The chance you take

It's like the arrow in the Fed Ex logo. Once you see it, you can never not see it.

For years, Jared just looked like a nerdy guy who lost a ton of weight and struck it big by eating Subway sandwiches.

But now, instead of nerdy he looks evil. And at Subway he's referred to as "Jared who?"

That they'll get in trouble, wind up in the middle of a scandal or die mid-campaign has always been the chance you take when you use a celebrity as a spokesperson. Or create one.

What Jared did was particularly despicable. And the fallout was quick and predictable: Subway severed all ties with him minutes after the first story broke and he hadn't yet been formally accused of anything. Then they hired a new ad agency to give them a fresh campaign and a new start. To which I say, "How's that working out for you?"

Ad agencies are never more optimistic than when they get a new piece of business. And Subway is a big account. I wish them luck, but this particular kind of tarnish keeps coming up like onions on a Black Forest Ham sub. Jared will be associated with Subway for campaigns and years to come, regardless of what they do. Not fair, but true.

Some celebrities, like Tiger Woods, manage to recover from scandal. But because of the repulsiveness of their transgressions, the Jareds and Bill Cosbys of the endorsement world aren't ever coming back.

Using a spokesperson is always a crapshoot. It's borrowed interest, but unlike a lot of people in the business I'm not necessarily against it as long as the person is right for the product and the message.

The problem that you run into is often all the A-list celebrities you want are taken. Then you wind up with a spot like this:

At least the only thing Loggia was ever guilty of was being in a bad commercial.

It makes the job harder, but it's better to hang a campaign on an idea than a celebrity. It's the only surefire way to avoid this kind of bad publicity and the lasting fallout that follows it.

If Jared was smart, he kept the giant jeans he used to hold up in the early commercials.

When this is all over, they're all he's going to have left.

It won't be like this for long

I know you're getting tired of posts about my son going off to college. But that's what's taking up all the brainspace right now, and writing about it here is cheaper than therapy (and a lot cheaper than tuition). I promise this will be the last one on the topic for awhile (fingers crossed, snickering to himself...).

This startlingly beautiful baby is my boy. It's always been one of my favorite shots of him. It was taken at our great friend Michelle Purcell and her husband John's former house in San Clemente, just before he gave a piano recital of Rachmaninoff's piano concerto number 3 (I recall he was pretty accomplished at number 2 as well - BAM!).

I don't remember how old he is here. I only know he's sure not that age anymore.

We just got back from dropping him off at his dorm room in Austin where, if you don't know by now, in between going to all-night movie festivals, eating barbecue brisket by the pound and locally-sourced quinoa salads, he's majoring in film.

And I don't mean dropping him off in the "here's your hat what's your hurry" sense. More in the "we're going to take six days, fix up your dorm room, buy even more things for you at Bed Bath and Beyond, take you out to eat for every meal and let you stay with us in our nice hotel until you absolutely have to move in" sense.

I won't go into what it was like to say goodbye before we had to leave for the airport yesterday. As I'm sure you've surmised by now from the other posts I've put up on the subject, suffice it to say I was a mess (I know, I'm as shocked as you are).

But twenty-four hours later, you'll be glad to know, it's not one iota easier.

I'm lucky in that I have a kid who wants us to text, call, FaceTime and Skype with him all we want. Or so he says. We won't drive him crazy, but we will be in touch on a regular basis. But he's grown up and he's growing up, and we're going to let him do it - no matter how much it hurts or how counter-intuitive it is.

It's been said they're leaving you from the moment they're born. Maybe, but for sure he's been leaving faster and faster as he's gotten older.

And now, in the blink of an eye, he's off becoming the man he's meant to be.

I'm so lucky, because I can't remember a time when my son and I ended a conversation without saying "I love you" to each other. And I'm not about to start now.

I love you buddy man.

Now I have to go help your sister move into your old room.

