That's the ticket

There are a lot of people I've seen in concert not necessarily because I'm a fan, but because I think I should see them. The reason can range anywhere from they're a living legend, like when I saw Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. at the Greek Theater, to they may not be around much longer, like when I saw Elvis at what was then the Intercontinental Hotel in Vegas (although technically my parents dragged me to that one, but I can still say I saw him).

One group that falls into both categories is The Rolling Stones.

Every time they've ever toured, I've sworn to myself I'd see them. And after hearing this morning they're going to tour for the first time since 2006, I made the promise again.

What's stopped me in the past has been money. Now, if you know anything about me, and really, we don't have any secrets, you know I'm a pampered poodle: I don't sit in the back of the plane. I don't stay in the standard hotel room. And I don't sit in the nosebleed seats at concerts, unless it's Springsteen and those are the only seats left. I'm guessing you already knew that too.

Stones tickets have traditionally gone for between $300-$600 face value. And me being me, guess which ones I want? That's $1200 before parking if I take the wife. I've never paid that to see anyone. Okay, well maybe once I might've paid close to that (twice as much) for front row seats to Springsteen at the Christic Institute concert with Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt. But it was his first concert in years and all acoustic. Front row seats, how often's that gonna happen? It was my money, I earned it and I don't have to defend it to you dammit, so how about you back off.

Glad we settled that.

Anyway, as we all know with Ticketbastards, er, Ticketmaster, the ticket price is just the beginning.

While hotels and airlines have just recently caught on, Ticketmaster has been tacking on bullshit fees to the face cost of a ticket for years. So even if you're seeing a show with a $65 face value ticket, you could wind up paying around a $100 after the extra charges.

Bands have fought Ticketmaster. So have fans. But the bottom line is they're not about to change. They don't exactly have a monopoly, but they have a majority of contracts with the major concert venues across the country. So it's pay or stay home.

I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to pony up for the Stones tickets this time, although I'm thinking I just might. Because you can't fight the law of averages forever.

I probably spend more time contemplating this than I should. I know it's only rock and roll.

But I like it.

Agency Standard Time

You're already familiar with Pacific Standard Time, Central Standard Time and Eastern Standard Time. What you may not be acquainted with is Agency Standard Time.

It isn't tracked on a clock or a calendar. In fact, it's barely tracked at all (except for freelancer hours - those are tracked very carefully). Agency Standard Time redefines the whole time-we'll start when we're ready continuum.

In agency time, meetings are scheduled at lunch and Fridays at five. One hour meetings take two-and-a-half hours. Or fifteen minutes. Weekends are yours, unless they're not. Up is down, black is white, night is day. In agencies, time is like a gas - ever expanding to fill the space it occupies. And since gas is mostly hot air, well, you see where I'm going.

Oddly enough, the ability to carve time out for golf with the client, trips to Cannes or SXSW and filling out award entry forms from the One Show to the Effies are remarkably unaffected.

Unlike the ability to blow smoke, or convince the client "this is exactly what Apple would do..." time simply isn't a respected commodity at ad agencies.

Well, at least yours isn't.

At least it's not a Prius

I'm sure your photographic memory of all things Rotation and Balance will remind you I've already posted in the past about getting a loaner car, and a hybrid loaner at that.

Well, it's happened again.

Apparently the air conditioning in my car decided to give up its relentless pursuit of perfection just in time for some record-breaking March heat. I took it into the dealer because, you know, it was that or run down the middle of the street tearing up twenty-dollar bills and throwing them in the air. They diagnosed it as a broken blower motor (I'll wait while you insert your own joke here).

It's going to take a couple days to get the part. So the dealer, obviously sensing my green lifestyle and unwavering commitment to saving the planet, gave me, yet again, a hybrid to tool around in while I wait for my blower motor to be swapped out.

This time it's the Lexus CT200h F Sport. And against every instinct that's good and holy, I have to say it's pretty fun.

It has two modes, eco and sport - just like my high school girlfriend. BAM!

Eco is like dragging boulders uphill against a hurricane, and goes from 0 to 60 in, well, it hasn't reached 60 yet.

Sport mode however is another story. Turn the dial over to sport, and a tachometer appears on the gauge cluster, and the lighting changes from white to red. Suddenly, it's the little hybrid engine that could. And it hauls.

The picture up top doesn't do it justice. It's actually considerably more on the bad boy side of quirky looking in real life.

What I like to do is pull my fire-engine red loaner up next to a Prius. Then, when the light changes, leave them in my environmentally friendly, high mileage, low carbon emission dust.

I take my thrills where I can find them.

