Nic and Shirley

A rare Saturday night. The wife and I have the place to ourselves. Of course young Mr. Spielberg is making movie magic in the currently flooded state of Texas, and my beautiful, smart, scary-funny daughter is at a Halloween party then staying overnight at her friends house.

So it's us, the dogs and a big bowl of rapidly diminishing candy (I hope there's some left when the trick-or-treaters get here).

Anyway, the wife and I decided to watch one of our favorite films: Guarding Tess. It stars Nic Cage and Shirly MacLaine. She's the former first lady, and he's the head of the Secret Service detail assigned to protect her. They argue and fight, but it's essentially a love story.

There are a few great things about it, maybe the best among them being that Nic Cage is not the Nic Cage we know today. That is to say he gives a sweet, funny, quiet performance. No explosions. No sleepwalking through the role. No constantly changing hairline from shot to shot. No stealing the Declaration of Independence.

MacLaine is cranky, sweet, tough and ultimately heartbreaking. It's an underrated performance, and I think one of her best and most likable.

The chemistry between the two of them is palpable. Not romantic chemistry - that'd be too Harold and Maude-ish. It's a love and appreciation two people have for each other just for who they are.

And Cage is hilarious.

I was debating putting this in my Guilty Pleasures series (feel free to search Guilty Pleasures in the box to the right), but Guarding Tess doesn't fit the criteria. I don't like this movie in spite of itself, I love it for what it is.

If you haven't seen it, and you're looking for an entertaining couple of hours and the joy of discovering an unseen little gem, I recommend Guarding Tess.

It'll almost make you forget Ghost Rider. Almost.

I have the negatives

Here’s a client comment every copywriter gets – some more than others – about a headline they’ve written at some point along the way.

”It’s too negative.”

I get it a lot. In fact, I got it today.

Despite the fact the second half of the line paid off the first part of the line beautifully and, dare I say it, positively, the client was having none of it.

My headline included the word “won’t.” Apparently that’s on the list of random negative trigger words, along with “can’t”, “shouldn’t”, “doesn’t”, “didn’t” and I’m sure a bunch more I won’t (there’s that word again) know until I present them and they’re shot down.

Mid-level clients are not big picture thinkers. Their tendency is to have crippling tunnelvision, and overthink everything, especially how much of their ass to cover. It’s why they examine headlines on a word-by-word basis, as opposed to taking in and reflecting on the entire line, the bigger meaning, the brand tone of voice and the overall message being conveyed.

Obviously to live in the purgatory that is middle management, one must have their sense of humor surgically removed. I believe they keep it downstairs in the pathology lab, next to the jars of middle manager brains.

I kid. Middle managers don't have brains.

It’d be a great business if clients read headlines and copy, and then reacted as if they were real people instead of what they think they are: experts in the life of the mind.

So my lesson for today, courtesy of this middle-management, ass-kissing, overthinking, boot-licking, water-toting, brown-nosing, apple-polishing, favor-currying, toady little suck-up is to try to be more positive.

How am I doing so far?

Fire drill

At the building where I work – like all office buildings - the management company is required by the city to have annual fire drills. When you least expect it - provided you don't see the firetruck and guys in orange vests outside - building management breaks into your work day and makes an announcement over their static-y public address system. Lights start flashing, it's panic at the disco and everyone's instructed to evacuate the building using the stairs, not the elevator.

Slowly and orderly, everyone saunters out to the parking lot, wondering if there’s enough time for a Starbucks run. Then they check in with their company's point person to prove they weren’t left behind in the faux towering inferno.

It’s an inconvenience that interrupts work for a bit, but the intentions are good and this kind of fire drill can actually make a difference in a genuine emergency. Which is exactly the opposite of the fire drills you usually find in an advertising agency.

Sadly, people working in agencies are well acquainted with the other kind. The pain-inducing, frustration-increasing, time-wasting, resources-draining, brain-numbing, soul-crushing kind.

Agency fire drills are notorious shape-shifters. They can come in the form of an account person yelling in the hall for everyone to “Look busy!” as a new client prospect tours the agency.

They can be an all-hands-on-deck, cancel-your-weekend-plans mandate to try to save an account that’s been going out the door since they got it.

They can even be the creative director’s kids graduation, engagement, wedding or circumcision announcement that has to get done first, before the actual paying work. Don't even get me started on headlines for the circumcision announcements.

"Take a tip from a mohel who does!"