Meat of the matter

Let's start off by saying my vegan and vegetarian pals aren't going to take kindly to this post. So you may as well mosey on to the next blog until tomorrow's serving.

No matter how you slice it, if you know nothing about cuts of meat when you get to Austin you will by the time you're heading out.

The Salt Lick. Franklin's. Lambert's. There's no shortage of bbq places here and everyone seems to have a favorite. So far mine is Lambert's, but only because I haven't had five hours to kill waiting in line at Franklin's.

Sure Austin's a town known for its music, restaurants, art community and, as my checkbook knows all to well, its university. But it's also known for the fact you can look as far as the eye can see, and you won't find an iron-deficient person anywhere.

I've had more brisket, pulled pork and ribs in the last five days than I've had in my entire life - each bite more delicious than the next. I'm sure some of you are thinking that's a lot of meat to be eating. Don't worry. I've been wielding my Lipitor almost as much as my steak knife.

Others might be saying I don't have to order meat every time. I could order something healthy like a salad. Well, in case you forgot, this is Texas. That's just crazy talk.

My love of smokey meats (by the way, Smokey Meats - one of the best jazz musicians ever) won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows a few years ago, my good friends Tena Olson, Alan Otto and I were going to start an ad agency called The Beefery. We had t-shirts and hats made, and used the butcher chart you see above as our logo, only instead of labeling the cuts, we replaced them with snappy ad-related items.

After a lot of meatings at Starbucks about how we were going to get the agency going, we finally put the idea out to pasture. We did however continue the meetings at Starbucks, you know, because why not.

Anyway, I've decided to cut way back on my meat consumption starting tomorrow.

In fact I just may cut back on food consumption in general before that picture of the cow has my face on it.

Taking measure

It's been a few days since I've put up a post, but it looks like your luck has just run out. Here we go.

What you're looking at above is the floorplan of my son's new dorm room. It's a standard issue, college dorm floorpan for two. Sadly, the illustration is close to actual size. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Ok, but where's the bathroom?" The answer is down the hall.

Being my son, you'd have thought he'd have chosen a room with a private bathroom. I know it's what I would've done. But here's why he's so much smarter than I am. If you have a private bathroom, you're responsible for keeping it clean and stocked with supplies. However if you share a community bathroom, the school cleans and stocks it twice a day every day.

Plus, by a total luck of the draw, the bathroom is literally ten steps outside his door. His first class doesn't start until eleven, so he misses the bathroom rush hour.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: being an only child, the concept of sharing - rooms, food, cars - is completely lost on me. And never having lived in a dorm, so is the concept of a small room with a roommate.

Of course, being the backer of this entire "college thing," I more than anyone appreciate the economy of doing it the way he's chosen to do it. He's already demonstrating a financial savvy, and classes haven't even started yet.

Still, being the pampered poodle I am, if it'd been up to me, I'd have gone in a slightly different direction with the dorm room.

Conflict

I'll keep it short tonight for a couple of reasons. One is I have to travel early tomorrow. The other is I feel like I've visited this well a little too often and you, dear reader, may be yearning for another subject.

To which I say, see the "Next Blog" link at the top left there? Have at it. My blog, my subject.

And tonight's subject, as you can probably tell already, is conflict.

My son leaves for college tomorrow. On one hand, I couldn't be more proud and excited for him as he starts this next season of his life. Not to get too Seussian, but oh the places he'll go. The adventures he'll have. The friends he'll make. It will be rewarding for him in ways neither of us can even imagine.

On the other hand, my baby boy is leaving home. For eighteen years I've lived with him and quite frankly I don't know how to live without him. If you follow me on Facebook, you know I posted a link to an article Rob Lowe wrote about sending his son to college. He absolutely nails it. The experience is as joyous as it is heartbreaking.

I've tried, and admittedly done a lousy job, to keep a game face around him (my son, not Rob Lowe). I don't want him to feel like he can't leave me because I'll be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Which I will, but he doesn't have to see it.