The car is smaller than mine. And since I'm a, um, fuller version of my younger self, the fit is a little tighter. Still, once the leather sport seat wraps its arms around me, space considerations are forgiven. I have the nicest go-cart at the track.

I'll be glad to get my own car back Monday or Tuesday. But until then, I'll be enjoying this attention-getting red hybrid in a way I never thought possible.

From behind the wheel.

Post-puke euphoria

I know a lot of you are going to think this post is beneath me, which only tells me you haven't been paying attention. After all, I've posted about pooping and throwing up before. I do understand some readers will be put off by the bluntness of the title. So if you want to stop reading here, I'll understand.

As you can see from the title, you might not want to be near mealtime when you read this. And you definitely don't want to be around food when you play the video.

It's a bit of an off-putting topic to say the least. But the other thing is it's a universal experience. A light after the darkness. The proverbial silver lining.

I speak of course of post puke euphoria.

We've all tossed our cookies at one time or another. And the ramp up is no fun whatsoever. First, the churning and low growling in Mr. Stomach. Then, that slight suspicion there may be trouble in paradise. It progresses to pacing left and right. Then rocking back and forth. As it gets worse, and the time is drawing near, soon comes a little porcelain-throne hugging.

Eventually, like a train you've been waiting for you thought would never arrive, it does. With one violent, unstoppable, inescapable, stomach-turning heave, you have liftoff.

Once you're running on empty, and it finally stops, something wonderful happens. The clouds part. You hear the angels sing. And you feel much better. Thirsty, but better.

You're experiencing post puke euphoria.

However the truth is PPE can be a cruel tease. There you are thinking you've turned the corner, the worst is over. But sometimes, Mr. Stomach is just laying in wait for the next opportune moment to say, "Hey Sparky, wake up and smell the last meal you had."

But those times when it really is over, and the euphoria lasts, you can literally feel your strength coming back. It's a good feeling.

Still, I'd recommend against celebrating with a bowl of chili and Sriracha-covered fries.

Cheap laughs

If you know anything about me - and with over 655 posts I'd think you would by now - you know I'm an easy audience. I want to be entertained. I come to the show ready to laugh, willing to suspend disbelief.

I work in ad agencies. I suspend disbelief every day.

Like a great ad, humor should be simple, uncluttered. You should get it instantly. A joke doesn't have to be complex to be appreciated. And it shouldn't have to be explained. That goes for one-liners as well as stories.

Here's an example: what do you call a bear with no teeth? A gummy bear. Funny isn't the point, especially with that joke. The point is you got it immediately.

Let's try a story.

Saul and Maury are walking past a church when they see a sign in the window that reads "Become a Christian. 20 minutes. Will pay $10." Saul says to Maury, "I'm gonna do it. You wanna come with me?" Maury says, "No, I'll wait for you here." So Saul goes in the church, and Maury hangs around waiting for him. 20 minutes later, Saul comes out. Maury runs up to him and says, "So? Did you get your $10?" And Saul says, "Is that all you people think about?"

That joke right there is the reason I want to audition for the road company of this.

For me, there's nothing as entertaining as watching someone who really knows how to tell/sell a joke. It's what keeps Comedy Central in business. It's the reason comedy clubs with names like Giggles, Guffaws and Mr. Chuckles dot the landscape. It's why a lot of first dates become second dates.

It's also a personal barometer. With the endless meeting after meeting I have to be in every day at work, the way I judge whether they've been a successful (is there such a thing as a successful meeting?) is if I've been able to get the biggest laugh during the course of it. I know what you're thinking. But it's not so much an attention-getting maneuver as a survival tactic. While I'm thinking of something funny to say, it means I'm not listening to whatever they're droning on about. And there'll be another meeting in an hour to review what was said in this one, so I'm not missing anything.

Anyway, look at the time. You guys have been a great crowd, so I'm gonna to leave you with one more.

Murray and Sarah are going to the zoo. They're walking around looking at the animals, and they come to the monkey cage. A monkey comes up to them, and he's making all kinds of faces and gestures. Sarah says, "He's cute. Give him a peanut." Murray says, "No, they're expensive." Sarah says, "Give him a peanut!" So Murray reaches in the bag and tosses him a peanut. The monkey looks at it, sticks it up his ass, takes it out, then eats it. Sarah says, "I have never seen anything like that! What is wrong with this monkey? Give him another peanut, he's not gonna do that again." So Murray throws another peanut in and the monkey does the exact same thing. Sarah says, "You know, there's something wrong with this monkey. I'm gonna go to the zookeeper." So she goes to the zookeeper and tells him all about it. He listens, then he says to her, "Listen ma'am, it's really not a problem. About two weeks ago, that monkey accidentally swallowed a peach pit. Ever since then, he checks everything for size."