"Is your mohel good enough to make the cut?"

"It's time to put some foreskin in the game!"

The common characteristic of agency fire drills is they’re all, without exception, monumental wastes of time. They’re the original model for the hamster wheel. And the unlucky ones who are "volunteered" to participate are rats in a maze, who manage to find their way out the other side without reward for their effort.

Agency fire drills happen because people high enough in the food chain to call them have placed a misguided sense of importance on whatever the drill is. They’ve entered a state of denial regarding exactly what the results of everyone dropping what they’re doing to do something else will accomplish.

None of this should come as a surprise. Despite how lean, nimble, agile and responsive the agency website says they are, I have yet to work in a shop that runs as efficiently and effectively as they do in their fantasy life. The one that lives in their manifesto on their website.

Anyway, once the real-world fire drill is over, everyone shuffles back into the building, takes a crowded elevator back to their floor, and picks up where they left off.

And if they're really lucky, maybe they get a venti cappuccino out of the deal.

Dangerous words

According to some estimates, there are over 1,025,029 words in the English language.

But to anyone who works in an agency creative department, you know there are four extremely dangerous ones that should be avoided at all costs.

"What do you think?"

Those four little wolves-in-sheeps'-clothing words have caused more unnecessary frustration, anger and heartache, not to mention destroyed more great advertising, than the other 1,025,025 words combined.

Well, maybe not. But go with me here.

Here’s the thing: the vampire at your doorway at midnight, hungry with fangs bared, can’t come in. He can’t simply cross the threshold and suck the life out of you, even though that’s what he wants to do more than anything. You're safe inside and he's stuck outside.

Unless you invite him in. “What do you think?” is that invitation.

It gives people without jurisdiction, judgment or experience the opening they’re waiting for to – as Albert Brooks said in Broadcast News – lower our standards bit by bit.

Now, not all opinions are unwanted. But you can be sure the people who need to chime in, who have a dog in the race, will do it without being asked. They’re the ones that'll see what you’re trying to do, offer ways to keep it on track and true to your vision and, more often than not, make it better in the process.

Next time you're in an internal review, in the big conference room, and the chairs are filled by people who don't have more than a glancing relationship with the work being presented, do yourself and your career a favor.

Instead of asking "What do you think?", ask something that'll do a lot less damage and might actually put you in everyones' good graces right from the get-go.

Something like, "Are those bagels for everyone?"

Are you the gatekeeper?

Once upon a time, when it came to getting into an agency, whether for a full time position or freelance, hopeful creative people sent their books (portfolio of their work in layman's terms) or promo piece (remember promo pieces?) to the creative director. That's because in a kindler, gentler industry, creative directors usually carved out some time - an hour or so a week - to go through books that'd been submitted.

They returned the ones they didn't want with a nice, brief thanks-but-no-thanks note. They called in the owners of the ones they liked for an interview or a meet-and-greet.

They were obviously the most qualified people to do this for a few reasons. For starters, they were creative people themselves. They understood what goes into coming up with an ad, the obstacles encountered in shaping and crafting it to make it great and the hurdles involved in getting it presented and produced. They spoke the language.

They were the first stop on the job tour.

Fast forward to today, where they're the last.

In today's fully-integrated agencies, with their manifestos on their websites, granola in the kitchen next to the Starbucks Via envelopes and planners offering their "insights," there's a position called Creative Resources Director. Or Creative Services Coordinator. Or Talent Relations Supervisor. Or Creative Concierge. However, that's not what they're called by the actual talent.

They're called gatekeepers.

These are the people who make or break you by getting you - or not - into the agency, and getting your work in front of the creative director.

Gatekeepers usually have the full trust and endorsement of the creative directors, even though most of them have never actually worked as a creative in a creative department. Yet there they are, judging on some criteria only they know which books get through and which don't. I imagine it's a carefully worked out formula of quality of work, reputation, freelance budget and have I had my coffee yet.

Gatekeepers, like creative directors (and freelancers), come in all flavors. There are absolutely great ones out there (like the ones at all the agencies where I work - you know who you are, and thank you). These are the ones that return your email, maintain a friendly attitude, negotiate a rate you're both happy with when they bring you in and let you down easy when they don't.

They keep the lines of communication open, and make it clear it's alright to check in every now and then to see what's going on.

Then there are the other kind of gatekeepers. They're what I like to call the meter maids of gatekeeping. They have a uniform so they think they're real policemen. But they're not.

