Just another roll of the dice

If there's one thing I have a lot of experience at it's waiting for Springsteen tickets. I've been doing it a long time. I can even remember back to the days before the interwebs, when my friend Kim and I would line up at the now extinct Music Plus store in Westwood or the Marina, and wait in line fifteen hours with throngs of the faithful, swapping war stories and seating victories, and promising we'd all see each other at the show.

The difference between then and now is at Music Plus, you knew you were going to walk away with tickets.

This morning at 10 a.m. tickets went on sale for the March 19 show at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. I, like so many other of my Bruce tramp friends, was online the minute they did, credit card in hand. And from the very first click, Ticketmaster threw up a sign saying "No tickets available for this event." Poof, they're gone.

After hitting refresh a few times, I managed to get four tickets which the family and I will enjoy. They're not front-of-the-plane seats we've become accustomed to, but we're in the building, it's Bruce and that's all that matters.

I'm not going to give you the predictable whine about Ticketmaster. From the price gouging fees to selling directly to brokers, their evil ways have been documented time and again. My personal feeling is it doesn't matter. There's always a huge market and not much incentive for them to change.

I'm optimistic about some things, realistic about others.

The truth of the matter is I endure the wait, the frustration and the anxiety of it all every time and I'll keep doing it. Bruce tickets have always been like a box of chocolates. Fortunately, I've been in a position for many years to either afford alternative channels (brokers), or have friends with contacts wrangle some mighty fine seats for me.

But as I said, when it's Bruce, just being in the building is enough.

For thirty years, my aforementioned friend Kim has been with me at every Bruce on sale drama, and almost every show I've been to - including the very two Madison Square Garden reunion shows where his DVD Live In New York was recorded.

Over the last nineteen years, my friend Alan has traipsed up and down the California coast with me more than a couple times, and to Arizona, enduring some very sketchy hotels to follow Bruce.

And thirteen years ago, I met my red-headed woman Jessie at an agency we worked at together. Her office was plastered with Bruce posters and pictures, including one of her with him. When I was telling another person who worked there how much I like Bruce, she said, "I've got someone you have to meet." Jessie has been at all the shows with us. In fact, Jessie twisted my arm and had me get GA seats at a show in Pac Bell Park in San Francisco. We were on the rail, five feet away from Bruce - best seats ever.

I'm not exactly sure how many years I've known Chris, but he is a spectacular Bruce friend who always manages to find out everything we need to know long before anyone else does. He also manages to find the music before anyone else has heard it. Enough said.

I don't know if it's a religion or a cult, a compulsion or a necessity. Maybe it's all of them. I do know every single time, what I've gotten out of it has been more than worth everything I've had to go through to get there. And I've been there so many times I've lost count.

I'm grateful I have my Bruce tramp pals who're ready to go through it all with me unwaveringly each and every time.

Sure I wish it were easier to get good seats for the shows. But over the years all of us have been lucky enough to learn the same lesson over and over.

When it comes to the ticket train, faith will be rewarded.

Change in the weather

It occurred to me that agencies have a lot in common with the weather. No matter how hard you try to predict it, you really can’t be sure what it’s going to be from one day to the next.

In fact, there are some weather terms that can just as easily be applied to the agency culture as well as the inhabitants. For example:

Jet Stream

You know when the creative director, account supervisor, planner, junior account executive (in charge of the carry-ons) and research director board a plane together to fly to yet another Adweek seminar on Digital Creativity Strategies and Better Banner Ads in the Caribbean? The one you told them about and wanted to go to, except there was no budget for you? That’s the Jet Stream.

The Mean Temperature

Agencies are notoriously angry places. It doesn't take much to set them off. Someone's work sold and yours didn't. You weren't invited to a meeting you should've been at (don't worry-meetings are like buses). No one brought in bagels. Someone looked at you the wrong way. People at agencies have thin skins and long memories. They're not exactly rays of sunshine to begin with, but when they feel they've been wronged they're meaner than a junkyard dog having his anal glands expressed. When you figure out exactly who's mad at who, and how mad they are, that's the Mean Temperature.

