Have the best 19 days ever!

Happy New Year! I think this one is going to be spectacularly great. I mean that. After all, it can't be any worse than 2016, amirite? Truth be told, I think 2017 will be the best year any of us can remember. All nineteen days of it.

I know, I can hear you saying, "But Jeff, aren't there 365 days in a year?" Well sure, in a normal year. But 2017 isn't going to be a normal year. For starters, our dipshit elect is going to be sworn in on January 20th. Which coincidentally, I believe, is the day the world as we know it will end.

We already know, and he confirms it on a daily basis, that he will be the most mentally, emotionally and morally unqualified person ever to hold the office of President of the United States. If anything good is going to happen before he gets us into a nuclear war with China, sinks the stock market, destroys the environment and makes the air unbreathable, it's going to happen in the first nineteen days of the year.

So my recommendation is live it up. Go to Vegas, fly to Paris, pour gas on the credit cards, kiss whoever's there at the moment, drive fast (I mean even faster), eat badly (I mean even worse) and get ready to go out with a big, fat, toothless, trailer-trash smile on your face.

And if for some odd, unexpected reason—a speedy impeachment (please, please, please) or an act of God (this is the prayer to answer)—he's removed from office quickly and we all manage to continue on with our lives, don't even give a second thought to the many acts of complete abandon, ribaldry and debasement you just committed.

Decency, truth or consequences for your actions won't be coming back for at least another fifty years.

'Twas the night before Christmas - 2016 Edition

This is the third year in a row I've put up this post on Christmas Eve. It's become somewhat of a holiday tradition. I say somewhat, because nobody really expects or wants it, but I keep posting it anyway. It's like Deck The Halls or Do You Hear What I Hear. The request lines aren't jammed, yet you hear it a lot. Besides, normally I'd be doing all my last minute errands like eating all the cookies the wife made for tomorrow, and dipping into the pumpkin pie early. But it is the season of giving, and damn it, if we know anything about me we know I'm a giver.

I think the best gift any of us can ask for is that 2016 ends as planned, and that we all survive the next few years. I know, Mr. Glass Half Full.

So hug those you love, make sure they know, and please to enjoy this little diddy one more time. And the very merriest Christmas to you and yours.

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of Gold Lions danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

Germ of an idea

Whenever I hear "It's the season!" I know whoever said it means the Christmas, Joy To The World, Goodwill Towards All time of year. I'm all for it (except for the Mariah Carey Christmas song Macy's has on a loop).

But the holiday season happens to coincide with another, less popular one—cold and flu season.

If you work in an office like I do—with central air-conditioning you thought was your friend—you know colds and flu shoot through the workplace like wildfire.

It's basically a game of dominoes. Once the first person falls, it's only a matter of time before everyone else does.

You can't help getting sick, but you can help other people from getting sick. It's easy, here's the trick: stay home until you're completely better.

Not a lot better.

Not better than you were.

Not almost better.

All the way better. The way you were before you had any inkling you were coming down with anything. It's only common sense and common courtesy, amiright?

But as we all know, there are people who, in spite of a phlegmy, hacking cough, juicy sneezes, noses running faster than Usain Bolt, fever so high they could fry eggs on their foreheads and fatigue so intense they're asleep standing up, for some reason insist on coming to work.

I suppose they might feel a certain sense of responsibility to the job. Or have an unrelenting work ethic that doesn't allow them to put themselves before the job, which they feel must get done regardless of their current state of affliction.

Both things I know nothing about. Just ask anyone I work with.

I hate it when people do that for two reasons. First, the idea of coming to work in general is one I resist with everything I've got pretty much on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I've been freelance so long, or the fact I appreciate my freedom and want to set my own schedule. Maybe it's because I'm an only child and the world revolves around me (but you already knew that). It could be that I'm just a lazy bastard who'd rather sit on the couch and binge Breaking Bad, again, than earn money to pay my bills and feed my family.

A man can dream can't he?

Anyway, the idea of coming to work when I'm sick wouldn't even occur to me. Besides, hard to imagine as it is, I'm even less productive when I'm sick. And getting back to that common courtesy thought, color me old-fashioned, but I just think it'd be better not to pass along the creeping crud I'm fighting to my fellow workers. They'll remember it come Secret Santa time, which means better re-giftable items for me.

And since no one's giving out medals or raises to people who drag their sorry asses in while they're on their death beds, there's really no percentage in it.

Besides, can you ever get enough daytime television? I think not.

Sorry for the rant, but occasionally you have to knock some sense into people so they do the right thing, like stay home when they're sick, get well, and not infect anyone else along the way because they have. to. get. back. to. work.

I'm not saying this post is directed at anyone in particular, but I'm not saying it isn't. With any luck, maybe they'll read it while they're having a fever delirium in their sick bed.

Or at their desk.

Balancing act

As well as you know me, this won't come as any surprise.

There are the few rare and in between occasions where I can be what I suppose some people would call compulsive.

I prefer to think of it as laser focused.

For example, at the craps tables. Or getting Springsteen tickets to 47 shows on the tour. Say it with me: Breaking Bad.

But while those are just a few of the pleasurable pursuits I enjoy directing my compulsiveness...er...focus towards, there are other, more practical ways it expresses itself.

Laundry. I challenge you here and now to a towel, t-shirt and sock folding contest (I'm looking at you Carmen Dorr). Seriously, tread lightly and prepare for disappointment. Not only am I extremely good at it, I enjoy doing it. Which is why you don't stand a chance.

Are you the kind of person who thinks they've loaded a dishwasher to capacity, even though you still have a sink and a half full of dirty dishes? Step aside rookie. I'll reorganize your dishes in the washer, put in all the ones in the sink and still have room for that serving dish you were going to wash by hand. I'm like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind: I can see the dishes all in their proper place even before I've put the first one in.

There's one place more than all the rest where I'm relentless about making it work out exactly the way it should—balancing my checkbook.

It's an old school notion, but I still get paper bank statements. I like them. I can write the numbers on them, check off the line items as I reconcile them and easily backtrack if I need to. Almost every time, it balances to the penny, which brings me a kind of happiness few things do.

Occasionally though it's off by either a few cents, or a few hundred dollars. When that happens, I put on the green visor (figuratively-green isn't really my color) and go through my find-my-mistake ritual.

First up is checking the addition in my checkbook register. I know there are apps for that, but I like doing it. I'm Columbo on a case to find the missing pennies ("Excuse me, just one more thing..."). If that doesn't solve it, I start adding the outstanding checks and uncredited deposits. Sometimes it's a few minutes, rarely it's a few hours. But I never give up, and eventually I find the error. And I always wind up with a balanced checkbook for the month.

I know I could get online statements and do it all from my laptop. But it wouldn't give me the same feeling of accomplishment putting pen to paper and figuring it out does.

I could go on and on about the joys of checkbook balancing, but I Love Lucy will be on soon and I have to go warm up the picture tube and find my clicker.

Send fries in lieu of flowers

Michael James Delligatti deserved more.

He is after all the man who invented a uniquely American culinary icon. Made literally billions for the company he worked with and for. And his invention was a very happy meal indeed.

Delligatti should've died last week at the age of 98 (maybe Big Macs aren't so bad for you) with an estate worth billions to leave his heirs. But all he got from McDonald's for his creation that's responsible for over 25% of their profits is a plaque.