Every creative person has or will run into one of these. They almost go out of their way not to have a relationship with the very people they will at some point want to work for them. They will never answer any emails, yet they will fully expect you to negotiate your day rate to the basement for them when they call you in two hours before they need you. They'll make sure you know how lucky you are they even considered you.

They'll check your availability, and then they'll never check back with you.

In the same way creative people establish reputations around town, so do the gatekeepers. It's well known in the freelance community who the great ones are, just like it's known who the um, less-than-great ones are. Like the French resistance, there actually is a freelance underground where the community has its ways of sharing their gatekeeper experiences with each other. It's a way of looking out for each other even if everyone's competing for the same jobs.

At the end of the day, gatekeepers are something you accept and work with. If they're the good ones - and I can't say this enough, like all the ones I work with - it's always a pleasure dealing with them. If they're the bad ones, you find the grace to muddle through while holding your ground.

By the way, if you happen to be a gatekeeper and you're reading this, you know the meter maid crack wasn't about you, right?

God: On the record

Here at Rotation and Balance, we were lucky enough to catch God while he was in town taking meetings with studio executives about a remake of the story of his life - The Greatest Story Ever Told.

We sat down with lattes, a good attitude and more than a few questions.

RNB: First of all, thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk with us.

GOD: I'm pretty good at multi-tasking. And it's my pleasure.

RNB: So do you visit Earth often?

GOD: I'm actually here more than people think, but not in my true form. That'd be a lot for people to handle, bright heavenly light and all. So I wear a disguise when I'm walking around in my earthly form - kind of like Hugh Jackman when he's on the exhibit floor at Comic Con.

RNB: Hugh Jackman walked the floor at Comic Con dressed as Wolverine.

GOD: Brilliant wasn't it? I really got a kick out of that.

RNB: When you look around at the world, what are the first thoughts that come to mind?

GOD: What the heck have you done with the place? Really, I hardly recognize it. I mean, I gave you the knowledge to build factories, cities and cars - that Audi R8 is pretty sweet, right? - but I thought you might take care of the place a little better. I think I may have been a little too generous with that "free will" experiment.

RNB: You couldn't have put that much work into it. I mean it only took you seven days.

GOD: True, but my days aren't the same as your days. They're a lot longer. That reminds me of a joke...

RNB: Go ahead, let's hear it.

GOD: This kid is in church praying to me, and he says, 'God, what's a million dollars like to you?' And I say, 'It's like a penny to you.' Then he says, 'Well, what's a million years like to you?' And I say, 'It's like a second.' So the kid thinks a minute, then says to me, 'God, can I have a penny?' And I say, 'Sure. Just a second.'

RNB: Good one.

GOD: Gets me every time.

RNB: Getting back on track, I'm sure you know about the recent controversies concerning religion and gay marriage.

GOD: All knowing, hello?

RNB: So what do you think about gay marriage?

GOD: You know, it's a good question. Let's start here - you're all my children. I created you all in my image.

RNB: You're not saying...

GOD: What I'm saying is I'm a part of everyone on Earth. My spirit is in all of you. And because you're all my children, like any parent I love you all and want you to be happy. The world's too short on love, why would I want to take it away from anyone?

RNB: A lot of people say you wouldn't approve, and use your name to justify their position.

GOD: I'm more about acceptance than judgement. I sleep better at night that way.

RNB: You actually sleep?

GOD: Well, no. But you get where I'm going.

RNB: Do you resent fringe groups and haters using your name to justify their actions?

GOD: Brother, if I had a dollar for every time someone took my name in vain or used it as an excuse to hurt people, I could afford that new throne I've had my eye on.

RNB: Why do so many people get that wrong?

GOD: I only knows. See what I did there?

RNB: What about the situation in the Middle East?

GOD: I'm not going to lie to you, it's pretty bad. It's like that mess in the corner of your room you keep saying you're going to clean up, and you never do. It's just too overwhelming.

RNB: All due respect, but why don't you just wave your hand and solve the problem?

GOD: All due respect, because then you wouldn't learn the lessons you need to learn.

RNB: And what are those?

GOD: That's for me to know and you to find out. You have to understand, I'm looking at the big picture. Things happen for what looks like no reason. But there always is one. I'm a very careful planner, and I'm not reckless. A lot of what happens, especially the unpleasant things, are designed to make you stronger of character, more compassionate and more vigilant.

