also doesn't hurt that the DSC website is one of the funniest, best written sites on the interwebs. Here's just a little sample of what you'll find when you click:

I don't usually endorse products or services on this blog. After all, I want to maintain what little integrity I have left. I try to stay impartial. I feel I owe that to my ten readers.

Nonetheless, I'd strongly recommend you give DSC a try. If not for the best shave of your life, then at least for the comic relief.

By the way, DSC also has a product called One Wipe Charlies. I'm still working my way up, er, down to those.

Goodbye Robin

O Captain! My Captain!BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer,his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Trigger happy

Back in the day, before I could roll out of bed and be at Jet Blue, when I wanted to go to Vegas - and it was fairly often - I'd just hop on the 15, crank up Springsteen, put my lead-lined shoe on the gas and go.

But before I stopped for a Quarter Pounder at the water tower McDonald's in Barstow, and before I pulled over to buy a lotto ticket at the Country Store in Baker, I'd drive past Apple Valley, the small town just after Victorville in the high desert.

Home of the Roy Rogers Museum.

Thanks to the giant statue of Roy's golden palomino Trigger on the roof of the museum, you could see it from the freeway. Every time I went screaming past it I always thought someday I should make some time and stop in there. Not exactly a bucket list item, but more to satisfy my curiosity about exactly what good 'ole Roy had that could fill a museum.

When I was growing up, Roy Rogers was the King of the Cowboys, starring in many musical westerns. Co-starring in all of them was his trusty horse Trigger. Famously, the big draw at the museum was the fact that when Trigger died, Roy had him stuffed. He was now living at the museum, posed rearing up, just like he used to do in the movies and on Roy Rogers television show.

It could've gone worse for Trigger. At one point, Roy Rogers had a chain of roast beef restaurants.

Finally, on one of my Vegas runs, I stopped in the museum. Though it'd been open a couple hours by the time I got there, I was literally the only person in the place.

I came to two conclusions right off the bat: first, Roy and Dale Rogers were hoarders. And second, seeing Trigger stuffed and posed like that was more sad than anything else. It wasn't so much a museum as a garage packed with souvenirs from a lifetime in cowboy show biz.

Like seeing Elvis at the International Hotel in Vegas, hearing Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. at the Greek Theater, and meeting Groucho Marx, I can now wear the badge and say I've seen Trigger in his eternity pose.

Given the low attendance at the museum, probably due to the fact there weren't that many hardcore Roy Rogers fans still walking the earth (at least they weren't stuffed and posed), the museum closed. It moved to Branson, Missouri for a bit, but it eventually closed there too.

Trigger still lives on however, although now it's in the lobby of RFD-TV in Omaha, Nebraska. When the museum closed, he was auctioned off to the station for $266,000, along with Roy's dog Bullet who went for $35,000.

Just like my childhood, Roy and Dale are long gone now. But they're a fond memory from that time, even if their museum wasn't the thrilling experience I'd hoped it would be.

Still, I like thinking that wherever they are, they're still singing', ridin', roping' and wearing the white hats.

Happy trails Roy.

Face the music

I have a lot of sympathy for actors, especially women, who feel they need to have a nip and tuck just to stay competitive in an industry that worships youth, and tosses anyone over thirty to the curb.

But as Joan Rivers, Jocelyn Wildenstein (the cat lady in New York) and Priscilla Presley would be the first to tell you, sometimes the results are less than what you hoped for.

I feel particularly sad for Lara Flynn Boyle.

I know she made the decision to do it, and I know she has to live with the consequences. But you have to wonder what she saw when she looked in the mirror that drove her to such extremes. It obviously wasn't the beautiful, talented actor the rest of the world saw.

I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on TV. It's just my opinion that sometimes there's a thin line between doing what you have to do and mental illness.

LFB was in one of my favorite films ever, John Dahl's Red Rock West with Nic Cage. She also displayed her comedy chops in Wayne's World, and her very sinister side in The Temp. Sadly every time I see one of her films now, it's overlaid with a veneer of pity and sadness for her each time she's on screen.

Rumor has it she's had some corrective surgery to regain some semblance of her former self. But unless she has a DeLorean that goes 88 mph, I don't think her former looks are coming back any time soon.

I hear people joke about celebrities that have plastic surgery, but I get it. No one is harder and more critical of our physical looks than we are. Times a thousand for people who make a living being looked at by millions of people.

While it's obvious LFB won't get the roles she used to, I hope she's able to continue working in the industry. On her IMDB page, she's just completed a low-budget family film directed by the same person who did Gabe The Cupid Dog and Unstable.

Be that as it may, I'm grateful at least someone in town looks past the surface, and still sees a talented actor looking back.