Anyway, tonight's post has been brought to you by Vent. Vent, when you just need to ramble on about it.

On a personal note, I know he doesn't read every single thing I post on here (thank God). But James, if you're reading this one, pack this in your suitcase: I love you and have always loved you more than either of us will ever know. You're more talented in more ways than any hundred people I know. And your heart is bigger than the state you're moving to - and that's saying something. I know I've told you already, but I just can't seem to stop saying it: I'm beyond proud, and can't wait to see the great things I know you're going to accomplish. You done good.

I like to think it's good parenting.

Pampered poodle

I've been accused - more than once - of being a pampered poodle. It's okay, I'm used to it. It doesn't exactly surprise me. I have a good idea where it comes from.

In fact, as I was getting my pedicure this afternoon, it dawned on me people who call me that, you know, the ones with long toenails and callused feet, may have a point.

There are several telltale signs that are dead giveaways. For instance I like going to the spa for a massage. My favorite spa happens to be the Canyon Ranch Spa at the Palazzo in Las Vegas. So it's a win-win-win right from the start.

When I don't feel like bending over to clip my toenails, or they start looking like I'm doing an uncanny Howard Hughes impression, I head down to the nail boutique for a pedicure. If it's on a day I can't find the clippers I'll get a paraffin wax manicure along with it. Can your hands ever be too smooth? I think not.

Besides, I do want them to look pretty while I'm typing all that copy.

Getting all gussied up isn't the only tell. When it comes to aluminum tubes going six-hundred miles an hour, I like to sit in the front of the plane. I prefer suites over regular hotel rooms, because as anyone who knows me will tell you, I like a big room. I do however enjoy looking at that retro, hipster barber shop I pass on the way to my salon.

One time I was holding hands with this girl (before I met my wife - you can all relax), and she said, "Wow. Your hands are so smooth. It's like you've never worked a day in your life."

I'm a copywriter. It's not exactly breaking rocks.

Anyway, occasionally budget and disposable income does become an obstacle. But like most people in advertising, I like a good challenge.

Like finding a cheaper nail salon.

Party major

As we get ready to send young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state film school, I find myself enrolled in a continuing education course about his university of choice.

For example, I just learned last year the Princeton Review rated his university number eleven on the list of party schools. However this year, it didn't even make the top twenty.

Not to sound like a parent, but I consider that an improvement. If I'd wanted him to go to a party school, I would've sent him to UCSB. Or any school in Arizona.

The timing was curious, because I learned this just as his school started emailing me information about alcohol abuse, and how to talk to my student about it.

It's enough to drive you to drink.

There are two things I know about my son: he has never liked alcohol, the smell of it, the thought of it, the effects of it. And he likes to keep his wits about him. There's nothing attractive to him about hugging the porcelain throne after a night of keggers, chasers and beer pong.

Of course, he did say he'd like to moderate a film festival screening Days Of Wine & Roses, Barfly, The World's End, The Hangover, Leaving Las Vegas, Sideways and The Lost Weekend.

But he's going to be a director, so I know he understands things like motivation.

Like if he screws up, his tab is closed.

College boxing

I spent a lot of time today looking at stores with names like The Box Store, The Box Zone and The Box Spot.

As y'all may know, one week from today my son is shuffling off to a blue dot in a red state to attend film school.

So, completely counter-intuitively and not reflective at all of our track record, we decided not to wait until the last minute to get him packed and ready. Hence my shopping in the aforementioned stores.

The final take was five book boxes, and four flat wardrobe boxes. And I still think it's way too much. Our house has a large room in back that was added on - not by us - before we bought it. It's my son's bedroom, and he's used to having a lot of space for his stuff. He's also used to having a lot of stuff. So not surprisingly, he wants to take a lot of it with him.

We're trying to impress on him the fact that a) he won't have nearly the room he's used to when he gets to his dorm, b) whatever little space he has will be cut in half thanks to his roommate and whatever he's planning on bringing, and c) if he gets there and has room for more we can always send it to him later.