RNB: But some truly horrible things have happened.

GOD: Agreed. The sad truth is I'm not the only one at work here. I have some pretty powerful enemies, well, enemy. He can't win, but he makes things tougher for me.

RNB: Is there life after death?

GOD: Is there ever. And the good news is, and I really shouldn't tell you this, but everyone gets past the gates.

RNB: Everyone?

GOD: Yep. Doesn't matter if you believe in me or not, doesn't matter what you've done. I'm big on forgiveness.

RNB: Every heard the phrase "Rock N' Roll Heaven?"

GOD: I dare you to find a better band than the one we've got. Every seat is a good one, AND there are no Ticketmaster fees - if that isn't heaven, I don't know what is.

RNB: There's a lot more to talk about, but I know you have to run. Thanks for spending a little time with us.

GOD: Thank you for having me. And just so you know, even when you see me leave, I'm not really gone.

RNB: How do I know that's true?

GOD: See that guy over there who looks like Hugh Jackman?

In the zone

Time zones. They're either for you or against you.

Living on the west coast, and traveling to the east coast, I'm used to the three-hour shuffle. Losing the time going, getting it back on the way home. Somehow, in my disoriented mind, it all evens out and I can talk myself out of the lag.

But for the past four days I've been in the central time zone - two hours ahead of where I normally am. It's very confusing to me, which isn't good because I'm confused enough to start with.

I don't let the clock on my iPhone reset. Instead, I keep it set to my home time zone, and just apply a 'plus two' to whatever time it displays. I do this because I take a pill for cholesterol, and I want to be taking it the same time as I do every day - the time my body's used to.

Even if the same time is a different time. See what I'm saying?

The other thing about central time is all the TV shows are on an hour earlier than where I live. So I wind up missing a lot of them by at least a half hour or more. This might be at the top of the first-world problem list.

Anyway, I just wanted to get this posted tonight before I went to bed two hours ago.

Or is it two hours from now?

Sticking the landing

When I freelanced in San Francisco for nine months, I was living in Santa Monica. I'd fly up every Monday morning, and back every Friday night. Occasionally, I'd have to come back a time or two mid-week. What I'm saying is lots of take-offs and landings.

Landings, with all they imply, are a welcome part of any flight. It means the screaming baby in 11B will soon be a thing of the past, you'll be able to take your iPhone off airplane mode and, provided you don't clobber someone taking your carry-on out of the overhead, you'll never have to see, make small talk or apologize to any of these people again.

What I've noticed a lot, especially in the age of discount airlines, is that when landing, a lot of times pilots simply come in hot. They have schedules to make, flight attendants to diddle (make sure they're fastened low and tight across your waist) or another plane to pilot. They're in a hurry to touchdown.

We've all been on that flight where you feel your bones rattle when the plane slams onto the runway, and then a flight attendant blows the dust off some old joke over the P.A. like, "As you may have noticed, we've just dropped into Kennedy."

Rare is a pilot who manages to stick the landing. I was fortunate enough to have one on my flight this morning.

It's family weekend at young Mr. Spielberg's university. So the wife and I hopped JetBlue to the red state to see our boy. When we touched down, it was barely noticeable if you weren't looking out the window and watching the ground come up. The wheels hit the asphalt with a gentle, feather touch. Both of them in sync, making contact at the same time. No loud screech of the rubber hitting the road. No one gear down and then the other. There wasn't a person within earshot who could stop talking about how perfect it was.

So kudos and many thanks to the JetBlue pilot(s) this morning. You gave a cabin full of sleepy, weary travelers a gentle reminder how the talents of a skilled pilot can make getting where you're going much more pleasant.

To everyone who flies, I wish for you what I had today. Happy landings.

Are you available the 25th?

Here's what you need to know about Santa Geoff. His dreams have come true. It says so right there in the small print.

"Since he was a boy, Santa Geoff has dreamed of delivering presents to all the good boys and girls around the world."

I'm a big believer in dreams coming true. Good for Santa Geoff. Because it's something he's always wanted to do, I'm sure he makes an extra effort to do the job as well as he can. No threadbare spots on the red velvet. No matting in the beard. No twinkle only in one eye. This is a man who's literally living the dream.

"Santa Geoff is accredited by the Professional Santa School..."