Goodnight everybody! Tip your waitress.

P.S. Actually wanted to end this post on a raunchier joke, but the wife reminded me this is a family blog. When you see me, ask me to tell it to you.

Stair masters

The agency I’m working at right now is in Huntington Beach, right next to the water (or as I like to call it, tsunami adjacent). It’s an awesome location, an even better view and a dream commute.

Because it’s where it is, the office is in a three-story, low-profile building. No doubt it’s not any taller or wider because it had to be approved by the brain trust that is the California Costal Commission.

Anyway, because it’s not some tall, mirrored high-rise office building in Irvine (is there any other kind there?), many people, myself included, use the stairs instead of the elevator to get from floor to floor. It’s faster, it provides a little bit of exercise during the day, and it’s also a few moments of quiet and privacy if there isn’t a lot of up and down traffic.

Also, people don’t point and laugh at you like they would if you took the elevator.

I know what you’re saying to yourself – “Jeff, you’re such a perfect physical specimen, why would you need any exercise, regardless of how little the amount?” While those are kind words you say, the fact that I need an oxygen tank by the time I get to the top of the stairs tells another story.

The last time I went to the gym with any regularity was when my son was born eighteen years ago. It’s fair to say I may have let myself go just a bit in that time. Although I still get mistaken a lot for that guy who plays Thor. From the toes out you can’t tell us apart.

So trotting up the stairs (down is considerably easier) about a hundred times a day for meetings on different floors is a good workout and an incentive to work out even more.

It is some consolation a few of the people I work with, who’ve been here and have been taking the stairs much longer than I have are also winded at the end of their climb.

But like my art director partner Imke says, she takes the stairs because she can. There’ll eventually come a day when she won’t be able to.

And really, that should be incentive enough.

My head hurts

Ad agencies are overflowing with lots of things. Creative ideas. People with opinions. Knit caps. Tattoos. Bad coffee. One thing there's also no shortage of is The Overthinkers - people who overthink every little thing. Every single thing. Over. And over. And over.

Don't get me wrong: I'm all for the well thought out question. A dash of examination. A pinch of should we or shouldn't we. But I’ve often wondered what it is The Overthinkers actually bring to the table. Sure, they manage to turn every item on the brief (all fifteen pages of it) into an event in the Second Guessing Olympics, with all of them going for the gold. But beyond that, what does it all add up to?

Every time The Overthinkers reconsider a point they reconsidered a minute ago, the work has to change, because “this time they’ve got it.”

Until the next time.

It’s the reason work is constantly being revised, rewritten, revamped and regurgitated all way up to the last minute. It’s why meetings and more meetings are held to reveal the latest insight and observations.

Until the next ones.

And it’s the cause of enormous amounts of time and confusion being unnecessarily added into the process.

Planners, brand strategists, VP's of Cultural Trend Metrics - or whatever they hell they're calling themselves this week - have managed to turn what should be a single-focused insight into a Three-Card Monty game of strategy. If you can guess which card it’s under, you win the strategy to work against.

Spoiler alert: you never win.

The Overthinkers have to keep changing the rules, because if they don’t they’re out of a job. It's like the paid consultant who has to create a problem so he can solve it, and then create another one to keep the checks rolling in.

In the name of simplicity, efficiency and a better product, it might be a good thing for The Overthinkers to take one for the team and move on.

Then creatives could execute against a simple strategy, in a short, concise brief we’d only have to meet about once.

Of course, The Overthinkers might wonder why they ever left such a cush position. The good news is they’d have plenty of time to overthink about it.

Not a fan

I don't know if it's because I've watched too many horror films or I just have a vivid imagination, but I've never been a fan of ceiling fans.

Besides looking like low-speed airplane propellers hanging dangerously close to my head, they seem like an awful lot of trouble for not a lot of cooling.

For starters, there's the ceiling fan wobble they all seem to have. That's where when they're set on high speed, the entire fan - post and all - wobbles side to side violently. All you can do is wait for it to come flying off the ceiling and into whatever or whoever is waiting below.

Then there's the what-switch-does-what conundrum. There's usually a low speed, a high speed and the on/off for the light. But it seems however many times you pull the cord or flip the switch, you never quite land on the setting you're looking for.