But for now it's a matter of culling the numbers, curating the items and thinning the herd. None of which is easy, for him or us.

Every object we pick up has a memory attached to it. That toy he played with as a kid. The picture of me holding him minutes after he was born. A book I made for him, filled with pictures of one of our many trips to Comic Con.

What am I saying? I'm saying there are two reasons he'll need to pack light. First is the small space he'll be working with when he gets there. And second is if he leaves most of his stuff here, I know he'll be back for it.

Until he is, those memories are mine to hold.

Gimme shelter, or not

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

Thriller

I was in Vegas this past weekend.

Usually when I'm there, I can be found in my natural habitat - the end of a crap table rolling the bones.

But this time it was a family weekend, the last one before young Mr. Spielberg heads off to one of the best film schools in the country, and the pricey tuition that implies (I was hoping to win part of his tuition playing craps, but was forced to move on to Plan B - working the rest of my life).

Anyway, to celebrate the start of his film career we decided to see a couple of shows. One of them was the Cirque du Soleil production of Michael Jackson ONE.

Now I always liked a lot of his music, but I never would've called myself a fan. But man, slap me twice and call me Sally, this show was spectacular. Music blaring, dancers gyrating, lasers flashing, it had all the flash and spectacle you'd expect from Jackson and Vegas.

It's a multi-media show, and during a lot of it you have no idea where to look because there's so much going on. Then suddenly, there's one heartbreaking clip that almost takes your breath away: young Michael, in the Jackson 5 days, singing I'll Be There. It's a lump in your throat, not a dry eye in the house moment that doesn't let go.

There was also the first time the world saw him break out his signature moonwalk move on the 25th Anniversary of Motown special. In case you'd forgotten what an electric performer he was.

For all the energy and precision the onstage dancers moved with - and it was considerable - it was an impossible job to ask them to keep up with the footage of Jackson dancing with the intensity and deliberateness he did. He simply moved in a way that can't be duplicated.

No doubt because of his personal life and predilections there are many reasons to dislike Michael Jackson. And one great production doesn't make any of them go away.

But for one incredibly entertaining night, for the first time, I was a fan.

More power to me

There are a lot of powers I'd like to have.

I'd like to be able to fly like Superman. It'd get me where I need to go a lot faster, I wouldn't have to deal with those pesky TSA people, and I look absolutely fabulous in a cape.

Or so I've been told.

Invisibility would also be a good one, being able to move through the world unnoticed (of course I could accomplish the same thing by having a show on NBC), slipping into places unseen by anyone. This is definitely a power I would've put to much better use in high school. Now I think I'd use it mostly to get around taking out the trash and unloading the dishwasher. "Where's dad? He was here a minute ago."

Telekinesis is a favorite. I'd love to be able to have a driver flip me off on the freeway, then be able to flip them off the road by sending their car over the side rail just by thinking about it. Seems fair.

Sadly, I don't have any of those powers. The one I will have shortly is one I hope I never have to use. Power of attorney over my son's health and affairs.

As you might know, young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the finest film schools in the country. That's the good news. The bad news, besides the tuition, is it's not in the same state as I am. So just like my weight, taxes and where my next gig is coming from, I file this power under things I don't want to think about but have to.

My boy will be a two and a half hour flight away, and that's provided the planes are leaving when I need to go. God forbid if something should happen where he's unable to make decisions for himself, either myself or my wife are going to have to make them for him. No parent ever wants to think about this. But the only thing worse than it actually occurring is not being able to do anything about it. I asked him to grant my wife and I power of attorney, and he'll have to sign documents giving it to us. As I was stumbling around trying to explain it to him, he took the opportunity to explain it to me: "It's like a fire extinguisher. You never want to use it, but it's good to have around if you need it."

Clearly he's already much more mature than I ever was at his age. Or even my age.

I'm taking this as a learning opportunity for both of us. I get to teach him to read this document - all documents - carefully before he signs them. He gets to teach me he's a capable, grown man - something I sometimes have trouble remembering (and realizing).

I finally understand why parents treat you as kids no matter how old you get. He's always going to be my baby boy no matter what state he's in or how old he is.

The other thing the wife and I are forced to consider is that plane ride I was talking about. If events were moving fast, there's the very real possibility we wouldn't be able to reach him before decisions needed to get made.

Fortunately, I have a great friend named Cameron who lives in the city where he'll be. He's graciously offered to be my son's boots on the ground while we're not there, and not just for emergency situations but for homecooked meals, advice and anything else he needs as well. Cameron's included in the legal document as the alternate after the wife and I, so there won't be any question about his authority should it ever come to that. I'll never be able to convey how much of a relief it is knowing he's there for my son, or how thankful the wife and I are.

So tomorrow morning, we sit down with our lawyer and he'll sign the papers. And I'll try not to think about what they actually mean.

I guess that is one more power I have. The power of denial.

Jean's dreams

Here's what won me over about Jean Kelley. It wasn't her voice, which is soulful and spectacular by the way. It was her humor.

When Jean appeared on this past season of The Voice, two chairs turned around for her: Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton. When the judges were fighting over her, each trying to convince her to choose them, Blake Shelton said, "I have to have you on my team." To which Jean replied, "Do you now?"

BAM! Moxie. Brass. Nerve. A Jean Kelley fan was born.

A lot of people think of these talent shows as shortcuts to fame and fortune. In fact David Grohl has a famous rant about how musicians should pay their dues first, and how a judging panel can destroy them by telling them they're not good enough. But here's the thing: every musician has been told they're not good enough - it's the price of entry if you're going to pursue it.

And as any artist who's appeared on one of these shows will tell you, it's no guarantee of anything except the moment. I have great respect for anyone who appears on them - they're putting themselves out there in the most demanding, nerve-wracking way.

While those shows weren't around when Nirvana was, if they were Dave Grohl and the band might've given it a shot. The truth is now, they're another tool in the box, a means to an end.

Still, no matter where they place in the competition, artists still have to play small clubs, rude crowds, be opening acts no one wants to hear and put all their time, money and soul into finding an audience for their music.

If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter - and seriously, there are far better people to follow - you know I've been promoting Jean's Kickstarter campaign to fund her EP and tour. As of this writing, there are 5 days left to raise the remaining $12,600 she needs to make this first part of her dream a reality.

I've written here about how great if feels helping someone's dream come true. But of course the best way to find out if that's true is to open your wallet, fire up the credit card and see for yourself.

And I think helping to fund Jean Kelley would be a great place to start.

Linking them out

If you're anything like me - and really, let's hope you're setting your sights higher than that - you share the feeling there're more than enough things in the world to make you sad. Just turn on the news. Look at the price of gas. Adam Sandler is still making movies.

One thing that makes me especially heartbroken is seeing the name of someone I know who is since deceased pop up on the "People You May Know" section of LinkedIn.

It's happened three times now. I get it. In the midst of all the sadness and arrangements that have to be made when someone passes away, the last thing anyone is thinking about is removing their LinkedIn profile. It's not on anyone's radar.

But unlike the people themselves, those profiles live forever unless someone requests they be taken down. Which is what I've taken it upon myself to do.

All three times when a friend who's moved on to the great beyond has come up on LinkedIn, I've requested their profile be taken down. It doesn't take much. All LinkedIn needs is a date of death, link to an obituary, my relationship to the deceased, and the URL to their profile.

It's odd, but doing it seems like closure to me. A detail that if I don't do, no one will. It feels like they can finally rest in peace.

I suppose there's an argument that keeping their profiles active keeps their memory alive somehow. But if that's what it takes, then maybe their loved ones didn't make as many memories as they think.

No one asked me to do it, and I realize their profiles can always be created again. But the idea of some employer trying in vain to contact them for a job is disturbing to me, as I imagine it is to the loved ones who receive the emails and have to explain the circumstances.

If you see someone on LinkedIn you know has died, let LinkedIn know and ask that they be removed.

They don't need to worry about jobs anymore.

Don't ask: Watching your stuff

Continuing my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such wildly popular and praised installments like Don't Ask: Moving, Don't Ask: Picking Up At The Airport, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Sharing A Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Writing A Letter For You and the perennial Don't Ask: Sharing My Food, comes this timely post dealing with my latest irritation sweeping the nation: Complete strangers who ask me to watch their stuff.

When I work on a freelance gig that doesn't require me to be at the agency (the best kind), I like to get away from the distractions of home and use whatever Starbucks I happen to be near as my local branch office. Inevitably, as you'd expect in an establishment serving coffee in cups bigger than apartments I've had, people will eventually have to make a trip to the restroom.

For some reason, when that time arrives, I'm the guy they always turn to and say, "Excuse me, can you watch my stuff?"

I usually give them a non-committal kind of half-nod that can be taken for a yes, but that I can use for a no if their stuff goes missing and we wind up in court.

I think it's flattering people think I have an honest face (if that's what they think) and feel like they can trust me with their $3500 MacBook Pros, Swiss Army backpacks and iPhone 6's for as long as it takes them to pee. But the fact is with one house, two kids, two dogs, three cars and having to finance all of them, I have enough responsibility in my life without being a security guard for your stuff.

Plus the assumption I'm going to give chase to someone who's made off with your stuff is flattering, but misplaced. The most I'll do, and only because my sense of right and wrong is so finely honed, is try to get a plate number if they're in a getaway car.

It's an odd thing to me how unlike any place else, Starbucks and other coffee houses seem to work on the honor system. You don't leave your car running at the post office and ask the stranger walking by to watch it for a minute while you run in an mail a letter. Alright, maybe not a great analogy but you get my drift.

Anyway, it doesn't matter how nice you ask - I'm not getting shanked just because you couldn't hold it anymore.

Why not just do what I do? Get up, confidently walk to the restroom, quickly do your business and get back to your table. Make the assumption whoever's about to make off with your things doesn't know if you're watching them from the line or locked in the loo.

If your stuff is gone by the time you flush, don't blame me. I told you not to ask.

Marathon man

There are plenty of reasons to look forward to holiday weekends. No work, that's a good one. Another is no work. Then of course there's also no work, which makes them extra pleasant.

One other reason, equally as good, is the annual Twilight Zone marathons.

Usually on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends, somewhere on the six-hundred cable channels Charter overcharges me for, Rod Serling is telling me there's a place between light and shadow called the Twilight Zone. And he does it for forty-eight hours.

It's a given that at least two weekends a year I'll get to see William Shatner freaking out about a gremlin on the wing of his plane. Or about a fortune-telling machine with a devil's head on it in the booth at the diner.

I'll watch Burgess Meredith break his glasses, just as he has all the time he wants to read. I'll also get to see him square off against Fritz Weaver, explaining why he's not obsolete.

John Carradine will tell H.M. Wynant not to remove the small staff locking the door of the howling man, because he's really the devil. SPOILER ALERT: He doesn't listen and has to pay the price for it.

Captain Lutze will visit Dachau, and the ghosts of a million Jews will haunt him and eventually drive him insane.

And of course Ann Francis, as Marsha White, will go to the nonexistent ninth floor of the department store looking for a gold thimble, where she'll run into some familiar looking mannequins.

Under the guise of brilliant storytelling (Note to agencies: this is what real storytelling looks like), the Twilight Zone tackled real issues like racial prejudice, equal rights, crime and where an insatiable greed in all its forms inevitably gets you.

It's a testimony to Rod Serling's talent and imagination that decades after their original airing, the themes, stories and conclusions drawn on the Twilight Zone continue to be relevant.

Which I suppose makes it a sad commentary on us.