Some people might argue that's more than Moe Green got (Godfather reference, look it up). But for my McMoney, it wasn't enough.

Delligatti was a franchisee who told McDonald's they should offer a double-patty burger. McDonald's, having the foresight and keen intuition for trends that they demonstrate even to this day, told him no. So, as the NY Times said, Delligatti went rogue. He ordered a larger, sesame-seed bun from a local baker, split it in three and made his own double-patty burger.

To everyone's surprise but his, sales skyrocketed. Funny thing. Once that happened, suddenly McDonald's was interested in offering what later became the Big Mac.

There seems to be a tradition of companies who make money off of these innovative ideas by screwing the people who come up with them.

One of the more famous instances was Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster who created a little character with a red cape you might've heard of - Superman. There were a slew of lawsuits, settlements and more lawsuits with the two families about ownership, and they still continue to this day (too much to go into here, but if you want to read more about it you'll find it here).

Ronald Wayne, the third founder of Apple along with Jobs and Wozniak. Wayne quit a few days into the partnership, scared the boys didn't know what they were doing and he'd be on the hook financially. If he'd held onto his stock, which he sold for $800, it would've been worth over $32 billion today. He took himself out of the equation, but still it would've been good karma for Jobs to reward him with a stipend for getting the company on its feet.

Philo T. Farnsworth, the farm boy who actually invented television at fourteen-years old and got screwed out of the patent by RCA.

John Walker, inventor of the self-igniting friction sticks, or as we call them in my country, matches.

How about Gary Kildall, inventor of the operating system you're probably using a version of right now. He got royally hosed by a nerdy billionaire from Seattle who usually gets the credit.

Of course, there's a saying my therapist taught me. I know what you're saying to yourself "But Jeff, you seem so well-adjusted, why would you have a therapist?" You have no idea.

Anyway, what she always says is there are no victims, only volunteers.

Many of these people didn't patent their ideas in spite of being urged to. Or some signed a contract without reading it. However they lost hold of their brain work, it seems ashame they weren't able to benefit from the rewards of it.

Even if a company owned their ideas fair and square, there's more than enough money to go around. Giving the creators some of it just seems like the right thing to do. Although I realize we're living in a post right-thing-to-do era.

Anyway, rest in peace Mr. Delligatti. I've enjoyed your creation many times over the years, and still indulge the occasional craving for it. Only now I take out the middle slice of bread.

It's a lot healthier that way.

Round here

You may have noticed I haven't written a new post in a while (undisciplined).

And frankly, there have been a lot of reasons for that (laziness).

I've been unbelievably busy with work (couch potato). I've had family obligations (binge watching). I've been concentrating on other projects (lotto tickets).

But I did want to take a few minutes out of my busy schedule (napping) to do something I have never done before—offer a bit of advice to my fellow blogger and swing dance instructor Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen.

Now, normally I don't make it my business to tell anyone else how to do theirs. I don't give other parents advice on how to raise their kids, although God knows with the devil spawn some of them have unleashed on the planet they could use it. I don't offer relationship advice, even though I know the secret to a long and trouble-free relationship most married men find out soon enough involves two words: Yes dear.

But since Rich is a friend of mine, I want the best for him and his blog because, and I think if you're followed me for any length of time and gotten past the crippling disappointment, you know I'm a giver.

So here's the advice: It's time to change the name of your blog. Not that Round Seventeen isn't a fine name, but based on my personal experience as of late, I don't think it's an accurate one anymore.

I can't remember the last time copy got routed less than seventeen times. For starters, once I've used up the entire three to four hours I get to craft a compelling brand story people will relate to, find humor in and want to know more about, it first has to get routed through several of what I like to euphemistically call layers.

The account team.

Strategy.

Account planner.

Product specialist.

Legal.

Associate creative director.

Group creative director.

Proofreading.

Executive creative director.

The cleaning lady on three.

And, if I'm lucky, then it finally makes its way to the client.

That's ten stops it has to make before it gets out the door. And if any of those people have a change, suggestion, idea, whim, opinion, thinks something's missing, thinks something else should be included, forwards a suggestion (mandatory) from the client or just. doesn't. get. it., then, as if I'd written it on a boomerang, it comes back to me for revisions.

After they're made, some well-meaning, highly intelligent, over-worked, underpaid and incredibly organized project manager gets to route it through all those people again. And again. And again.

Every time an "and" gets added. A "the" needs to be included. Disclaimers have to be changed (as if anyone reads them-thanks legal). Something gets underlined. A word gets bolded. An accolade gets deleted. Whatever the change, the copy suits up and does another lap.

By the time it gets back to me to sign off on, we're on round twenty eight. At least. Of course, as any writer in an agency will tell you, it'd be great if it stopped at twenty-eight. But sadly, predictably, it doesn't.

What people don't know about advertising is it's a lot like Groundhog's Day—the same assignments keep coming back over and over until the powers that be decide it's been watered down, legalesed and tamed enough to make it out the door to the client for their changes. I mean approval.

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. And as I read this over, I see that would be easy to do. Great work, classic advertising, the kind you remember and talk about for years—I'm looking at you Apple 1984 spot—doesn't happen the first time out. I'm fairly certain anything good I've done and I'm proud of took plenty of victory laps around the agency before it saw the light of day. So I do realize in some cases, this painstaking and often frustrating process has its upside.

Anyway Rich, you don't have to do it today, but you probably want to think about a more realistic number for the old blog title. Of course I suppose it's possible a writer of your caliber may not have to go more than seventeen rounds.

And if that's the case, just forget I said anything.

Think inside the box

What do Jeopardy, Angry Birds, Star Wars, Sports Illustrated, Jeff Foxworthy, Mr. Rogers and the Dali Lama all have in common? Besides being mentioned in an internationally loved, critically acclaimed, extremely prestigious blog? The answer is they all have box calendars.

And they're not alone.

The other day I was killing time in Barnes & Noble while the wife and daughter were shopping in Ulta. I would've gone with them, but they don't carry the foundation or blush color I use. And besides, I think we all know I'm beautiful enough as it is. Anyway, I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to see that virtually every book title, sitcom, dog breed, video game, celebrity, magazine, website, car manufacturer and radio talk show host has a box calendar.

Apparently there's so much wisdom out in the world the holiday shopping public doesn't know about, it takes 365 days to dispense it all—one day at a time.

I imagine these bright, little squares make great stocking stuffers, not to mention secret Santa presents and gifts for people you really don't want to spend anything on, but feel like you should give them something. Whatever the reason, they take up two of the large tables at Barnes & Noble, so they must be selling just fine.

As I was perusing the vast assortment of them, the thought struck me that I'm overflowing with words of wisdom my own self, and I'm pretty sure I could stretch them out to fill up 365 days worth. So I'm going to do something I rarely do here—I'm going to make a promise to you. Because I know you'll want it, and more importantly you'll buy it, I'm going to start working on my own box calendar, and have it ready to go just in time for next year's holiday shopping season. I know, right?

And unlike my diet, unfinished screenplay, accordion lessons, sticking to a budget or my high school girlfriend, I actually intend to follow through on this promise to you dear reader(s).