Finally, there's the basic style of the fan. If you're going for the Kenny Rogers gambler card room look, or old west whorehouse decor, then ceiling fans might just do the trick. But for anything really contemporary, they're not going to cut it (pun intended). It doesn't matter what materials the blades are made of or what color. Ceiling fans are inherently items that all look like they came from a western saloon in the 1800's.

When it comes to cooling off the Ponderosa, I'll stick with our central air conditioning. Sure it sounds like a C-130 taking off, and definitely isn't the most energy efficient system. But damn if I don't need a sweater to stay warm when it's on to cool the house down.

Besides, I have kids. I don't want to take the chance of this happening:

Going going gone

Tonight I did something I only do once a year.

No, not write copy someone wants to read. Or eat something healthy.

I went to a fundraising auction for my kids' school. Every year, the decision is made despite the exorbitant tuition we pay for both of our well educated kids, more is needed.

It's adjacent to a theory I live and shop by: if one is good, two is better.

Anyway, what I noticed between the weekends in Mammoth, the day on the 42-ft. yacht, and the four days at the Grand Hyatt in Kauai that were all being auctioned off, was the ringmaster of the entire event.

The auctioneer. It seems to me auctioneering is right on par with fountain pen repair and diamond-cutting when it comes to lost arts.

The gentleman tonight made me realize it requires more than just fast talk. Auctioneers have to be comedians, mathematicians, athletes and salesmen all at the same time. They also have to have a radio-quality voice and know how to use it.

I didn't bid on anything tonight, although I did contribute $500 to a Fund Needed portion of the show. I hope those elementary school kids stop picking their nose long enough to email me a thank you note for the wireless antennas I bought for their classrooms.

Anyway, for me, the highlight of the evening was watching and listening to the auctioneer, practicing the art he's mastered. There's just something spellbinding about watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

In advertising we don't get nearly enough of that.

Friendscaping

A couple years ago I was talking to Jeff Nicosia, a writer friend about Facebook. I mentioned I had way too many friends on there - the majority of them weren't even in the inner circle - and I was thinking about thinning the herd. To which he replied, “Never underestimate the value of a little friendscaping.” Good advice. And not just on social media.

The longer I'm on these sites, the more I wonder why I got on them in the first place. However one benefit is I can actually control who sees what I post and who I interact with.

Naturally I want as many people as possible to see my funny, snarky remarks, and click on the links I post to this blog and get the word out. And I'll be the first to admit, even if you're not, that when I go on an obsessive/compulsive tear about the Kardashians, or live Tweet the Academy Awards, it's a funny read. You know it is.

It's the kind of quality writing that's attracted over 24 followers to this blog.

The truth is I don’t want it enough to carry the deadweight of people I haven't heard from in a year or two. Also, I've grown weary of seeing the same predictable comments and memes I disagree with get posted to my timeline or Twitter feed from people who have no other contact with me. I've put up with their posts just like they've put up with mine. But my patience for all this unearned reciprocity is thinning.

It may be the only thing about me that is.

Some friends, make that acquaintances, think social media is a big contest to get as many contacts/friends as they can. It's alright, they're entitled to think what they want. I'm not going to judge them. I won’t call them needy. And desperate for attention. I won’t do it.

So today, I’m taking Nicosia's advice and doing some long overdue friendscaping. Which means tomorrow, I’ll have a fewer number of friends online.

But the ones that're left will know they mean more to me than just a larger tally.

Mourning the commute

For many years, I had a strange coincidence regarding my morning commute. It seemed no matter what agency I worked at, whether it was in Brea, Irvine or Playa Del Rey, my commute was exactly 26 miles each way.

But they were morning rush hour freeway miles, which as anyone who's done it knows are like dog years except the conversion rate is much higher.

All this to say I'm extremely grateful for the commute I have these days to the agency I'm working at in Huntington Beach. The gig won't last forever, but I'm nothing if not blessed with the route I take. For starters, I don't have to get near a freeway to get there. I just cruise down PCH from my house to work, a breezy 25 minute ride if there's traffic.

The picture above is essentially the view I have to endure on my drive home.

Living in Long Beach, and working in either L.A. or Orange County, I was pretty much held hostage to the 405. The best I could ever hope for is that there'd be a few stretches along the way where I could get up to 35mph for a few miles.

I don't miss it at all. But I also feel like I'm standing on the tracks, and the train's coming. At some point, hopefully not anytime soon, it's inevitable I'll be one of the cars stuck in this picture of the 405 commute.

I'll also say this - it's nice to come into work relaxed and clear-headed, without excessive amounts of adrenaline running through my body from screaming at other drivers and letting them know I think they're number 1 (if you get my continental drift).