It's the difference between a handyman and a licensed contractor. An amateur and a professional. A Santa who's been to the professional Santa school (apparently there is one) and all the others. I imagine it's a rigorous curriculum of HoHo'ing 101, Chimney Diving, Reindeer Veterinary Care and Advanced Gift Wrapping. They also offer Beginning Sleigh Repair & Maintenance, but I think that's an elective. Anyway, somewhere at the North Pole there's a degree with his name on it, and that's good enough for me.

"...and has undergone a full background check so you can feel confident that Santa Geoff is the best Santa for the job."

Background checks are a good thing - especially when it comes to fat strangers in red suits who may at some point have your child on his lap. Besides things like drug abuse and a prison record, I wonder what else comes up in a Santa background check. Hosting back room reindeer fighting with Michael Vick? Loitering at Christmas tree lots? Listing Bad Santa as his favorite movie? By the way, the last one would be enough for me to hire him.

"Always cheerful and jolly, Santa Geoff loves being Santa and is dedicated to being the best Santa Claus possible and making every event memorable for both children and adults! Just ask Santa Geoff how to make your experience even more unique."

Clearly, Santa Geoff is going to do his gosh darn best to make your holiday event merry. The part that concerns me is asking him how to make it even more unique. Frankly, it conjures up some fairly un-Christmas-y naughty and not-so-nice images. It also brings a whole new meaning to "decking the halls."

Anyway, if you need a Santa - and really, who among us doesn't - it seems like you could do a lot worse than Santa Geoff. Plus as you can see by the area code, he works in Orange County.

Although I think we all know that's not the home office.

Don't ask: Working the weekend

I know what you're thinking: why haven't I posted a new installment of my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such widely read and revered gems 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.

Well, tonight's your lucky night. I'm posting my latest in the series, and it's about a particular nuisance that effects every creative person in the business: working the weekend.

Jay Chiat of Chiat/Day fame had a quote that's been misquoted and bounced around ad agencies ever since he said it. If you're in advertising, you're already saying it to yourself: "If you're not here on Saturday, don't bother coming in on Sunday."

Looks like I won't be seeing you Sunday.

Agencies are notorious for their outsized and aggressive disregard for both working smart and your life. If they did the first one, working weekends wouldn't happen nearly as often as it does. Which would mean you'd get some of your life back.

Since I believe agencies will start working smart and utilizing their time more efficiently about the same time I ride my unicorn to Xanadu while drinking from the Holy Grail, I've chosen not to wait. I'm taking it back. Weekends are personal time. They're days of rest by definition. They are non-work days. Here's what I do on weekends. I spend time with my kids. I go out with the wife. I get things done around the house. I veg and binge Breaking Bad again.

Know what I don't do? Work.

Maybe if there were fewer 12-person meetings to kick-off the latest banner ad, not as many mandatory attendance pep talks to rally the troops, and less presentations to the staff from the Executive Group Specialist In Experimental Branding Strategy & Innovative Demographic Search Engine Optimization Solutions, there'd be enough time during the week to get the actual, bill-paying, income producing work done.

Not to brag, but because I have this policy of no weekends, I get my work done during the week. When I pack up Friday night, everything that needed to be done is done. Monday will bring a whole new set of challenges, and I'll get those done during the next five days too.

I know this is a radical position for a freelancer with a kid in college to take. Especially since weekends are usually double time. At a nice day rate, that can add up pretty quick. I know freelancers that hope for weekend work - something about gettin' while the gettin's good. Whatever. When your relationship with your kids turns into a Harry Chapin song, don't come crying to me.

Don't get me wrong. This is not to say I haven't worked weekends and won't again on those very few occasions it's necessary. But it usually isn't, despite the desperation, authoritative tone, insinuations about reputations and false logic that since they have to be there you have to be there. Almost as weak an argument as "If I do it for you, I have to do it for everyone else."

So go ahead, talk about how I'm too good to come in on Saturday. How I don't want to be a team player. How pissed everyone's going to be that they're at work and I'm not.

And if you want to tell me to my face, fine.

Call me. I'll be at home.

Let there be light

It's dark at night.

I bet that's the kind of piercing insight and keen observation you read this blog for. You can stop rolling your eyes now. I'm not talking about outside - I'm talking about inside my house.

Our living room has always been light-challenged. There are ceiling lamps off to the side in what used to be a dining room, and another off to the other side in what used to be a bedroom. But no one really likes the harshness of those lights, or the amount of coverage they offer. And yes, a lot of rooms used to be other rooms in this house. It's like Disneyland - it'll never be finished.

Anyway, we used to have lamps on the end tables on either side of the couch, which made reading comfortable and easy on the eyes.

But then, in an act of sheer hostility and defiance, the lamp on my night table in the bedroom crapped out. It started doing strange flickering things when I turned it on. It was actually a little disturbing, since there was no rhyme or reason to when it would start acting up. I was scared it was either a poltergeist or conspiring to electrocute me. Or both. So I trashed it, and moved one of the ones in the living room next to me in the bedroom.

Ever since, my living room is like the moon: half in light, half in darkness. I was going to say covered in a fine gray dust with footprints from 1969, but why open that can of worms.

The problem replacing the lamp has been trying to find one that somewhat matches the remaining one. I don't know if you know this, but there are literally thousands of lamps to scroll through online - and it's exactly as much fun as it sounds.

I'm getting to the point where I'm ready to run out to Lowe's and just buy one. The wife doesn't want me to do it, but I told her we could look forever and the perfect one might never show up.

She said, "You're telling me."

Candid camera

A lost episode of COPS? An avant-garde student film? Nope. What your looking at is my driveway, as seen from one of our closed circuit security cameras.

You might be wondering why we've taken the extreme step of installing a security system at our house, especially since the TP'ing ended years ago.

Here's the story.

A few years ago, we started noticing some strange characters coming and going from a house across the street and four down from us. Which was strange because, as far as we could tell, the people who lived there looked like fine, upstanding citizens, perhaps public servants or business professionals.

I'm just funnin' ya. They were strung out meth tweakers. People who visited the house looked like the cast of Oz, without the warmth.

One day, my wife and daughter were driving home and saw one of the tweakers walking down our driveway. They drove slowly and watched him walk back to his house, then they called the police.

Initially the police didn't want to come out to warn the guy about trespassing, but once they did they realized they were dealing with some very bad people. They came back to our house, and let my wife know they had a very long rap sheet that included drug dealing and firearms charges. They also told us to call them anytime if we noticed anything odd going on over there.

The thing is, there was always something odd going on. And as a result, the cops were at the house about twice a week, at all times of the day and night, for over a year. Sometimes it was one police car, and other times it was four or five screaming up to the house, guns drawn. It was very entertaining, and we could almost set our clocks by it.

The house was owned by a sleazy lawyer. We figured out the deal was he got them out of jail when they got busted, and he got a cut of their drug money.

By the way, I forgot to mention that neither our house or our neighbor's house (our former great neighbor and friend Sebastian - come back Sebastian!) was broken into when he was coming out our driveway. We figured the tweaker was probably window shopping both houses, but then heard Max - the world's greatest German Shepherd - start barking up a storm and high-tailed it out of there.

Right after the driveway incident, we got the closed circuit camera system for the house. We have several cameras covering the whole property, and can tune in and watch the show no matter where we are. We have a lot of footage of the FedEx guy delivering packages from Amazon, but so far no more meth heads.

Eventually, the police department called to tell us the sleazy lawyer couldn't afford the house anymore and had decided to sell it. Which, thankfully, turned out to be true.

Now, a nice family with two young kids live there. They've been renovating the house since they moved in over a year ago, and it's looking good. I'm not sure if the renovations included an exorcism, but I think it's worth considering.

As for the closed circuit camera system, together with Max and our alarm system it brings us a great deal of peace of mind.

I just have to remember not to take out the trash in my underwear.

Suit yourself

There are several ways to tell it’s not me in the picture. Let’s see if we can name them all.

First, the suit isn’t black. Complete giveaway. Next, the model is thin. Shut up. Then, my hair, although once that color, isn’t anymore (my dad went gray at 25 - I never had a chance). Finally, it's been a while since I stood in a spaceship, Frank Gehry building, stage or wherever the hell he is with a 50 Shades Of You Know What Happens Next look on my face. But in my rich fantasy life, that’s exactly how I look in a nicely tailored suit.

Which brings me to my next point: I need a suit. A real suit. A grown up suit.

I don’t have much occasion to wear one, although I have been going to more funerals than I’d like the past few years. Part of the problem is I work in advertising, an industry which lets me dress like a fifteen-year boy old most of the time. On the rare occasion I have a reason to dress up at work, it just means tucking my shirt in my jeans, and wearing the black New Balance sneakers instead of the yellow ones.