First of all, it seems fairly easy to me. And if you know anything about me, you know I'm all about easy. Next, judging by the back of these box calendars that show a sample of what's inside, it looks like a lot of white space with very few words. If you've read this blog for any amount of time, you already know the less I write the better I am. In fact, the better we all are. Also, I have plenty of art director friends I can call on to design the colorful, whimsical, eye-catching box for whatever subject I decide to focus on.

Will it be a distilled rehashing of the most popular Rotation and Balance posts? A searing, snarky, advertising buzzword-a-day calendar? A skewering posting of the things account planners say day to day (you know, a comedy calendar)? It might just be daily pictures of my German Shepherd, which sounds really appealing because that means I don't have to write anything (about easy, remember?).

I guess we'll all have to wait until next year to find out.

Until then, I recommend the Keep Calm And Carry On box calendar to hold you over.

An agency by any other name

A few weeks ago, , an article in the online edition of Adweek called Why Today’s Ad Agencies Are Reluctant To Call Themselves ‘Ad Agencies’ attempted to explain why agencies are now opting for more relevant and contemporary descriptors.

Like new-model, multidisciplinary marketing communications firm. Strategic content innovation partners. New media integration facilitators. And the ever popular, rarely true, agents of disruption (Great band, saw them at the Roxy in '08. You're welcome Rich Siegel).

The argument is that they feel being called an ‘ad agency’ is too limiting, and connotes all that mid to late '60s, Mad Men hijinks and buzzword whammy jammy they've tried hard to separate themselves from. More than anything, they'd like current and potential clients to think of them as jacks of all trades, everything to everyone.

I of course would like people to think of me as Chris Hemsworth's body double, but that isn't happening either.

This agency identity crisis is nothing new in the ad world. There isn’t an agency new business person worth their weight in cold calls who doesn’t know how to give a hearty handshake, pick up the lunch tab and bark "yes" when the question is “Can you guys handle that?”

Digital? We’re all bits and bites baby.

Social? This rather lengthy sentence you’re reading right now is exactly 140 characters – how many “ad agencies” do you know that can pull that off? (Go ahead, I’ll wait while you fire up character count).

Traditional? We haven’t forgotten our roots, even though we’d like you to.

Experiential? It’s an experience in itself just working with us.

I understand the thinking behind offering one-stop shopping for clients: agencies don’t want pieces of the new media pie going other places that specialize, have expertise and a track record in it—especially if those places are going do a better job of it.

The other thing is when it comes to new business, pride has never been a quality that's run rampant in agencies. They'll gladly over-represent capabilities, say they can when they can't and for the most part let clients slap 'em silly and call them Sally if it means more business.

Part of the problem is consumers don't draw a distinction between the "ad agency" that created, say, the legendary Apple 1984 spot, and the one that does local ads for Empire Carpets. All they see are good ads and bad ads.

Another reason none of these companies want to be called an ad agency is that in almost every survey of least popular occupations, advertising professional comes in right behind used car dealer and prostitutes, both of whom work with considerably higher margins and know how not to leave money on the table. Or the dresser.

Maybe next time they do a survey, they can ask about a name that might command more respect, like Communication Response Alliance Partners.

Or they can just use the acronym.

Heavy Lyfting

I don't know whether it's because I'm an only child, or just sometimes lost in my own world (I know, they're the same thing), but I've never been bothered by uncomfortable silences. In fact I believe there are places where they're perfectly appropriate.

For example, I don't want to hear about your day while I'm in the elevator. And, as I wrote about here, I don't want to hear anything you have to say while I'm in the men's room.

But when I fire up the old ridesharing app—Lyft is my service of choice—for some reason I feel I should listen and engage with the person I'm driving with, or more aptly, who's driving me. After all, it isn't some corporate yellow cab picking me up, it's an individual in their own car trying to supplement their income. I'm all about supplementing income, even if they're doing it with my money.

And in the same way every picture tells a story, so does every Lyft driver.

There are Lyft drivers I've ridden with that've been awesome, and actually feel more like friends. Natasha is one of them. Glasses, inked, Prius driver and cat owner, I don't know where else our paths would've crossed. I've ridden with her a few times, and she has an energy and openness about her that's refreshing. Plus she's funny, smart and laughs at my jokes. I think we all know what a pushover I am for that. It makes me wish the ride to work was longer so we could talk more.

Then there's Craig in San Francisco, who if I didn't know better I'd think was my long, lost brother from another mother. When I got in his car (a 5 year old American something that was spotless and looked brand new), he had Miles Davis playing, and the first words out of his mouth to me were, "You like Miles?" It was a great ride.

Funny, smart, engaging people.

While not as deep as Uber, the Lyft driver pool occasionally reminds me that while I enjoy the Natasha's and Craig's, the odds are not always in my favor.

I don't want to personality shame any of the drivers by name here. But here's the thing: there's a certain kind of driver that makes small talk, but it's like canned laughter on a sitcom. It's not real, but it fills the space. My driver the other morning was one of those. He talked about the weather, and answered questions I didn't ask. "How early did you start driving this morning?" "Oh it is a beautiful day, not too hot." Alright then.

I prefer Lyft over Uber, even though many of the drivers work for both services. But they almost unanimously prefer Lyft customers, saying they're nicer and friendlier than Uber riders. Which is how I feel about Lyft drivers, so win-win.

I work in Orange County, and the thought's occurred to me it might be interesting to drive for Lyft. As long as I'm going back and forth, I may as well bring someone along, use the carpool lane and make a little cash for gas and dinner.

Which all sounds well and good until I start thinking about sharing rides with total strangers, and remember I'm an only child.

Then it just sounds like crazy talk.

Can it

I believe the decline and eventual demise of the service culture started with gas stations (What is this, a blogpost or a masters thesis?!) For the most part that is. Unless you're shopping at Nordstrom - those people are awesome and completely disprove that part about the service culture dying. But let's not worry about that right now. Stay with me.

Where was I? Oh, right. At the risk of sounding like my parents, there was a time when the gas station attendant didn't live in a bullet-proof box, stocked to the rafters with Pepsi, motor oil, off-brand Kleenex, Gatorade and all sorts of heart-stoppin' salty snacks. They'd actually come out to your car, give you a wave and smile and ask you to pop the hood (no, that isn't a euphemism). Then they'd wash your windshield, fill the tank, check the oil - and the tires - all for the price of the gas. No add ons, no extra fees.

But those days, like gas for $1.29 a gallon, are long gone.

Now, consumers are asked - in some cases required - to do things we assumed were included in the cost of doing business.

Instead of the station attendant coming out of the office, we get out of our cars to pump our own fuel, clean our own windshields, check our own oil and tell that creepy guy hanging around the gas pumps that no, we don't have two bucks so he can get gas for his fictional car that ran out two blocks from here.

Despite twelve checkout counters, three of which are open, and one of those a 15 Items Or Less Express Lane, we check ourselves out (no, the other way) at the supermarket. And we put our groceries in bags that we've brought with us.

Thanks to the interwebs, former travel agents, whose value wasn't just in booking a trip, but in letting us know the secret hotels, best deals and off the beaten path places to stay or visit are now serving fries at McDonald's. That's because their occupation has been decimated since we started booking our own flights, picking our own seats and paying a la carte for any extras. Airlines even charge a fee for you to talk to an actual representative on the phone.

We can also diagnose what's ailing us online. Plug in the symptoms, and pages of unreliable, pharma-sponsored medical advice suddenly appears. (I told my doctor I was looking up something on the internet, to which he gave me a disapproving look and said, "Oh good. We HIGHLY recommend the internet.")

Under the camouflage of improving the customer experience, businesses have found ways to cut their costs dramatically by turning many of their job descriptions into do-it-yourself positions. The same way companies tell you how productive open office seating is.

Despite all the personal and intimate information I've shared on here over the years - and really, we have no secrets - you may not be aware I took a Consumer Law and Economics class in high school. It was taught by Mr. Blackman, and was basically a Ralph Nader-esque hour every day, instilling in me the squeaky wheel theory: my right as a consumer to complain and keep complaining until I get what I want. You know, like creative directors.

So in that spirit, I'm drawing a line in the sand, well, in the garbage, at sorting my own trash.

To start with, I have a trust issue with restaurants that ask me to separate landfill items from recyclables. Bless their well-intentioned little corporate hearts, but really, I don't want to work that hard after I eat. I'm too full and I usually need a nap. Besides, there are no guidelines about which trash goes into which bin. One man's recyclable is another man's landfill. I'd probably ignore the guidelines even if they had them, but you see where I'm going.

The best I'll do is not throw away plastic baskets the tacos come in, or the glass bowl for the salad. Silverware however is a cruel tease, sometimes hiding under a napkin and accidentally winding up in the trash. Which is where it stays, because if I want to go dumpster diving I'll do it in Tiffany's trash bins, not Rubio's.

Anyway, I'm done griping now about the way things used to be. I suppose the good outweighs the bad in the end, and the speed at which things can be accomplished by doing it myself is what's gained, even if personal interaction and a more leisurely paced world is lost.

Besides, as long as no one's asking me to do my own prostate exam I'm good.

Taking license

Over the past few weekends, I’ve spent more hours than I care to think about looking for a used—excuse me, certified pre-owned—car for my son. Or daughter. We’ll see whose room is cleaner when I get home.

What struck me about the whole ordeal is how monumentally unpleasant the experience is. Not a revelation if you’ve ever bought a car, but always a surprise to me. I guess it’s because like surgery or Christmas shopping, I don’t do it often enough to remember the amount of pain involved.

On paper, it should be one of the most exciting, fun experiences you can have. You get to test drive lots of different models, pick one that makes you happy, and drive off into the sunset, preferably up a winding coastal road where you can let your right foot loose and see how many curves your new investment wants to hug.

Well, not so fast there Edsel.

Because of an incident at Keyes Toyota years ago, where the wife and I were virtually held hostage for three hours because they wouldn’t give us back our car keys (they were checking it out for trade in—no we didn’t buy there, yes we finally escaped), I’ve been adamant about laying down a few ground rules when car shopping.

The first is never give them my keys.

Here are the others: I don't go inside the dealership and have a seat if I’m just shopping. Instead, I’ll have the salesperson go inside, get their best price and walk it back out to me. I make two things clear—they only have one shot at it, so the number they give me has to be the final offer the first time. And I won’t wait longer than fifteen minutes.

Which brings me to my next rule: I don’t deal with anyone but the salesperson. No closers, no sales managers, no fleet managers coming out the door with their shark tooth smile and hand ready to shake mine. If the salesperson can’t make the deal, meeting his boss isn’t going to help.

Speaking of the deal, I never take the deal. Any number they give me has profit built into it, otherwise they wouldn't be selling it at that price. So even though I've asked them for their best offer, I have no qualms about being the bad guy and letting them know it isn't good enough. I'll try to knock another ten to fifteen percent off whenever number they give me. If they're willing to negotiate, I know they haven't given me their best price (which they never do). If they're not willing to negotiate, there's always another dealer who is—all you have to do is remind them and they usually change their tune. However if they start whining about how they're not making any money on the deal, or ask me to come up just $200 more on my offer, I'm out of there.

With car salespeople it doesn't take much for my bullshit meter to go into the red.

For the time being I've taken a break from car shopping, although I still peruse online to see what's out there. But my time right now is mostly being spent figuring out how to pay for the upcoming kitchen remodel. Plus for the moment we seem to be managing with the cars we have.

But if anyone has a fairly new model, safe car they'd like to sell, we can always talk about it.

C'mon inside and have a seat.

There goes the neighborhood

We've lived in our home coming up on eighteen years now. In that time, the house to our west—with the one-bedroom guest house in back that's always rented, used as an Airbnb or deducted for tax purposes as a home office—has sold three times. The house next to us to the east—the one with the pool my daughter learned to swim in—has sold five times.

Restless owners? Hot real estate market? Maybe it's us.

I think this up and coming songwriter I'm rather fond of, Bruce Springsteen, put it best: "There are nice guys and assholes on every block in America."

Can I get an amen?

In the ever changing, inherently risky game of neighbor roulette, we've been fortunate to have had some great ones. And, sadly, our luck has occasionally run out and we've had a few monumental assholes (who may or may not still live in one of those houses and not the one to the west—who's to say).

The great neighbors who've passed through are the ones I enjoyed and miss the most. The ones I have common interests with, shared great conversations, and just generally enjoy their company. Which reminds me, Sebastian, as far as all of us here at the ponderosa are concerned you can't get back here fast enough. Make the offer. Get on it will ya?

Like many neighborhoods, mine has a homeowner's association, allegedly there to protect property values, keep tree-lined streets looking respectable and prevent residents from painting their home puke green, neon magenta or that dusty rose color that's really orange.

For $125 a year in dues, some other things they do are tell me how many trees I can have, how tall and what kind they can be, why I can't have a garage sale despite a garage desperately screaming for one, charge me hundreds of dollars for their "architectural committee" to "review" addition and remodel plans, and send out a quarterly newsletter with poorly done 1/4 page ads (Hmm, freelance opportunity?). There's also always a grainy, black and white picture alongside a message from the HOA president, who I wouldn't know if I fell over him at one of the third Thursday of the month association meetings.

Besides fighting lawsuits from homeowners who don't like being told what they can't do, they also spend yearly dues on an annual Labor Day weekend resident get together at the small park by one of the entrances to the neighborhood. Attendance is less and less every year. I don't know whether it's the rubbery hot dogs, the not-quite top 40 band, people going back to their house instead of use the Porta-Potties, dog souvenirs randomly scattered around the park or the fact it's a major holiday weekend and almost everyone is out of town.

I've gone a few times, but I'm not gonna lie—my community spirit is seriously lacking.

Which brings me to my point (see, if you wait long enough...). I'm baffled as to why I signed up for this Nextdoor app that supposedly gives me all the news about what's going on in my neighborhood.

The latest notice is apparently Ava has moved into the hood. Welcome Ava. I'm sure I won't know you from the other 624 families with homes in our development, but I wish you the best and I'm glad you're here. At least I think I am. Unless you're like the meth tweakers that lived in the rented house across the street for years, or share the same asshole tendencies as my neighbor to the east. Then don't bother unpacking.

When Nextdoor isn't announcing new arrivals, it's showing posts from neighbors who need babysitters, want to get rid of furniture, argue about social responsibility for the homeless who wander through the residential streets on the way to the boulevard, packages stolen off of front porches, coyote sightings ("Anyone seen Rags?") and other various neighborly inquiries.

If there were a preference I could set to one update a week instead of one a day, I might spend more time going over it and get more involved in the critical questions, like who parked an RV on the street instead of their driveway—behind the fence. But there isn't. And I won't.

I'll just have to somehow reconcile the fact I've been here over 18 years, and still only know a handful of neighbors beyond my own block.

So you don't get the wrong idea, I'm not saying the Nextdoor app doesn't have anything I'm interested in. After all, the asshole neighbors have two loud, yappy little barking dogs they have to walk.

Perhaps I'll start paying more attention to those coyote sightings.

No know how

As I've written about on here before, I'm about to embark on a bold, new, money-sucking, patience-straining, marriage-testing, argument-inducing adventure: my kitchen and living room remodel.

Like everyone who goes down this road of no return, my journey began at Home Depot and Lowe's. The wife and I didn't just go there to get ideas about bathroom vanities, kitchen sinks, drawer pulls and countertops. We were also armed with a list of items from our contractor we had to either purchase or make decisions on before they start.

If you know anything about me, you know I like figuring out how things work and, if needed, could MacGyver a way into building a house from the ground up using only a hammer, spatula, paper straws and lawn grass.

Nah, I'm just funnin' you. I can't put together a bookshelf from Ikea. But I can tell you the first film Jeff Goldblum was in—that's gotta be worth something at some point.

Where was I? Oh, right. So to paraphrase Blanche DuBois in Streetcar Named Desire, when it comes to construction I do depend on the knowledge of strangers. Of course it helps if the strangers actually know more than I do. And while there are a lot of scary things about this process, not least among them is the frightening fact I may already have more answers to my questions than the people who work at Home Depot or Lowe's. That just ain't right.

The good news is the big box hardware and lumber stores aren't the only game in town. Fortunately, thanks to a trusted recommendation, we discovered the family-owned Faucets & Fixtures in Orange. They have a quiet little storefront in a not great section of Tustin Avenue that comes nowhere near tipping its hand to the remodeling wonderland waiting inside.

In an experience that was a first, their employees know all about the inventory and are able to answer all the questions. "Yes it comes in polished nickel, but it's plastic-y on the inside." "You can get the one-piece Memoirs toilet, but the two-piece is about $400 cheaper." "That's a stock medicine cabinet, but we can custom build one for you no problem." "The sink is ten inches deep, but the porcelain finish is brighter and thicker on that one." The store has a big selection, yet isn't overwhelming.

I could make a hundred trips to Home Depot and Lowe's, and never get as much done as we accomplished in a couple hours at Faucets & Fixtures with our man Austin.

The point is this-once you've had knowledgable, friendly, patient customer service, there's no going back. It's like going from J.C.Penny to Nordstrom. Stater Bros. to Trader Joe's. Winchell's to Starbuck's (Those are big corporations, but you get my continental drift).

From now on, it's mom and pop, family-owned, highly recommended merchants for all things having to do with the remodel and beyond.

And in case you're looking to win a bar bet, his first movie was Death Wish.

In the zone

Here's a sign you'll never see in advertising agencies. Not because it's a bad idea, but because you couldn't buy enough of them to cover all the areas, cubicles and open seating that would need them.

That and the fact no one would observe the rule anyway.

There are a lot of ingredients that fuel successful agencies. Coffee. Creativity. Insight. Brains. Energy. Endurance. Optimism. Pessimism. Humor. The ever shifting line between art and commerce. Those innocent, wide-eyed, crazy bounders who believe against all evidence and reason what consumers are really looking for are more ways to engage with your client's brand.

But because of the nature of the beast—buildings loaded with egos, knit caps, planners, egos, man-buns, ironic t-shirts, skinny jeans, millennials, unrestrained enthusiasm, egos, people who know better, egos, people who enjoy inhaling their own fumes, egos and meetings, help me Jesus the meetings—agencies can't help but run on another more fragrant ingredient.

It is after all a sales job. And while there are good salespeople and bad ones, tolerable ones and insufferable ones, at the end of the day (EOTD = ad term, don't get me started) it all boils down to the size shovel they're using.

I know a lot of people in the business will call bullshit on this post.

But that's only because they didn't read the sign.

Lesson learned

This isn't going to be a funny post tonight (I know, why is this post different from any other post?). But for some reason a particular incident has been on my mind and I can't stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I worked at an agency which shall go nameless. Y&R. There was an art director I worked with there who I never clicked with, nor she with me. Her creative sensibilities were completely different from mine, and it made for a lot of disagreement. Nonetheless, during the occasional times we worked together, we managed to forge ahead and get it done.

I'd never describe us as friends, even though she did ask me to write her wedding invitation because she thought I was talented and funny (some truths can't be denied). I wouldn't say I was glad to do it for her, but I was pleased she liked what I came up with.

It was a cool relationship at best, and only got cooler when I was assigned another art director—one of my favorites to work with and a great friend to this day—and she was going to supervise the project.

Here's where my memory gets a bit like an oil company executive at a senate hearing. I can't recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason she didn't like what my art director partner was doing and decided she wanted to get him fired.

I would have none of it.

After several attempts by her to get rid of my partner, I unloaded and read her the riot act. I did it loudly, in the middle of the department, and at length. It was not my finest hour, but in the heat of the moment, lines clearly drawn, loyalties clearly defined, I was unable to stop. I was a bully in the worst, most unprofessional way. To her credit, she kept her cool and listened to my angry ranting until I was done.

Needless to say we didn't work together after that, and my partner never got fired. Surprisingly, neither did I.

Years later, after I'd left the agency, I heard she was battling cancer. A few years ago, she lost her battle.

I was invited to her memorial service by several people, but I didn't go. It wouldn't have been right or honest given the nature of our relationship.

As I think back on it, she didn't deserve any of my angry antics. Not because she became ill, but because she was a human being.

I believe so much in the golden rule, and I'm embarrassed and shamed by my complete abandonment of it during that encounter. If I could go back and do it differently, I would in a heartbeat. If she were around, I'd tell her I'm sorry, and I had no right to treat her like I did.

But she's not.

What I can do now is pray her two children grow up healthy, with their loving father and nothing but beautiful memories of their mother who was taken too soon.

Sadly, I'm in a position now where I do get to have the last word. So here it is. I'm sorry I treated you that way. You didn't deserve it. And if it's any small consolation, I'm a better person as a result of it and it's a lesson I'll always carry with me.

Rest in peace.

Knock down, drag out

                                          BEFORE                                                                               AFTER

When my pal Janice MacLeod isn't writing about dating, breaking up or Paris, I'm sure she's thinking about what her next literary effort will be. I hope she follows through on one idea she told me about awhile ago. We were talking about her dad and the subject of carpenters came up since that's what he does. She started telling me some of his stories, and mentioned she wanted to write a book called The Secret Life of Carpenters (© Janice MacLeod). From what I could tell, it was going to be a scary book, not to be read at night or during room additions.

The reason that conversation's on my mind is we're about to get started on a remodel here at the ponderosa. And for several reasons, it scares the living daylights (family blog) out of me.

First, as my pal Rich Siegel will tell you, there are things Jews don't do (I think we all remember what happened to the last Jewish carpenter). Anyway, in my house, construction is one of them. Even if it was, I wouldn't remodel my own house. But at least I'd understand what they were doing and know what was going on.

The other thing is when I talk to people who've been through a remodel, they just give me the look. It's the same look you get when you tell someone you're getting married, or buying a house, or having children. The one that says you're about to go through initiation and find out what the club you're joining is like from the inside.

And from what I can tell, it's not pretty.

The consensus seems to be it all comes down to time and money. And how virtually every remodel takes too much of both.

We've saved a little money, but in conversations with our contractors—who we like a lot and come highly recommended by friends and people we trust—we can already see we're going to blow past whatever budget we had (Note to self: avoid the phrase, "While you're here...).

The job is supposed to run about four months. But we're starting right around Thanksgiving because, really, what better time than the holidays to begin knocking down walls and living without hot water. I'm sure the workers taking weeks off for the holidays won't delay the job. Much.

Another thing is I have a hard time seeing the finish line. I look at the plans and it looks great. But I know from the remodel of my daughter's bathroom going on right now that when we start the big job, all I'll see are open walls, exposed pipes, dust and more dust, wires everywhere, and people I don't know traipsing in and out of what was once my kitchen and hopefully will be again.

The good news is I hear it's like having my wisdom teeth out: I go through it once, and then it's done and I can get on with my life painlessly and carefree.

Except in this case, they take the teeth out through my wallet.

Pre-emptive strike

Just when you thought the world was running out of reasons to hate us and laugh at us comes this. Poo-Pourri.

It's a product that, how shall I put this delicately, masquerades certain odors after you've, how shall I put this delicately, dropped a deuce.

The way it works is you make (I said make) a pre-emptive strike against offensive odors by spraying the floral scent of Poo-Pourri in and around the bowl before you do your business. Then after, instead of smelling like, you know, a bathroom, the room smells like the Rockefeller Rose Garden.

Ask anyone who knows me, and when they're done raving about what a fine, upstanding, talented, funny, good looking, caring, compassionate and—what's the word....oh yeah—humble human being I am, there's a good chance they'll also tell you I've never been one to overthink or overanalyze things.

I mean sure, sometimes it'd be nice to know why I do the things I do. But then it always comes back to my parents, and while I'm sure they're at the root of many my neuroses and self-destructive bad behavior, they've both been dead a long time and I don't want to feel anger or hostility towards them. Where's the percentage in that?

Something tells me I may have wandered off point.

What I'm saying is I'm not a sociologist or psychologist. I don't even play one on TV. And maybe I'm reading too much into this. But it seems just the fact a product like this even exists is symptomatic of a larger issue: a society that wants to avoid any unpleasantness in every aspect of their lives. It's reality avoidance at it's most unattractive. It's the highest form of denial working at the level of one of the most basic human bodily functions.

Or maybe people just want their bathrooms to smell nice.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Out of the closet

Mark Zuckerberg has had a couple of really good ideas in his young life.

One of them you might have heard about was creating this little social networking platform, where people you haven't heard from in 25 years can stalk you online, look at your personal pictures and make comments you don't care about and don't want to hear. It also lets friends in your outer, outer, outer circle remind you when their birthday is.

On the bright side, it lets you slam Donald Trump endlessly day and night, for which I'm deeply grateful.

His other great idea was his singular approach to his daily wardrobe. With the exception of weddings (his own), funerals (Steve Jobs) and dinners at the White House (Obama), Zuckerberg wears the same exact outfit every day of his life. The gray t-shirt, blue jeans, sneakers and dark gray sweatshirt with hoodie.

What Mark—may I call you Mark?—and I both love about this method is it removes the decision-making process about what to wear everyday, freeing up valuable brain space to ponder the more important choices in life.

For example, glazed or sprinkles.

Sartorially speaking, Zuckerberg's not the first person to stick to what works for him.

Steve Jobs was famous for his black turtlenecks, blue jeans and sneakers.

Albert Einstein had several versions of the same gray suit so he could think about more important matters relative to what he was going to wear (see what I did there?).

Jeff Goldblum's character Seth Brundle in The Fly also had a closet full of one outfit for the same reason (lot of good it did him after that little transporter incident).

I don't have a closet full of the same outfit, but I do have a lot of clothes working off the same color palette: black. Looking in my closet is like peering into a black hole, except mine is cedar-lined and filled with wire hangars and an overflowing bag of Damp Rid.

I know I've told this story before in a post, but it bears repeating here. The wife and I were in Seattle a few years ago and having dinner with an old boss of mine. We were running behind, and she called him to say we'd be a little late. To which he said, "What's the matter? Is Jeff having trouble deciding which black shirt to wear with which black pants?"

If I could wear the same black outfit every day I would. But I don't because I think it'd creep people out. They wouldn't know if I had a lot of the same outfit, or if I was actually wearing the same damn one every day.

The irony is Mark Zuckerberg can afford to buy all the clothes he wants, even have them custom made. He could buy 365 Armani suits to look sharp all year long. That's what I'd do.

I even know the color I'd get them in.

Fan club

Since I’m certain you’re a regular reader of this blog, anxiously awaiting each days’ post with a powerful mix of excitement, dread and nausea, I know you remember the post I wrote here about being a cool weather person.

That doesn’t just apply to the great, humid outdoors. It goes for the office as well.

I love almost everything about my current gig: the location, the commute, the many lunchtime options. On occasion, even the work. What I’m not a fan of is being hot—working up a nice sweaty sheen while I’m trying to type. Sure the place is air conditioned, but it’s just not set low enough for my liking.

So I decided I'd treat myself to one of those little desk fans, and have it aimed at my face all day. Would it dry my eyes out? Numb my face? Muss my hair? Maybe. But at least I’d be cool.

When I mentioned this to the wife, she decided I deserved far better than the average desk fan I was ready to slap down my credit card for at Target. So out of the goodness of her heart, she bought me her favorite deskman: the Chillout.

This little miracle of technology not only cools things down, it actually makes me feel downright cold—no easy task. With two speeds—arctic and not as arctic—its tower design manages to create a bubble of cool air, as opposed to an air of cool, all around me without the loud racket of fan blades rattling my nerves.

In fact I can’t remember anything this cold and quiet since my high school girlfriend.

While it does the job I want it to do, I'm sure it'd take more than one Chillout to counter all the hot air you find in an agency.

But like a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean, it's a start.

A laughing matter

I, like most humans, enjoy a good laugh.

Not just a regular laugh. I'm talking about the kind of hysterical, on-the-edge, stress-relieving, people-who-see-you-think-you're-losing-your-mind, crying cause I'm laughing so hard, stopping for a minute, thinking I've got my composure and then bursting out into wailing, crying laughter all over again.

The kind of laughter where you feel like a wet noodle afterwards.

That was the reaction I had to this cartoon the first time I saw it. I can't tell you why it made me laugh so hard. Maybe it's that I've worked on so many fast food accounts—including Taco Bell three times at three different agencies—that it struck me the way it did.

Yes, Taco Bell at three different agencies. It's just the kind of masochist I am.

One of those times happened to be Tracy Locke, which is where I worked when I first saw this. It was the front of a greeting card at a store called Aahs on Wilshire Blvd. in Santa Monica. Chris Bouteé, my red-headed woman, a good friend and a fine writer in her own right and I had gone to lunch at a formerly popular, now defunct westside restaurant called the Bicycle Shop.

After our tasty yet overpriced meal, we walked a couple blocks down to Aahs so I could pick up a gift for someone. We were in different parts of the store, and I happened to be perusing the many racks of greeting cards when I saw this one. And I lost it.

It was one of those laughs that shadowed me the rest of the day (it didn't help that I'd bought the card and kept looking at it). In meetings, working with my art director, kick-offs—didn't matter. I was useless the rest of the day.

By the way, many people think that part hasn't worn off yet.

Anyway, while the cartoon doesn't make me laugh as hard as it did the first time, it still brings a smile to my face every time I see it. I think it's part brilliance of the cartoon, and part of my original hysterical laughter echoing through the years in my head.

The good news is I still laugh plenty in agency meetings. Except now it's to myself, and for entirely different reasons.

Goodbye Jack Riley

As I wrote about here, I've been blessed to have worked with some of the greatest voiceover talent ever to set foot behind a microphone.

Sadly, today one of them—a legend, and one of my favorites—departed for that great recording booth in the sky.

Most people remember Jack Riley from his role as Elliott Carlin on the original Bob Newhart show. I'll always remember him for the many times we worked together on my radio spots over the years.

I was introduced to Jack early in my career (in the loosest sense of the word), and he instantly became part of my repertory voiceover group (every copywriter has one) that I loved to work with, and used in every spot I could. Jack, together with his dry, droll, sarcastic, hilarious reads elevated my scripts to a place they never could've gotten to with the words alone.

Besides being hilariously funny and fast, he was an incredibly kind man. Early on he patiently took direction from this junior copywriter who hadn't done much radio. He was gracious and thoughtful, hearing me out and offering nuanced suggestions about how he could make it better. Funnier. More memorable. Did I say funnier?

Tonight, my guess is Jack is in Studio C at HeavenSound Recording, along with a few other former members of my rep company like Gary Owens, Joanie Gerber and Bob Ridgely. Not sure who the client is, but I hope whoever booked the session added a nice long bumper. There's going to be a lot of improvising and laughter before the first take.

Thank you Jack for your kindness, your patience, your availability in every sense, and showing me how a true professional does it.

Rest in peace.

Trick of the trade

Freelancing at ad agencies, or anyplace for that matter, there are commonplace, everyday things I, like most people, have to tend to.

Check email. Answer said email. Check bank balances. Go on Facebook, Twitter and Instgram and tell people I'm working on a social assignment (I kid because I love). Perhaps, hypothetically, respond to a request for other freelance.

The problem is to do those things, I have to go through the agency server to connect to the interwebs. And then, the agency has the password to my bank account, and can read that email I got from the Head Of The China Treasury, who has a charitable donation of $35,000,000 only I can be trusted with (it was easy - all they wanted was my bank account and social security number. The transfer will be here any day now).

Many people far less paranoid than I am just shrug their shoulders, use the servers and surrender a certain amount of privacy for a nice day rate.

So what's a guy who loves his day rate and his privacy to do? Glad you asked.

You pick up one of these little gizmos.

This is my own personal wi-fi hotspot. About the size of a credit card, half as thick as an iPad and password protected, I connect to it and suddenly I can do all my personal business from my computer without the prying eyes of the IT guy, who really should be more worried about getting me that mouse I asked for three weeks ago.

Now, I could've used my smartphone as a hotspot, but then I'd have had to change my plan. And since I've been on AT&T with unlimited data plan since my first iPhone, I wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize that deal.

This device, cleverly called My Go Phone, lets me buy either 2G, 5G or 8G of data a month. I chose the 8G - it's seventy-five tax deductible dollars a month and worth every penny.

So if you have a personal email, a financial matter, or—hypothetically—a job offer you'd like to discuss with me, feel free to email me. Thanks to this snappy bit of technology, it'll just be between us.

Until Mike in Digital Experience hacks it.

An open letter to J.J. Abrams: Keep Chekov alive

Dear J.J.,

Having been a Trekkie since the original series, I can still feel the bolt of pain and sorrow that shot through me when the news broke about the sudden, untimely, unimaginably bizarre death of Anton Yelchin. I can only imagine the sadness of those, like you, who knew him, worked with him and loved him.

I've read your statements about the fate of Chekov in the next Star Trek movie, and I understand your not wanting to recast the character. But when the reason you give is Anton deserves better, I have to respectfully disagree.

I believe the best way to honor him and his work is to make sure the character of Checkov continues.

There have been many instances of actors who've played iconic characters extraordinarily well, then passed away.

Most recently Heath Ledger comes to mind.

Until Ledger, nobody thought there could ever be another Joker after Jack Nicolson. And until Jared Leto, the idea of someone besides Ledger playing Joker was unthinkable.

Each performance builds on the last. Each honors the prior characterization. And while the original Star Trek members thankfully didn't meet an untimely death, you've already recast them all (brilliantly) in three movies.

Leonard Nimoy passed the mantle to Zachary Quinto, whose extraordinary portrayal of Spock is testament to Nimoy's work in every frame.

Pavel Chekov is an essential part of the Star Trek cannon, an indispensable crew member whose very presence on screen honors Anton's work and memory.

Of course I didn't know Anton. But being a copywriter, creative director and card-carrying member of SAG-AFTRA, I do know actors. I'm certain he didn't work as hard as he did to create his interpretation of Chekov, only to have the character die with him.

I'd ask that for the fans, and for Anton's legacy, you reconsider recasting the role. And in doing so, assuring both Anton and Chekov continue to boldly live on.

A little housekeeping

Jerry Seinfeld does a routine about the contract we have with movie theaters. They rip us off, and we get to throw our trash on the floor. I believe when it comes to linens, a similar agreement exists with every hotel I stay at.

Ever since the environmental movement transitioned from social consciousness to fashion trend and marketing tool, hotels have sported these nice little table tents like the one above, printed on recycled paper and almost always with green ink. It asks us to help them Go Green!, to join them as allies in the sustainable, recycled, reuse of almost everything in the room.

It's a nice notion. But I'm calling bullshit.

Let's take a look at the ways they want us to help them. First, they'd like us to use our towels and sheets more than once. The new policy is sheets are changed every three days unless requested otherwise, and towels aren't swapped out at all unless you leave them on the floor.

Now let's see, who does this help more? The environment, or the bottom line on the hotel P&L sheet because they don't have to launder items as much, saving them water, electricity and labor. Don't say anything. I know the answer.

Here's the thing: for what I'm paying for this room, the floor is the only place I'm putting the towels when I'm done. They can more than afford to give me clean towels every day. I don't need the sheets changed daily, but only because I don't want housekeeping snooping around the room longer than they have to.

They'd also like me to turn off the lights, TV and air conditioning when I leave. Yeah, about that - I like coming into a cool if not freezing room. Especially when it's in a city having a heat wave, like the one I'm in right now. I always leave the TV on when I'm out of the room. Here's the reason: it makes it sound like I'm not out of the room.

As their guest, what's their cost to value relationship for making me feel safer?

Just so you think I'm not being cavalier towards their profits...I mean the environment altogether, as long as there's a light switch near the door I'm glad to turn off the lights.

I'd like to think the hotel has good intentions, but it's just too transparent. I know they don't. But if you know anything about me, you know I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full. Despite my griping, I can still see the silver lining.

At least they're not asking me to drive a Prius.

Glass slipper

While it's not a picture of my foot, it may as well be. Here's what happened.

About nine days ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with a craving for cold, clear, healthy water from the dispenser in our refrigerator. I'm absolutely sure it had nothing to do with the leftover cheesecake that was also in there. No one's under oath here. Anyway, somewhere on the well worn path between the bedroom and kitchen, I stepped on a small piece of glass. Funny how that'll wake you right up.

I reached down, pulled it out of my foot, threw it away and continued on to the cheesecake. Excuse me, water.

Fast forward to last night. I came home from having lunch with my great friend Carrie (Petros in Manhattan Beach - chicken souvlaki is the hot tip), got out of the car, set my foot down and could barely walk. I managed to make it into the house, fell into one of our living room chairs (the one without the dog on it), and stayed there most of the night.

Since the glass stepping happened a week and half ago, and I'd been fine since, I didn't give it a second thought. Instead, I figured it was the new orthotics I'd gotten about five days ago and was still getting used to.

Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. And the bad news is that I was supposed to leave with young Mr. Spielberg for Comic Con this morning.

However, it was not the pain-free foot morning I'd hoped for. I was going to tough it out and just go - always a good idea with four days of walking and standing in lines ahead - but the wife put her foot down (SWIDT?), insisting I call my podiatrist and get it seen.

So my son drove down to Comic Con with his friend Austin at 7 this morning, and I saw my doctor at 10.

My foot was clearly swollen, with a redness emanating out in a circle from one spot on my foot. He pressed the center of the spot, and I believe there may still be a hole in his ceiling where I went through.

So he decided to scrape my foot, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Scraping skin off the bottom of my foot, he wasn't having any luck finding anything. Then, he stopped for a moment and said, "Ah, there it is - don't move." I didn't move, and he got a tweezer-looking thing and pulled out a small chunk of the glass I'd stepped on nine days ago.

I couldn't believe it. He said if I'd come down here to the Con with it, I probably would've wound up in the ER with a fever and nasty infection. Instead, he got it out, gave me an antibiotic to take if it didn't feel better by the end of today (which it does) and suggested I soak it in hot water with epsom salt (just finished my second soaking).

Fortunately tonight was Preview Night at Comic Con, so I didn't miss much except walking the exhibition hall, which I couldn't have done anyway.

My son and his friend scored tickets to the world premiere of Star Trek: Beyond, so that's where they are tonight. My excellent friend Dale is here, so he met me at the Fox Sports Grill in the hotel and we had dinner (it didn't involve walking, just an elevator ride).

With my foot feeling considerably better, the Con will start for real for me tomorrow.

I still don't know what broke in our house or where that piece of glass came from.

But I think the lesson is don't have cheesecake leftovers, and I won't have to walk to the kitchen.

Packing for the Con. Again.

If this post has a familiar ring to it, then you probably read it just about a year ago when it was first published. I rarely repost on here, but this post says everything I want to say about Comic Con starting tomorrow. And my preparations for it tonight.

So, enjoy it, again, and excuse my taking the easy way out by reposting. But if it ain't broke don't fix it. And besides, that Game Of Thrones costume isn't going to pack itself.

Tomorrow is the day it all starts. Well, the night actually.

Even though Comic Con doesn't officially begin until Thursday, tomorrow night is Preview Night. The costumed crowds get admitted to the Convention Center in the early evening to get a jump on the weekend crowds walking the floor and picking up some merchandise.

Of course I'll be there.

So that means tonight I have to pack. It's something I've never quite learned to do right. You'd think being in advertising and with all the boondoggles...er...business trips I've taken I'd be better at it. I'm not unskilled in the sense I don't know how to organize a suitcase. It's my approach to the job.

I pack on the Just In Case theory. You know, just in case there's a hurricane or blizzard in San Diego. Just in case we're hit by a tornado. Just in case we're invaded by aliens, which at Comic Con is a definite possibility.

Here's what's happened every year I've gone: I drag my overstuffed suitcase to the hotel, and proceed to wear the same pair of shorts for four days. All I really need is four t-shirts (yes Rich, black ones), four pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Maybe a clean pair of jeans, a nice pair of shoes and a collared shirt if I want to go eat somewhere nice.

But when you're in restaurants during Comic Con, and finally seated after a two and a half hour wait, it's not unusual at all to find yourself sitting next to Spartans, Batman, those guys from Game Of Thrones and Loki. Dressing nice becomes a relative term.

So I'll give it another shot this year, with the hope I can be a little more economical in how much I take with me.

Frankly, I think the bigger challenge will be closing the suitcase with this in it.

Pack it in

Arthur Schopenhauer once said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that the reason we buy so many books is because we believe we're actually buying the time to read them.

I believe the same holds true for luggage. We buy it because it holds the promise of travel.

I'm a big fan of luggage, which I briefly mentioned here.

The wife and I have been in need of some new luggage for awhile now. We have a whole passel of carry on bags, all of which are black except the pink/plaid one my daughter insisted I buy her at Target.

The Swiss Army carry on is the family favorite, and when we all travel somewhere together, or we're traveling to different destinations at the same time, it's the one everyone wants to use. So we augmented the collection with a few more - all black, none of them Swiss Army.

We completed the set with a medium-sized Boyt suitcase, and another massive, stupid large Boyt we could pack the house in. We found the large Boyt at a luggage store in Rockefeller Center about twenty-five years ago, and had it shipped back to Santa Monica where we lived at the time.

Apparently we hadn't figured out there were luggage stores in Los Angeles.

All these years later, the large suitcase finally gave out. The interior lining, and the glue that held it together, came undone when my son packed it up and I brought it back from Austin for him. All this to say we needed some new luggage.

If you know anything about me - and really, are there any secrets left? - you know I'm all about easy. And dragging a suitcase with two wheels around the airport was just too much effort. So we went looking for what the luggage industry calls spinners: suitcases with four wheels that spin 360° with just a feather touch.

There's a luggage store in Irvine I used to work across from, and they have an extensive collection of every brand, size and price you could want. So that's where we went. We did our due diligence, opening the suitcases up on the little demonstration tables they had, comparing suitcase to suitcase. Victorinox has this feature, but Briggs & Riley has this one. TravelPro looks a little clunky, but it's the one pilots use the most, and they know a thing or two about packing and travel.

After a long talk with Paul the sales person, who was from Texas and told us about the 6600 sq.ft. house he had custom built on five acres that he paid $151,000 for eighteen years ago, we made our decision right there. We need to take a second look at Texas real estate.

As far as suitcases, we wound up buying two Victorinox (Swiss Army) 27" suitcases. God help me, I love that new suitcase smell.

So now we're working on where the first trips will be where we can put them through their paces. I'll be at Comic Con with the son this week for a few days (post to come), so that'll be the first trip for one of 'em. And I have an idea where the next trip will be, but I'm not saying just yet.

For now I'm just enjoying traveling from the front of the house to the back, effortlessly rolling the whisper-quiet spinners around on the hardwood floor.

It's my way of checking them out before I check them in.