Well, that's not entirely true. I never screamed.

Don't ask: Writing a letter for you

It's been awhile since I've added to my wildly popular Don't Ask series of posts. If you read this blog with any regularity - and if you do you really should try to get out to a bookstore or a library - you know I've already covered moving, picking people up at the airport, sharing my food, loaning you money and sharing my hotel room.

Sharing seems to be something I'm not very fond of. I'm an only child. Does it show?

Anyway, I get asked by a lot of friends and family to write letters for them. Letters of recommendation, letters complaining to a company about someone or some slight they think they've been on the receiving end of, resume cover letters, as well as the resume itself.

I know why they ask. I'm a writer. I do it for a living, and I'm not bad at it. But when I'm done writing all day for my job, I don't even want to write things for myself, much less you, when I get home.

I just want to binge Breaking Bad or House of Cards again.

I do appreciate the compliment of you asking. That you think my words would get better results than yours, or would communicate what you want to say more clearly. Which no doubt they would - I mentioned I was good at this, right?

Anyway, there's no secret to getting results. Address your grievance to the CEO, not to the underlings. Use spellcheck. And say what you need to say without trying to be fancy or funny. Simple advice, no?

You might want to write it down.

Just don't ask me to do it for you.

Into the fryer

I was reading an article about how minimum wage employees at McDonald's are going to go after the company because they occasionally get themselves burned on the job. Seems to me if you're working with hot grills, fryers full of hot oil and flames, getting burned just might be an occupational hazard.

Still, it's no fun. I know from experience.

The first job I ever had was at Fisher's Hamburgers at the Town and Country Shopping Center, across from Farmer's Market on 3rd and Fairfax. At the time, Fisher's was one of L.A.'s renowned hamburger places, often mentioned in the same revered breath by burger lovers as Tommy's, Cassell's, Dolores' and The Apple Pan. I'd eaten at Fisher's for years with my parents, and liked it so much I decided I wanted to work there. Displaying an unusual amount of moxie for a kid as young as I was at the time, I went in one day, walked right up to the owner - a man named Howard Shear - and asked if I could have a job. To my everlasting surprise, he gave me one.

I won't go into dates and ages, because that's on a need-to-know basis. And you don't need to know. Let's just say I could only dream of making the minimum wage McDonald's employees get today.

I learned all the details of how the restaurant worked. I made tartar sauce and thousand island dressing (not together) in vats in back that were so big we stirred them with our arms. Still not sure how the health department let that one get by. I also learned how to work all the stations at Fisher's: the register, the grill, the soda fountain, and the french fries.

The fryers were like the ones in the picture - big vats of oil heated to 400 degrees. The way you made fries was by putting raw, sliced potatoes in the basket, lowering it into the oil, and setting the timer for a couple minutes. When the fries were ready, you'd lift the basket out by the handle and shake the excess oil off the fries. In that process, lots of fries fell into the oil. Because of that, the fryers had to be cleaned many times during the course of the day.

The way you cleaned the fries out was by running a strainer over the top of the oil and scooping them up.

One day, I was cleaning the fryer and the handle on the strainer was a little greasy (Strainer? You strainer you brought her. Thanks, I'll be here all week). So I'm holding the greasy strainer handle, and it suddenly slips out of my hand and disappears down into the fryer. Without thinking, my cat-like reflexes kicked into action and I reached down into the boiling oil up to my elbow to grab it.

As we say in my country, not a smart move.

Everything went into slow motion. I looked down at my arm in the oil for what felt like hours, but in reality was only seconds. Next, I realized I could feel it burning and yanked it out (with the strainer in hand - mission accomplished). I dropped the strainer, and made a beeline to the ice machine by the soda fountain and rammed my red, right arm into the ice. To this day, I can hear the sizzling of the ice on my hot skin.

Fortunately, I'd gotten there fast enough. The ice took the burn away, and I had no scarring. Other than the emotional kind for doing something so stupid.

But the most important thing is I learned a valuable lesson I still use to this very day.

Don't go asking for jobs if you don't really need one.

It's empty in here

As anyone who blogs will tell you, the challenge is constantly coming up with things to write about. In fact, there are more than a few people who read this blog who would say that I rarely meet the challenge.

Anyway, I don't post every day, but once in awhile I get a rush of confidence and a false sense of my abilities and go on a writing/posting jag. I'm in the middle of one now, which makes it even harder to keep coming up with things to post about. People more prolific than me don't seem to have a problem with it (I'm looking at you Round Seventeen).

All to say today I've hit the blogpost wall. I wrote about it way back in the days of aught '10 (yes, that's the correct spelling of aught - writer, hello?) in a post called Nothing Is Something.

The wall is a moving target, and can be made up of anything from "I don't feel like doing it right now." to "Don't know what to talk about." to "Squirrel!"

Here's the thing: it's Sunday, it's warm out and I'm tired. I didn't get home from the Magic Castle until after 2 a.m Saturday morning, and I just got home from seeing Kingsman: The Secret Service, which was about an hour too long.

But I do recognize the responsibility I have to my five readers, so I apologize for the lack of captivating reading today. I absolutely promise I'll do better tomorrow.

No, my fingers aren't crossed behind my back. Why do you ask?

Guilty pleasures Part 9: Breakdown

It’s not exactly a remake, but more like a parallel sequel. I’m talking about the Kurt Russell wife-was-kidnapped-now-I’m-being-run-off-the-road-by-an-18-wheeler thrill ride, Breakdown.

If you’ve seen it, no doubt it’ll have a very familiar feeling to it. That’s because in many ways, it’s the same plot as Steven Spielberg’s breakthrough movie of the week, Duel.

In that one, a driver played by Dennis Weaver is terrorized by a never-seen driver of an 18-wheeler who, for some reason, wants to run him off the road and kill him.

Maybe he’s seen Gentle Ben. Or McCloud.

Anyway, in Breakdown Russell gives his usual reliable performance as a husband who’s on a road trip with his wife, played by Kathleen Quinlan, when their Jeep breaks down (hence the name) in the middle of nowhere. A seemingly friendly trucker, played by the late, great J.T. Walsh, stops and offers to drive the wife to the next town to call for a tow. She takes him up on the offer, and that’s the last we see of her for the next couple hours.

The time in between is spent watching Russell try to find her, as he’s being hunted and terrorized for ransom by the truck driver and his band of merry yuppie-hunting, cash-extorting hillbillies.

They’d have never pulled this stunt with Snake Plissken.

Directed by Jonathan Mostow, who went on to direct Terminator 3: Rise Of The Machines, Breakdown is definitely one of the best B movies I’ve ever seen. And as a guy who likes to pull up close behind Smart cars in my Land Cruiser, I have a special appreciation for it (I don’t really do that, calm down).

If you have a chance, fire up the Netflix and take Breakdown for a spin.

Or better yet, see it at a drive-in.

Phrase set on stun

Advertising is a business lousy with buzzwords. And not just ones we create for public consumption.

Within these walls, and I mean figuratively because as any creative who’s worked in an agency in the last fifteen years knows they don’t have walls anymore, there are all kinds of words and phrases it seems people can’t get enough of.

I’m talking about campaign integration. Laddering up. Digital growth. Emerging strategic social media. Content analysis. Monetization solutions. Everyone's picking the low hanging fruit, and pushing the envelope. And don’t even get me started on millenials, brand engagement or interactive experiential guru (not kidding).

You’d hope agencies would be staffed with people fueled by passion and creativity who want to do the best possible work that wins awards, gets results, makes clients happy and lets them get more clients that let them do more great creative. And in some shops, you’ll find a lot of those people - especially if you’re looking in the creative department.

Problem is there aren’t enough of them. Instead, running around in agencies are people fueled by fear. Of losing the client, their job or their corner office - which they’ve probably already lost thanks to open floorplans.

Anyway, bitching and moaning about it isn’t going to change it. These buzzwords are like cockroaches: for every one you manage to kill, there’ll be a hundred more to replace it.

But next time I hear one of those words or phrases in one of the many meetings I’m in, I just may have to counter it with a word I find myself using more and more often.

Bullshit.

City of angels

I have a complicated relationship with L.A. It's a love/hate relationship, the kind only someone, like myself or anyone who's ever had a high school girlfriend can appreciate.

And when I say someone like myself, I mean a native. Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else.

All too often, the city grabs my arm, pulls it up behind my back until it hurts and makes me start sentences in that way. "When I was a kid..." and "Back when I was in high school..." and "Let me tell you what traffic used to be like."

The major love/hate component of the city is the weather. I've always been torn. On one hand, I'd love to live in a city with real seasons, for example San Francisco. Yeah, yeah, I can hear all the L.A. people whining about how we have seasons too, just not as extreme.

Listen, I've lived here my whole life. There are only two seasons: summer, and construction.

However if I may be allowed to contradict myself (not sure why I'm asking permission for something I do on a daily basis), there are stunningly beautiful days when the east coast is buried in a blizzard or being hit by hurricane Roker and it's ninety and sunny here.