High Pressure System

These kind of systems can be created in a number of ways. An approaching deadline. A meeting with HR. Finding out what someone else makes. The creative director wants to "talk" about his/her "idea." These systems can be found daily in the ever changing environment of the agency world.

Unstable Air

This is usually found in meetings where planners are involved. They're almost always telling you their insight that just isn't quite insightful enough. Usually they know it, and as a result aren't making the point as confidently as they'd hoped. Hence, unstable air.

Wind Chill

What you get when that joke you made about the creative director gets back to them.

Warm Front

The new receptionist. That's all I'm sayin'.

Of course, there are many more terms that apply, but I'll leave them for another post. After all, many of you reading this still think of advertising as a fun, glamorous, star-studded business to be in.

And I wouldn't want to rain on your parade.

The first idea

When it’s not a business about fiscal quarters, increasing shareholder value, holding-company leadership bonuses, revenue increasing, maximizing efficiencies (euphemism for cleaning house), and cutting freelancer day rates (cause that’s where the real expense is), advertising is occasionally a business of ideas.

Ideas come at a variety of speeds, and the first one always gets there the fastest. That’s why it’s first, hello?

There are two schools of thought about the first idea. One is that it’s never the right one. The other is that it’s always the right one.

I can’t answer definitively. What I will say is more often than not in my career (pauses to laugh hysterically for using the word "career"), the first idea has been the right one. And if not the right one, then the best one.

The problem is, in advertising the first idea gets a bad rap. People say things like “It’s too obvious.” “You didn’t put any time against it.” “It doesn’t address all 350 bullet points on the brief.” All true at one time or another. Still doesn’t mean it’s not right.

Almost universally in ad agency culture, management likes to put on a show. Or at least watch one.

They like you to work late into the night, fueled on nothing but bad pizza and micro-brewed beer that almost tastes as good as cat pee and smells twice as bad, to show how dedicated and loyal you are to the agency, the client and, most importantly, the creative director.

Hallways are lined with dozens of 4’x8’ foam core boards plastered (just like the creatives) with hundreds of ideas and drawings, none of them as good as the first idea.

Meetings are called to kick around even more ideas. Mostly they're ideas for more meetings.

Even though people are burned out, every angle has been covered, the ideas are all starting to sound the same, and they’ll never present more than three to the client, and none of them are as good as the first one, the show goes on.

Way past the point of exhaustion, when the pizza is gone and the sun's about to come up, eventually someone musters enough awake to say something like “Remember that first idea we had at the beginning, what about that?” Then everyone in the room nods like a shelf of Peyton Manning bobbleheads on the San Andreas fault, and the creative director claims he/she always loved that idea from the beginning.

It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in bullshit.

I suppose thinking it will change anytime soon is futile. And besides, I get paid to come up with all those ideas. As long as the checks continue to clear, I'll keep doing it.

Anyway, my point as you've probably guessed by now is never throw away the first idea.

And always buy stock in foam core.

The always waiting room

Since my four-month gig working on a Japanese car brand (starts with an M, ends with an A) ended last Friday, I decided to take this short week off and catch up on some things that needed doing.

One of those was running my beautiful daughter to a couple doctor appointments. I always jump at the chance to do it, because my girl is pretty smart and extremely funny, and there are few things I enjoy as much as getting the chance to spend quality time with her whenever I can.

I just didn't know we were going to have that much time together.

Yesterday I took her to the eye doctor. Now, me being me, I don't go to just any doctor. I always look for The Guy. Our eye doctor is one of the top guys in the country, so just getting in is an accomplishment.

Her appointment was for 10:30 a.m. And since I'd rather be an hour early than a minute late, we were there around 10:20. We waited patiently in the waiting area as other people got called in. About 11:00 a.m. they came out and then made the psyche move you've seen so many times in doctors' offices. They called her in, and we thought the appointment was going to happen. But they brought her into a room, where an intern or nurse or assistant or someone gave her a quick vision test, then directed us to wait in another badly decorated waiting room.

At 11:30 I went to the front desk and in my nicest, most charming, impatient voice said we'd been there an hour and did they have an ETA on her seeing the doctor.

She was next in line, and about ten minutes later she finally got in to see The Guy.

Today, she had an appointment at 3 p.m. for a problem she's been having with her wrist. She played volleyball for a few years, and has had a some injuries to her hands and wrist. Her current pain is a souvenir from those days.

Her hand and wrist doctor also happens to be The Guy in his field. Directions they provide include how to get there from LAX, where people from all over the world fly in to see him.

Virtually the exact same thing happened - into another room, an assistant asking some questions, and then made to wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, an hour and ten minutes after the appointed time, he breezed in, said sorry about the wait, and proceeded with his brief exam.

I understand the top people are in demand, and a little waiting is to be expected. But how many bad schedulers can there be in the same city? Color me old fashioned, but isn't the idea of an appointment to get there at a time convenient to you? And doesn't waiting over an hour after that time defeat the purpose of making an appointment in the first place?

Naive I know.

All this waiting does at least give me a chance to use a line I like to use when I ask how long it'll be. I go up to the desk and ask, then I say "I had black hair when we came in here." If you knew me, you'd know how funny that is (hashtag Silver Fox).

Anyway, doctor visits are done for a while now, and what with school and her social life I probably won't get to spend as much quality time with my girl as I'd like. But at least I know she'll still make time to talk with me every day.

"Dad, can I borrow your car?" and "Do you have a twenty?" counts as talking, right?

Remains of the day

Shrink wrapped, pine box, paw print in clay and a Forget Me Not card on top, Max came home today. It's safe to say just not in the way we'd all hoped.

When I went to our vet to pick up Max's remains, there was a lobby full of anxious pet owners waiting to see the doctors. I can only imagine me walking out with a pine box filled with the ashes of a 90 lb. German Shepherd was not a confidence builder.

We're all moving forward, but slowly. His empty crate with the thick mattress pad still sits in the corner of our living room. While it would take about one minute to collapse it and put it away, no one seems quite ready to do it yet. We're still grieving the loss, and I imagine the same will be true with his remains.

We have this nice notion of spreading his ashes around the yard where he loved to play and hang out, saying a few words, shedding a few tears and then moving on. But the truth is not a day goes by where the conversation doesn't turn to Max, and we get a little weepy.

So like disassembling his crate, it's going to take a while for us to work up to the finality of spreading his ashes and saying goodbye for the last time.

Strange as it sounds, it is nice to have him home. And I think Max, being the fun-loving playful guy he always was, would appreciate what I've said to his remains several times since they've been here.

"Max, stay."

Exit strategy

This is the good part of freelance. And the bad part.

This week, I wrap up four months at the agency I was booked at for five. Whole other post.

Anyway, what it means is it's time to start planning my exit strategy, something I've done many times before. It's never the same routine, but it does involve many of the same components.

I'll begin by sending out a few emails. Then I'll graduate to a little dialing for dollars, you know, the personal touch. And of course, a little social network networking is always a good thing. This is what it looks like to me as Friday rapidly approaches.

Once Friday is past, I know from experience my priorities will shift, and my first week off will begin to look a little different.

First order of business will be a long overdue lunch with my great friend Carrie. Then, as long as everyone's working and I'm not, perhaps a matinee or two are in order, just to stay current. Of course, we all know Breaking Bad isn't going to binge itself again, so I'll have to - yes, have to - devote a few hours to that. If there's nothing else to do, I may read Siegel's book again. Then there's always all those things I was going to do over the Christmas break that still need tending to.

The way it usually goes is when I'm finally ready to tackle those odd jobs that've been piling up around the house, I'll get booked for a gig and have to put them on the back burner. Again.

Here's the thing: I'm not one of those people who goes crazy when they're not working. I can not work with the best of them. I put the call out to the universe, and so far it's always answered with fun, lucrative, challenging gigs and a vast selection...er...large number...um....wide variety....ok, a few great people to work with at each agency.

Of course, once the call to the universe is out, I hope I don't have to answer it at least until I'm done with Season 5.

Max 2004 - 2016

It was love at first sight.

We'd known we wanted a German Shepherd because we'd already tried one on for size. We rescued a GSD puppy named Ruby. She was about 5-months old and beyond cute. What we didn't find out until after she bit my daughter in the face was she'd belonged to a homeless man and had lived on the streets since she was born. One day the owner of the rescue was walking by her, recognized Ruby as a pure-bred GSD, and bought her from him.

Once we brought her home, she slept on the bed with us. Nipped at our heels. And didn't take to training in the slightest. Then, on the fifth day we had her, in what was probably a bit of overactive puppy play, she decided to jump up and have a quick, light chomp on my daughter's face with her razor puppy teeth. She pierced her skin, drew blood and scared my daughter. So Ruby bought herself a one-way ticket back to rescue.

What we learned from the experience was we loved the German Shepherd breed. But we decided we wanted to know a little more about who the dog was and its history.

The day was sunny and warm when we made the congested drive on the 91, then halfway up a hill on an unpaved road out to Thinschmidt Kennels in Corona. They'd just gotten in a litter of German import puppies. It was almost too much cute to bear. In one kennel there were about 5 or 6 playing, all short-haired shepherds except for this one brutally cute fur ball off to the side. He was quieter and less rambunctious than the rest.

I knew the minute I saw him he was the one.

My wife was drawn more to his sister, one of the short-haired ones. But almost at the exact same time she was telling me this, the fur ball got up, came over, sat on my wife's feet and looked up at her.

It's a good thing stealing hearts is legal in Corona.

We used to joke that Max never read the German Shepherd manual. He had no idea how scary or mean he was supposed to be. Not to say he was a pushover, but he wasn't a high-strung shepherd that was tightly wound and always on alert. He was a sweet guy - unless you were the postman, a stranger coming up our walkway or someone he didn't like when my daughter was walking him.

I used to tell Max to sit. Then I'd put a chicken treat halfway in my mouth, lean over, and he'd bare his teeth, get right up to my face and gently take it from me. When I did this in front of some people, it scared the hell out of them. All I heard was how they'd never let a dog like Max get that close to their face. And sure, I suppose the fear with some German Shepherds would be getting your face ripped off. But the thought never crossed my mind. Or his. That's not who he was.

He especially loved to roughhouse in the backyard with my wife, because she was the one who'd really get into it with him. She gave as good as she got, and she was proud of the souvenir bruises up and down her arms that came from their play. When she'd hold his ball before she threw it, he'd jump up and grab her arm with his teeth to try and get it. He'd never bite down, he'd just hold her arm in his mouth like a Golden Retriever.

Maybe it's not so much he didn't read the manual as he read the wrong one.

Max's fighting weight was between 85-92 lbs. He wasn't a small dog, but because we saw him every day we never thought of him as large - he was just our dog. However every once in awhile, when someone approaching us would suddenly give him a terrified look then cross the street to pass us, or the pizza delivery guy jumped back five feet off my front porch when he saw me holding Max at the door, we'd remember he wasn't exactly a chihuahua.

Because he was a long-haired GSD and a lot of people had never seen one before, they loved to tell us he was a mixed breed and not a pure bred. This was despite the fact we'd seen pictures of his parents in Germany, knew his bloodline going back five generations and had papers on him. Oh yeah, and he was our dog. We always got a kick out of it.

Max had a lot of nicknames, but my favorite was the one my wife gave him: The Gunslinger. It was because in the middle of the night, he'd decide to come into our bedroom and sleep on the big pillow we had for him on the floor in there. He'd slam our bedroom door open like saloon doors in the old west, then he'd come and crash down on his pillow.

It only gave us heart attacks for the first five or six years.

When we got Max, the breeder stressed how important it was to socialize German Shepherds, even more so than most breeds. He was a large dog, and he had to be comfortable around people. So it seemed to me a few bring-a-dog-to-work days was a good place to start.

Almost everyone who came in contact with Max loved him for how beautiful he was inside and out. I worked at Y&R when I started socializing Max, and I brought him in a few times to get him used to strangers (and believe me, nobody's stranger than people who work in ad agencies - BAM!). After people met him, they weren't strangers very long.

Kurt Brushwyler, