First class warfare. Again

I just returned home today from a trip to Texas. And as you might expect, being Texas it was a big trip. So I'm going to do something I rarely do - I'm going to re-post one of my earlier rants. Don't you worry, it'll still be funny, pithy, observant and breezy to read. I was flying home on Jet Blue today, and thought this classic might just be the perfect one to revisit. Please to enjoy.

Yesterday I flew home from San Francisco on Jet Blue. Unfortunately it wasn't the Jet Blue flight where they played tackle the captain, but even without that it was an interesting flight.

Looking around at my fellow flyers, it got me to thinking about how much flying has changed. There are the necessary inconveniences that have been instituted since 9/11 (by the way, all for them - scan, frisk, question away - no problem with it). But there have been other changes that haven't been as sudden or as obvious. Ones that've crept up on the flying public slowly over many years, so subtly that we've gotten used to them in a way we would never have stood for had they been imposed in one fell swoop (by the way, one fell swoop is a manuever pilots try to avoid).

Most airlines only have two or three cabin classes: First Class, Business Class and Coach Class. But if you've been on a plane even once since airlines were deregulated 35 years ago, you know they should rename those sections Low Class and No Class.

The currency of air travel has been cheapened by catering to the lowest common denominator. I'm just going to say it: there really are some people who shouldn't be flying.

Mr. Hefty Garbage Bag for Luggage, Greyhound has a seat waiting for you where I'm sure you'd feel much more at home. Mr. Wifebeater Shirt & Shorts Guy (Flip Flops optional), you're already living in a trailer - why not just take it off the blocks, put the wheels back on it and let your absence be felt. And, let me put this delicately, I think the words wide body should apply to the planes, not the passengers. Especially the passengers spilling over next to me.

With all the absurd fees the airlines are charging for everything from extra legroom to bathroom privileges, you'd think they could put some rules in place that would insure a more pleasant flight for everyone.

There was after all a time when flying was glamorous. It was an adventure. People dressed for the occasion (people used to dress for a lot of occasions but don't anymore. Been to a play lately?). I'm not saying there should be a dress code, but even some restaurants ban shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. They do it for health reasons. Airlines could too. For starters it would lower the blood pressure of the rest of us who have to fly with the sartorially and hygienically challenged.

It's great that almost everyone can afford to get where they're going by plane. But people, good Lord, check the mirror before you leave for the airport.

Just because self-respect has made an early departure doesn't mean it's a one-way trip.

Like a version

If there's one thing ad agencies are it's repetitive. Let me say that again - see what I did there? Especially when it comes to revising the work.

As anyone who works in the creative department of an agency knows, sometimes a project will come around an absurd amount of times. My friend Rich Siegel named his blog Round Seventeen as an homage to the number of times he's had to revise copy.

I'll see your Round Seventeen, and raise you the revision number I had on a piece of car copy yesterday. The number was 68. Now, if you're reading this post as a civilian, I suppose you're thinking with all those versions the copy must change dramatically from one to the next.

Not so much.

Revisions come from all sorts of places. Proofreaders. Account people. Low level clients. Mid-level clients. The big cheese client. Legal. The product guy. The client's wife. The cleaning crew on the third floor. It goes on and on. It's usually a word or two they obsess over ("Is this too light? Too flip? Too...you know...). More often than not, it just a change for change sake so they can feel like they were part of the process, and get their name on the credits when they fill out the award-show entry forms.

I hear the Client's Wife category is going to sweep the shows this year.

There's an old adage, one I subscribe to, that says the secret to great writing is rewriting. It's a nice thought, but working in an agency will knock that sentiment into the next zip code mighty quick.

Anyway, old Albert had it right. And I'll be he got it on the first try.

Due due

This is going to be a bitch and moan post. It'll be a big cup of whine, with a "do you hear the violins?" chaser.

You can't say you haven't been warned. So here we go.

Sure the freelance life looks pretty glamorous from the outside, but it's actually all knuckles and know-how.

Especially when it comes to getting paid.

Regardless of what you think from reading this blog - and don't lie to me - I'm actually pretty good at this writing thing.

I'm especially good at writing invoices. I do the work, then BAM! I Quick Draw McGraw an invoice faster than you can say "payable in 60 days."

Usually when I work for an agency as a temporary employee, as I do at most places (let's have a moment of silence for the endangered 1099), I'm on their employee pay schedule, which is usually twice a month. Occasionally, once a week. By the way, nothing but love for those shops.

But on the rare occasion when I'm 1099'd, I find the payment schedule is somewhat, what's the word, erratic.

The longest I ever had to wait to get paid was four and a half months. I won't name names - Disney - but it was an absurd amount of time to get what I imagine is less money than Bob Iger spends on valet parking in a week.

Still, it's nice to know occasionally even a global company like Disney needs my help to float them. Happy to oblige.

Here's the thing: I like the companies I work for. All I'm saying is I'd like them a lot more if they showed their appreciation by saying it with cash and paying on time.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go make a phone call. Right after I check the mailbox.

Technically, no

Agencies like to put copywriters in silos. There are the car writers. Fast food writers. Pharma writers. Fashion writers. Packaged-goods writers.

Then there are tech writers, which as you might imagine are a hot commodity these days what with agencies and clients drinking the digital Kool-Aid in big, sloppy gulps.

The good news no two definitions of a tech writer are the same.

Every single time in my career (sorry, taking a time out to laugh hysterically for using the word career) when I’ve been asked if I’m a tech writer I’ve always said no. Then when they ask the inevitable follow up question, which makes zero sense given my answer to the first question – can you write tech? – I always say yes.

And I’ve always gotten the gig.

Here’s my approach to tech: someone else will fill in the blanks. I do what I always do - write consumer facing copy that’ll be conversational and fun to read, and explains the technology of whatever it is I’m writing about in an everyman kind of way.

Kind of like the Apple website, except with better headlines (there goes that gig).

Then, when it comes to the actual tech part, the hardcore specs and stats, I let someone else fill in the blanks. I know they can do it better. They know they can do it better. The American people know they can do it better.

I’ve worked on Pioneer Electronics and Western Digital. Sony VAIO and Motorola. Verizon Wireless and Sharp Electronics. I’ve written web content for a zillion clients. The list goes on and on. And judging by how many digital agencies are popping up like weeds, and how many new tech companies are appearing daily, the list is no doubt going to get even longer.

Which means technically there should be plenty to keep me busy.

One for Father's Day

They don't look like this anymore. I don't know about the dog. He might if he's still around.

The thing about being a parent is that, as time goes on, I begin to realize all the clichés come true. How fast it goes. How fleeting it is. How one day they're riding tricycles, and the next they' re driving my car (with the same lead foot they must've inherited from their mother). One minute I'm driving them to kindergarten, the next they're off to college.

Father's Day isn't the only time I ponder these thoughts, but it hits a little harder today for some reason.

Here's the thing: I won the kid lottery. I look around at some of our friends' kids - who shall go nameless - and all I can think about is how fast I would've left them on the steps at the firehouse. Don't look so surprised. Think about some of your friends' kids and tell me I'm wrong.

I have two beautiful, smart, funny kids who still kiss their parents goodnight no matter what time they get home. We tell each other how much we love each other all the time. Their pain is my pain, and their joy is my joy. Their successes are my pride, and their failures are my heartache. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for them, with the possible exception of loaning them my American Express card.

Bill Murray put it best in Lost In Translation: "It's the most terrifying day of your life the day the first one is born. Your life, as you know it, is gone, never to return. But they learn how to walk and they learn how to talk, and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you'll ever meet in your life."

Anyway, the days' activities will be getting under way any minute. I know they'll be giving me cards and a few gifts today (new Stephen King book, hello?), and I have a sneaking suspicion the family's going to hijack me to my favorite breakfast place (it's the Coffee Cup Cafe in case you get the urge to treat me sometime).

Whatever they have in store for me this Father's Day, I want them to know the very best gift they can give me, the one I'll never get tired of, the one I want most, the one I'll always want, is more time with them.

So maybe take the tie back.

Drinking it all in

I don't think I have to tell you that over five years ago, I wrote a post about the many, many branch offices I work out of.

And by branch offices I mean Starbucks.

You may be a little cynical and think I'm bringing this up because it's a Saturday night, and I'm too lazy to think of anything new to write about. Well, no. Not entirely.

The reason I bring it up is because today I found myself working on a freelance gig at the Sunset Beach Starbucks for a few hours. And I noticed the customers who came in and out were very, how you say, beachy.

I've never worked at that office before. But I decided to widen my horizons a bit. I was tired of seeing the same people at the ones I usually work at. Plus it was a hot, sunny day and being near the water sounded like a good idea.

It made me realize even when I'm doing the same thing, there's a way to change it up. It's a lesson I could probably apply to a few other areas of my life.

I know, I should write fortune cookies or Hallmark cards - what can I say, that's what I thought.

I think I'm going to institute a new policy: every time I go work at a Starbucks, it's going to be a different one. God knows there isn't a shortage of them. I think seeing different kinds of people - how you say, clientele - helps the creative process along. That alone is reason enough to work there.

Well, that and a half-caf venti Carmel Macchiato.

Secret identity

I'm just going to say it: Bruce Jenner's story and struggle resonated with me. And in light of Rachel Dolezal’s revelation she’s always identified as black, I feel inspired and moved to come out, and reveal the truth about who I feel I really am in my heart and soul since I was born.

I can now say this with pride: I identify as rich.

I relate to the rich experience. As long as I can remember, I’ve spent money when, where and as much as I’ve wanted, never concerned about running out or if more will come to replace it. I've gone to great lengths to change my appearance and behavior to look rich.

For example, I enjoy sushi immensely. And really, do people who aren’t rich drop a c-note on raw fish and sticky rice for dinner nearly as often as I do? Of course they don't. No sane person does.

Would a non-rich person take their car to the dealer to be repaired, knowing full well they'll pay at least twice what they'd pay at an authorized independent mechanic? I have my car serviced exclusively at the dealer. I have for years. My rich inner self wouldn't have it any other way.

I’ve operated for years on the philosophy that “if I spend it it will come.” This approach been particularly evident on my visits to Las Vegas. Speaking of which, there are dozens of low-price hotels there, but instead, I choose to stay at the Venetian or Bellagio. I realize what one night costs at these establishments is probably three nights at a significantly lesser hotel like the Tropicana or Flamingo. But I feel like need a shower for even mentioning those other hotels.

It's a reaction the rich often have.

Identifying as rich hasn’t been an easy road. Sometimes the bank, credit card companies and my kids’ piggy bank try to convince me I’m really not rich by birth. Well sure, not on the outside.

On the inside, I'm all champagne dreams and caviar wishes.

Someday I hope society will accept me for who I am and not judge. But until then, I’m willing to suffer the indignities that come with identifying as rich: waiting for the valet. Trying to get change for a hundred. Wearing socks more than once.

Thank you for your understanding and support as I introduce my rich personality to the world.

If you need me, I’ll be at the sushi bar.

The take rate

Stunning picture of the earthrise as seen from the surface of the moon. I thought I'd go with this picture because when I googled the subject I'm actually going to write about, the pictures were, shall we say, less than savory.

So just gaze at the picture and enjoy while I talk about my perforated septum. As I've mentioned before here, I basically have a hole in my nose between airways that needs to get repaired.

When dealing with medical issues of any kind, especially those involving a potential surgery - major or minor - I always make it a point to find "the guy." In this case, "the guy" is the Chief of Surgery at the world-renown, major metropolitan hospital where I live. He's responsible for all the surgeries in all the specialties. And, come to find out, his specialty is Ear Nose and Throat. He was also Chief of Surgery for that particular department for six years.

Let's say confidence is high he can get the job done,

I met with him last Friday, and we discussed how he might go about performing the surgery. One way, and the way I prefer by far, is closed surgery where he just works through the nasal passages with really small instruments and precision to repair the perforation. The other far less preferable way is open surgery, where he makes a small incision in the center of my nose, then pulls it back revealing the septum more fully. It gives him a better view, and more room to move. And it only leaves a small incision when he's done that eventually heals to be unnoticeable.

See why I went with the picture of the earthrise?

Basically he has to graft a material over the hole in my septum. As we spoke about it, he told me he was going to talk to reps about which materials had the best take rate, that is the percentage of times the material is successfully grafted and holds. There's always the chance it won't take, which would just put me back where I started.

Afterwards, I started thinking about different take rates in advertising. Like the take rate of creative directors who don't want to get their fingerprints all over every idea presented to them (low). The take rate of clients buying the work unchanged (low). The take rate of planners not giving some asinine insight they think is brilliant, like "the consumer wants a better experience to engage with and advocate for."

Yeah. That's just what they want (lower than low).

I was also thinking about the take rate for people remembering this post after they read it. My take was I probably shouldn't think about that.

Pomp you up

Tonight was my son's high school graduation. And I don't mind telling you, I took it just fine. I was a pillar of strength, unmoved by hearing Pomp & Circumstance as all these fine young adults marched down the aisles, reaching the end of their four-year journey and celebrating what they've accomplished these last few busy years of their lives.

Who're we kidding. From the minute I sat down you could've wiped the floor with me.

There's something so poignant and wonderful about seeing all these kids - many whom I've known since they were in first grade - getting ready to go out in to the world to make their marks, take their chances, learn their lessons and celebrate their successes.

The secret they don't know, can't know, is that this is the best part. Right now, when it's all ahead of them.

His graduating class is about a hundred and twenty. The entire high school is around six hundred. They all know each other. They've built relationships that will last a lifetime. It's easy to see this class is close and intends to stay that way.

I envy them. My high school memories aren't nearly the caliber theirs will be. I'm in touch with friends I want to be in touch with from that time, but it's nowhere near a hundred twenty people. As I think about it, that's probably a good thing.

My graduating class alone was the size of his entire high school. That's what I get for going to a primarily Jewish public school in the Fairfax district instead of a private Christian school in Cerritos. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Jesus was one of our boys - amIright?

Anyway, besides bursting with tears I was bursting with pride for my boy. I love him something fierce, and I can only dream of one day becoming the quality human being he already is. He's compassionate, intelligent, funny, inventive, resourceful, determined, imaginative, brutally handsome. And now, he's on his way to his next important stage in life..

One of the pastors who spoke tonight said tomorrow they're freshmen all over when they start college. Then they're freshman again when they get married. And freshman yet again when they have kids of their own. I know exactly what he meant.

I'm a freshman when it comes to letting my boy go.

Floored

The kitchen, as we know it, cannot continue.

I’ve written here before about the small dip not so gradually turning into a large canyon in our kitchen floor. The time for action has arrived.

And by action, I mean spending money.

We spoke with one contractor my fabulous art director and supermodel friend Imke recommended. We discussed the floor, as well as what a minor kitchen remodel (if there is such a thing) might look like.

SPOILER ALERT: It looks like about thirty grand.

We liked him, but he was slow in getting back to us, although he eventually did.

One problem is our house is 65 years old, and the original plans don’t exist anymore. So we have to pony up about five g’s to an engineer to come draw up new plans to work off of.

Meanwhile, while I’ve been busy trying to figure out how many days I have to work to make this happen, I’ve also been on Yelp looking up contractors. And asking friends for referrals (got any? You know my email).

I’ve never done any kind of remodel on the house, and frankly, I’m terrified at the prospect. Although the idea of taking a sledgehammer to the walls is appealing. Especially if I can draw a picture of one of my former bosses on it before I do it.

Naturally the necessity of the floor repair coincides perfectly with sending my son off to a major university with a check for tuition. I could fix a lot of kitchens for the education he damn well better be getting.

Anyway, I’ll be making calls and setting up contractor appointments in the next couple weeks. Like job interviews, we’ll talk to everyone. Then we’ll make a decision. Then we’ll panic. But at the end of it all, even though we’ll be poorer for the experience, we’ll have a great looking kitchen without a floor that doubles as a skate park.

We’re already tight on the budget. Fortunately, I know the three words you never say to any contractor.

While you’re here…

Quiet time

Ad agencies are inherently loud places.

Even before open space floor plans – don’t get me started- hallways would be filled with people yelling from one office to the other.

You'd hear self-congratulatory chuckles of creative teams laughing at their own ideas.

Heels tapping along polished cement floors, while people walked fast and conversed like they were on The West Wing.

And of course, the ever present click clack of computer keys, followed by the jet engine roar of the printer firing up and spitting out copies of resumes…er…creative briefs.

There’s an unmistakable rhythm, hum and drone to the daily pace of an agency. Which is why it’s so eerie when an agency goes quiet.

Sometimes it’s a convergence of several things. People have left or been let go and have yet to be replaced. Others are out on production. Art directors are out on press checks. Copywriters are working (on our lattes) at Starbucks. People are behind closed doors in meetings.

The end result is an unsettling, yet welcome quiet. You can almost hear the tumbleweeds a blowin’ down the hallway and smell the honeysuckle.

Anyway, as sure as the the ebb and flo of the tide, the noise eventually returns to quiet agencies like swallows to Capistrano.

Loud, egotistical, long-lunching, knit-cap wearing, ironic-tshirt sporting, complaining swallows.

Daughter's choice

Tonight, I decided to let my beautiful, smart, funny and giving daughter choose the subject of this evenings' post.

Shockingly, she said it should be about her. Specifically, her unbelievable and unrelenting work ethic. A deal's a deal so here we go.

In the past few weeks, I've wondered just who's daughter she actually is. She's been sequestered in her room, night after night, studying history, english, biology, geometry, Spanish, bible (Christian school, hello?) with friends on FaceTime.

It's not that she was lagging behind. Some of the subjects she already had an A in, and some a B+. But settling just isn't part of her DNA from either side of the family.

So she's worked relentlessly this semester to bring all her grades up to an A or A+ (which by the way she's doing with well-deserved success).

It's the part about working relentlessly that makes me think we're not really related. As you know by now, my idea of working relentlessly is watching all three seasons of House Of Cards in one sitting. I know what you're saying, but if you think it's so easy let's see you do it smart guy. Here's a tip: take your bathroom breaks during the credits.

Anyway, all this is to say I'm beyond proud of my girl for developing a work ethic that'll serve her well in life, and propel her on to make her mark on the world in a spectacular way.

Which she'll need to do to take care of me. Cause watching all this TV isn''t getting me anywhere.

Guilty pleasures Part 10: San Andreas

There are three things I noticed immediately while watching the latest disaster film, Into The Storm. No, 2012. Nope, The Day After Tomorrow. Mmm, maybe Twister. Or Volcano. Was it The Core? Ah, I remember: San Andreas.

First, it's almost unearthly how similar Dwayne Johnson and I are built. It's like looking in a mirror. It's boggling how two completely different, unrelated people with, and I'm going to take a wild guess here, completely different workout regimens can look so much alike.

Second, when the big one does finally hit, as we all know it will, I'd like to be somewhere near Dwayne Johnson. That guy knows exactly what to do in that situation. It's uncanny. Who would've thought his years in the wrestling ring would prepare him for unlimited acts of heroism during times of shifting tectonic plates?

And third, I'm so unprepared for the giant quake that's coming it's not even funny. Well, except the part how I'll be driving along and suddenly the car will get swallowed up by a giant hole in the road that just appears out of nowhere. That'll be good for a laugh.

I went into San Andreas expecting nothing more than a fun time, a stupid script I've heard in every other disaster film of the past decade (apparently "Ruuunnnnn!" is a popular line of dialog), impossible scenarios and great special effects. And I wasn't disappointed.

In movies like this, it really doesn't matter who the actors are - the special effects are the star. And in San Andreas, they're spectacular. Buildings crumble. Bridges fall. Glass shatters from skyscrapers onto the street below, where pedestrians are running for their lives. Cue the tsunami.

The movie delivers on everything you'd expect it to.

Here's one special effect I wasn't expecting: I don't know how Paul Giamatti managed it, but he actually pulled off chewing the scenery while it was falling all around him.

I said it doesn't matter who the actors are. Let me backpedal a bit and say Alexandra Daddario is irreplaceable as Dwayne Johnson's daughter. In fact there ought to be a law that she plays the daughter in every film from now on. Or the sister. She just needs to be in every movie, okay?

Anyway I won't tell you how it ends, but when it happens for real, let's just say it'd be a good idea to have my construction company up and running.

Mindless fun, great eye candy and a loud, entertaining two hours if you let it be.

I give it an 8.5 on the Richter scale.

It's getting wheel

Every once in a while it occurs to me how out of shape I am. I try not to dwell on it too much, because then I feel bad about downing a pint of Americone Dream while bingeing Breaking Bad for the sixth time.

And who wants to feel bad.

Besides, digging that spoon into the frozen ice cream is a workout. Technically.

Anyway, what brought all this on was the fact my friend Kurt and his wife are going on a ride this weekend. A bike ride. Around Lake Tahoe. A hundred miles around Lake Tahoe.

When he first told me about it, I thought it'd be the perfect way to get back in shape. When I lived in Santa Monica, I used to ride my bike on the bike path every weekend on a thirty-mile round trip to Redondo Beach.

I like riding a bike. I'd be back into it in a heartbeat.

The plan was to train with them for eighteen weeks, make the ride, then feel this enormous sense of accomplishment and well-being.

But eighteen Saturdays of training were just something I couldn't commit to, what with kids' schedules, college tours, school concerts and unopened Cherry Garcia to take care of.

So here we are at the weekend of the ride. While in years past the weather's been beautiful for the ride, this weekend it's all thunderstorms and heavy rain at the lake.

Or as I like to call it, perfect weather to stay home and binge on a show about drug kingpins and the destruction of their family.

I hope Kurt and his wife are careful out there, and have a great ride.

Even though I'm not with them in person, I'm there in spirit. And if it's any consolation, they've inspired me to map out a course for getting on my own road back into shape.

Right after I finish Season 4. Again.

The last picture show

Next to where the original Farmer’s Market was, where The Grove stands now, used to be an icon of a cinematic, automatic, hydro-matic time gone by. The Gilmore Drive-In.

When I was in high school, some friends and I would ride our bikes over to the back of the drive-in, and watch the movies from behind the chain-link fence (which could be easily hopped) for free on the ginormous screen. I’m not saying they were R-rated, but I’m not saying they weren’t. Besides, what was the point of rating anything if the entire city could see it on a 7-story screen.

I always got the feeling that on the list of things the Gilmore Drive-In was about, movies were somewhere beneath community. Socializing was the point, and there were just as many people in their cars as out walking around talking to friends.

I suppose it was foolish to think property that valuable wouldn’t get developed. And the slow death rattle of drive-in’s having the life choked out of them by actual theaters made it all but inevitable the Gilmore would one day be a faded Technicolor memory.

Still, I remember being with friends, watching Clint Eastwood’s violent directorial debut Play Misty For Me.

Even on bikes, even without sound, even though it was cold. It was still magic.

String theory

Why are you looking at a picture of Stu Rosen (aka Dusty), Maxine the Crow, Stanley Spider and Scooter the Squirrel? It’s because I don’t want you looking at a picture of me in a black shirt, tights and a bright yellow scarf tied around my neck.

Even though I know how badly you want to see that.

One of the many odd jobs I’ve had was working for master puppeteer Tony Urbano. In the marionette world – and yes, there is a marionette world - there are a few giants. Bob Baker was one. Tony was another.

Even if you don't know his name, you've seen Tony's work in Men In Black (1 & 2), The Abyss and Team America: World Police.

Tony’s studio was a warehouse in a small industrial park in Van Nuys. I’d seen an ad for a job while I was at UCLA (all hour and a half), so I went and applied. I interviewed with Richard who ran the studio, and who’d later become a good friend of mine.

Cue the Twilight Zone theme.

In the part of the studio that opened to the parking lot via a garage door hung dozens of marionettes. Skeletons. Pianists. Crazy looking ones, whose eyes followed you as you walked around the room after closing.

Did that one just turn his head? I’ll swear he did.

Anyway, Tony did shows for corporate and children’s events. He had a road company of puppeteers, of which I was one, and an ingenious puppet stage he’d designed that, when folded, was about four feet by twenty feet and fit on the roof rack of the company station wagon.

I, along with one of the other puppeteers, danced dolls at events in Redlands, Topanga Mall, South Coast Plaza and Universal Studios. We did celebrity birthday parties, although I can’t remember which ones.

It was open puppetry, that is to say we danced them right out in the open and not from behind a curtain to hide us.

Tony was also the puppeteer on Dusty’s Treehouse (remember that picture?) a kids show that ran for ten years on KNXT-TV. It even won a Peabody Award. I got to work on the show many times, and was able to get my AFTRA card because of it.

Here’s one of my fond memories of Tony.

One day we were at the studio and some young kids were playing ball in the parking lot. The garage door was open, and the kids were looking at all the marionettes inside. Richard, Tony and I were in there. Tony was manipulating Maxine as he was going over a new script for Dusty’s Treehouse. One of the kids recognized the puppet, and yelled, “Where’s Dusty?” And without breaking stride, Tony shot the kid a look and in his bitchiest voice said, “Dusty’s dead.”

I felt sad for the kid, but Richard and I couldn’t stop laughing.

The other thing we used to do when Tony wasn’t around was have a little fun with the Piano Player puppet. His hands were sculpted as if he were playing the keyboard. So Richard would grab the strings, fly him around the room, then land him on the side of a plastic trash can. He’d have his hands on the side, and make his head look down in the trash can and make throwing up sounds. It was awesome.

Guess you had to be there.

Anyway, there comes a time in every boys life where he has to stop playing with dolls, so eventually I moved on. Fortunately I found my calling, such as it is, in advertising.

There's about the same amount of manipulation and string pulling.

But at least I don't have to wear the tights.

Picture this

Last night was the high school graduation party for young Mr. Spielberg before he goes off to one of the top ten film schools in the country, and his good friend Trevor, who is graduating with him. It was a fun-filled evening, with many of his friends he’s literally grown up with and known all his life.

I’ve also known most of the kids there since they were in kindergarten. Which was great, because I never get enough reminders of how fast time is going by. Wasn’t it just yesterday they were asking me for 5’s instead of 20’s?

Anyway, besides the portable pizza oven catering the party, candy table, impromptu stage where my son (did I mention he plays five instruments?) sang with Trevor, was a wall with items representing who both boys were, their interests, where they’ve been and where they’re going. My boy was on the left. Trevor was on the right.

Each of our families had room for nineteen pictures. So late Saturday, we went online and had a ton of pictures printed out at Fromex. And they came out spectacularly.

The other thing they did was remind me how much I hate digital pictures. Not digital photography, just digital pictures.

Once you have the pictures in your hand, spending as much time as you want with them, they become time machines. They have the ability to take you right back to the moment they’re showing you.

I think too often we get caught up in the technology of seeing pictures on screen, and lose the meaning of the pictures themselves. I was reminded last night of something I've known but had forgotten - I'd much rather pass hard copies of pictures around than watch a digital slideshow any day of the week.

My beautiful son moves to Texas in August. But thanks to these pictures, and the many more I’ll be printing out, I’ll still be able to hold on to him.