It's the kind of weather that sets Facebook on fire, with everyone posting the same sunny picture of wispy white clouds, the tops of palm trees or the ocean and sarcastic, mocking greetings to the eastern brethren.

Another cause of so much of my agita (look it up) about the city is the fact it's just such a whore. L.A. won't waste a second tearing down its history to put up a strip mall or new fusion sushi restaurant. Cliché but true.

I've watched it tear down or lose places that gave it character and personality. For every Tommy's or Pink's, there's a Spanish Kitchen that's now a beauty salon. Or a Wilshire Blvd. Bob's Big Boy that's a BMW dealership. At least the former Pan Pacific Auditorium is a park people can enjoy. The city gets older but no wiser.

There are even websites, like this one, that revel in articles why L.A. is the worst place ever.

My entire attitude reminds me of the old joke: "Do you have trouble making up your mind?" "Well, yes and no." That's my ongoing debate about the city of my birth.

But I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full, although not with rain water because we're in the seventh year of a statewide drought. Which in L.A. only means one thing: waiters are required to serve Evian at brunch.

Anyway, for the moment I'm not going anywhere. Even though there are states where I could buy city blocks for what I could sell my house for, I just can't seem to leave L.A. behind.

One last thing that bothers me about this urban sprawl of a city is that, bar none, at every restaurant they always..oh crap, look at the time. I gotta get to my audition.

Hold that thought.

There's a reason it's free

Yesterday, my partner and art director extraordinaire Imke was taking a break and looking at something I didn’t even know existed.

No, not pictures of me with a 32-inch waist. The free stuff page on Craigslist.

When I looked over at her monitor and saw it, I was reminded of what George Carlin once said – “Hammer two pieces of wood together and some schmuck will buy it.” Except you don’t have to buy this crap. Cause it’s free.

Most of the items, like the ratty, I-don’t-want-to-know-what-that-stain-is couches, mattresses (ewww!) and giant piles of dirt are things that won’t fit in the back of the donor's cars. So they want us to cart it away for them.

Not that the idea of a free used toilet isn’t appealing, but sometimes it's just better to pony up the money and sit, lay and pee where no man has gone before.

I don’t know why, but for some reason couches seem to get tossed more than most items. I just wonder who buys couches this ugly, and then decides it’s done and they need a new ugly one.

Maybe Craigslist is the couch underground, like the resistance in wartime France. It's a giant black market couch exchange, where one person sneaks their couch curbside in the wee hours, and then picks up a free one from someone else.

And of course, they're all wearing that damned black beret while they do it.

Whatever, it’s scary and disturbing to think there are that many ugly couches in the world. These couches have spent more time on a curb than Chelsea Handler at the after party.

While it’s pretty safe to say I won’t be hopping in the Land Cruiser to pick up anything off that page, I did like the one ad showing a silhouette of a comb and scissors advertising a free haircut. I'm sure it's probably a Vidal Sassoon or José Eber student looking for people to practice their faux hipster cuts on.

What could possibly go wrong?

As long as I don’t have to sit on one of those couches while they're cutting my hair, I might think about it.

Riding the news cycle

If you've been anywhere on planet earth this week, you know Harrison Ford crash landed his vintage plane on Pen Mar Golf Course in Santa Monica. As you'd expect, the farce and con that is social media ran rampant with Han Solo, Millennium Falcon, Chewie, Indiana Jones and Brian Williams jokes. I've included a couple of my favorites.

Fortunately Mr. Ford survived the landing with a cut head, broken ankle and fractured pelvis.

He's a big star so it's a big story. But here's the thing: is this story about his wife racing to the hospital to be at his side news?

Obviously Calista Flockhart has read the celebrity wife manual, which states very clearly in section 4a, paragraph 3.1.1, that a wife must race to her husband's side if he's been in a plane crash.

It's a good thing she has the manual, because how else would she have known what to do?

It's sad when something so natural and decent and expected becomes a news story. It exploits their pain, and even though they're public figures I believe they have a right to privacy - such as it is with the interwebs - just like the rest of us.

Besides, if the news uses headlines to report on a wife going to her husband after an accident, it means I have to look harder for the story about Kim Kardashian dying her hair blonde.

Opening Night

Since the beginning of the year, both my kids have been in rehearsals for the annual production their school does as a fundraiser. It’s called Broadway Showcase, and they’ve been a part of the production for years.

I think it could also be called I didn’t think it was legal in this state to make kids work that hard.

In addition to their regular curriculum, they also have to go to rehearsals every day after school. At first, they got out at 9 p.m. But as it started getting closer to opening night, rehearsals let out at 10 p.m.

Then of course there was the President’s Day rehearsal which went on for about 10 hours. I’m sure show tunes are exactly how Washington and Lincoln wanted to be remembered.

There is also no cutting of the slack. When my kids drag their tired selves home at 10:30 or 11 from rehearsals, that’s when they have to open the books (iPad) and start on the hours of homework they’re still expected to turn in the next day.

But tonight and tomorrow night, it all pays off. The wife and I will be at the Theater for Performing Arts in La Mirada, watching our beautiful, talented kids sing and dance their hearts out to an appreciative, loving audience filled with classmates, parents and grandparents.

Safe to say it’s not a tough crowd. But they give it their all as if they were performing at the Majestic Theater on 53rd St.

History tells me that the second night will be better than the first because they’ll have gotten the nerves and the bugs out. And the second night is also closing night – it’s a short run. So there’s a looseness to the production that’s pretty entertaining.

Afterwards, they’ll have the wrap party. And then, while no one will be getting a Tony for their work, they’ll be getting something even more valuable when they get home.

Sleep.

One of these is not like the other

People, jealous petty people, are fond of saying Los Angeles doesn't have seasons like real cities do. As someone born and raised here, I can tell you we most certainly do have seasons.

We have two. Construction, and Girl Scout Cookies.

If you've been to a market, home improvement store, mall or gentrified shopping district, you already know right now we're in the thick of Girl Scout Cookie season. And the cuteness is definitely in full bloom.

Tonight the wife and I had a dinner date. The kids were out at a rehearsal for a school show, so we took advantage of the alone time and went to a local place called the Deli News, which is neither a deli or a newsstand.

Anyway, in front of the restaurant was a GSC table being manned (womanned?) by two parents. In front of them, close to the curb so cars could see her, was one of their daughters - about eight years old - jumping up and down with the energy of a cheerleader on Red Bull and holding a stop-sign shaped sign that read "Please buy cookies!"

The wife and I exchanged a look, and we walked up to her. I said, "Excuse me, you know where I can get some thin mints around here?" She thought for a moment, then a big smile came over her face and, pointing at the table, she said, "Right over there!"

The wife and I went up to the table, and made the purchase you see in the picture. Now, I was willing to stop at the two boxes of Thin Mints. My needs are few, and two boxes meet them just fine. However, the wife had a hankerin' for something in the peanut butter family. And since Mr. Peanut wasn't available, she opted for the do-si-dos.

Here's something you don't know about me: I'm not a peanut butter guy. Never liked it, never will. For me, the only reason peanut butter exists is to get my dogs to take their pills. But if it makes the wife happy, I'm glad to pony up the fin.

Besides, you know what they say - happy wife, happy you won't get killed in your sleep over something you said three years ago.

The problem with Girl Scout Cookie season is once you buy from one cookie pusher, you're pretty much stocked up and have to say no to all the other ones. As they learn all to quickly, it's a first-come-first-sold world out there. But I hope they all sell out their entire cookie inventories, and get all the badges their little hearts desire. They've earned it.

I also hope they do it before construction season starts and makes it harder to get to those tables.

Back story

This isn't the first post I've written about my aching back. I wrote this one last time it went out on me this bad.

Well, it's happened again and I don't know why. God knows I haven't been doing any physical labor (the only thing Jews know how to lift is the Yellow Pages). But for almost a month now, I've been in excruciating pain when I make certain movements.

Like standing. Or walking. Lying down. And sitting.

Not a good situation anytime, but especially bad since I've been freelancing for a month. It involves a lot of chair time, and twisting around to talk to people. Which is fine, except for the Game Of Thrones sword that pierces my back every time I make a move in that chair.

I've always been one to try to ride things like this out, but about a week ago I came to the pain-ridden decision that enough was enough. The ride was over.

I've now been to my chiropractor five times in the last eight days. Each time I go, they do a whole bunch of stuff to me: cold laser therapy, massage, some device that sounds like a jack-hammer to break up adhesions. There may also be ritual dancing and war paint involved, but I'm face down on the table so I can't say for sure.

Anyway,I usually feel a little better when I leave, but it's a one-step-up-two-step-back situation. By the time I get home, it starts to hurt again. I have two gel ice packs like the one you see here, and I alternate them so my lower back is constantly frozen.

The cautiously optimistic news is my back was a lot less swollen tonight, and it actually feels better than it has for awhile. So I'll stay the course as long as it keeps improving, and hope that soon it'll be back to normal.

By the way, Back To Normal was my second choice for the title of this post.