However, besides the funerals, there've also been some weddings as of late. Or as I like to call them, a waste of a perfectly good Saturday. Plus, I’m also a member of the Magic Castle, which, in its quaint, throwback ways still maintains a dress code. And while I’ve managed to get away with wearing an old suit I have, it’s so long out of style I may as well be dressed for my bar mitzvah.

By the way, the jacket I wore to my bar mitzvah was blue. At the age of thirteen, I hadn’t developed my affinity for a black wardrobe yet. I also hadn’t developed any affinity for Hebrew school, but did that stop my parents from sending me there? No it did not.

Anyway, the point is I can’t keep wearing the same out-of-style suit to functions and venues that require one. I need a new suit.

The ones I’ve always liked are made by Hugo Boss. I remember years ago, there used to be an advertising awards show in Southern California called the Beldings, and early on they used to be black-tie. I’d go out, rent a tuxedo and show up looking quite snazzy while I was losing in every category.

Nothing feels quite as good as losing in rented clothes.

This one time, as I was trying on my tux at Gary’s Tuxedo in Santa Monica, I noticed one of the mannequins wearing a Hugo Boss tuxedo. You know you’re in trouble when the mannequin looks better in a tux than you do. Why not – he had the nicer tux.

I asked how much it was, and at the time it was around $1700. So I did some cypherin’ and figured out if I rented a tux at a hundred bucks a shot seventeen times, I could own that Hugo Boss (alright, so the math wasn’t that hard).

Well, you know how this story ends. At the time I didn’t have the foresight to see how I’d ever have seventeen occasions to dress up, so I didn’t pull the trigger on the purchase. Of course I’ve needed one many more times than that in the intervening years.

Which brings me back to my point: I need a suit. My strategy is to lose a little weight first (which has been my strategy since 1985), then go out and buy myself a stylish little Hugo Boss number.

Can you guess what color I'll get?

Direct deposit

Not long ago, I was freelancing at this agency that had a national car account, and wasn't too far from the beach. Which describes almost all of the agencies I freelance at.

But at this particular one, they had a little service they offered freelancers that others didn't. One that made my life easier. Ask anyone that knows me - I'm all about easy.

As far as I was concerned, this service was pure magic both in its concept as well as execution.

I speak of the freelancer's little helper, Direct Deposit.

Being a little compulsive, and always liking to keep a close eye on my money, for years I'd get a paycheck then make a mad dash to get to the bank before closing time and deposit it. But not anymore.

Now, I sign up whenever and wherever I can. Magically, my money appears in my account a day before payday. I can see it online. I can write checks against it. I can talk to it late at night, tell it my hopes, my dreams, my fears.

I might be getting off topic here.

The point is I used to be afraid of giant corporations being able to get their big corrupt hands on my bank account, and now I'm not. That's true for a lot of things in my life. Flying. Sushi. Adam Sandler movies.

Alright, I'm still afraid of Adam Sandler movies.

If you have the opportunity to get Direct Deposit where you work, I strongly suggest you do. It's nice when your company makes money appear in your account.

Of course, it'd be better if they could do it as fast as I make it disappear.

Through the looking glasses

I got new glasses over the weekend. This may not seem like a particularly big deal to you, but the fact is I’ve worn my same glasses for more years than I can remember.

It’s not that I’m slow to change, it’s just I have a hard time finding a pair of frames I like.

My old ones were smaller on my face. Not John Lennon granny-glasses small, but small. However over the years, my face - along with the rest of me - has gotten, shall we say, fuller. And my old glasses were looking less like glasses and more like a vise squeezing my head to pop my brains out.

At least that's how I saw them.

Fortunately for me, bigger frames are all the rage now, so I finally found a pair of Ray Ban 5225’s that fit me perfectly. Big, wide lenses. Stylish design. Distant borrowed cool from Risky Business. Cheap as hell on Amazon. Everything I was looking for.

When I came in to work today, I have to say I was expecting much more of a reaction than I got. After all, I’d worn the same glasses for years, and the new ones were distinctly different. Everyone seems to notice when I get a haircut. Or a new shirt. Even new shoes. Since they notice those little things, I was braced for a barrage of complimentary comments about my new glasses. I mean they’re right there on my face.

Instead of a slew of comments, I only got one – from my friend and sometimes art director partner Kurt who happens to have the exact same pair I got. Except his are blue and mine are black (Surprise!).

I think the lesson here is don’t go looking for compliments or attention. I need to just be happy that - after years of trying on frames and checking the mirror to see how they looked except I couldn't see how they looked cause I need my glasses to see - I finally found some I like.

Besides, exactly when did I start giving a damn what other people think? Oh, I remember: it was the 12th of never.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, once you get past the sarcasm, cynicism and general skeptical nature, I'm basically a glass-half-full kind of guy. And I've managed to find a silver-lining to this shocking lack of attention.

Apparently I have a superpower I didn’t know I had. For only $450, I can make myself invisible.

Happy landings

At the recent D23 expo, a convention for all things Disney, chairman, CEO and personal friend of Rich Siegel Bob Iger announced the Magic Kingdom was going to get even more magical thanks to a property their Imagineers had nothing to do with. And their accountants had everything to do with.

To the delight of thousands of squealing fanboys, Iger said plans are underway to build a Star Wars land at Disneyland. I think it's safe to say the force and the lines will be strong with this one.

So it got me to thinking (in case you were wondering what it would take), what if advertising agencies were divvied up into lands of their own. They're already divided into departments: Creative, Account, Media, Strategy and Pizza After 7.

But I think we could segment the shops even more. Specifically:

Clientland

This is a magical land where nothing is as it seems. Yes means no. Start means stop. Good means bad. In Clientland, the rides start but for some reason stop half-way through. And on the ones that do finish, the journey isn't quite as much fun as you expected it to be. Still, at least you got to ride. There are people waiting in line who'll never get on.

Researchland

If words like intuition, gut feeling and common sense send a cold shiver down your spine - and the word spine does as well - you'll feel right at home in Researchland. Those people walking around in the black robes? They're call Extractors, and their job is to remove all the funny lines you liked because a mother of two who had some time to kill and needed a free meal didn't think it was funny. Researchland has lots of dark, twisting tunnels that look like they lead somewhere, but actually don't. Problem is you don't find that out until you've been through them. There are also lots of funhouse mirrors, where you can see people who come in but they can't see you. All they can do is kill your idea before they finish the ride. Sometimes you can actually pass through Researchland and no one will tell you. But if you see your spot and don't even recognize it, you've been there.

Meetingland

In Meetingland, the ride feels like it's never going end. The cars are designed like little conference tables, and oddly enough the decorative plastic bagels in the center that you use to steer taste just as good as real meeting bagels. Everyone in your car talks at the same time. And no matter how long you ride, the one thing you can count on is you'll end up exactly where you started.

Weekendland

The least happy attraction in the park is Weekendland. People are grouchy and wishing they were somewhere else. All the concession stands serve is crappy pizza. And when you're inside the rides, all you can think about is how good the weather is outside. In Weekendland, there are warning signs on all the rides: This ride may cause depression, time lost with your spouse and your children, and excessive bad attitudes.

Of course, just like the Magic Kingdom, you'd be able to buy an annual pass to all of these agency lands that's good all year round.

But after your first visit, you'll wish they were all blackout days.

Silent night

I was thinking what I could write about tonight when the tragedy in Oregon occurred. And I find myself too numb to write about anything really.

I certainly don't feel like being funny tonight (I know, why is this night different from any other night...).

I've written here how I feel about guns as it pertains to personal safety and protection for the family.

And tonight the news will be filled with all the talking heads on both sides of the issue seeing who can scream the loudest.

But while the gun lobby and gun control advocates both plot their strategies and figure out how best to politicize this, the fact remains at least ten families won't have their loved ones coming home tonight. Many if not all were students. As a parent, it brings me to tears thinking of the pain the families must be going through.

There's always the quest to understand why the shooter did what he did. Reports have said he asked people to stand up and tell him what religion they were, and if they gave the wrong answer they were shot. Survivors say after he asked the question, he just started shooting people randomly, even those who hadn't answered his question.

On social sites, posts by the shooter said, "I'm so insignificant. This is the only way I'll ever get on television." A warning and a reason at the same time.

Some people have said police should've done more to bring him in alive so he could be questioned. But fortunately, their first priority was making sure no one else got shot.

The shooter was - in police parlance - neutralized.

I can't even imagine their pain. I don't even want to try. God bless the victims and their families now and forever. I hope they eventually find some peace and their hearts begin to heal.

As for the shooter, I'm only sorry he wasn't neutralized sooner.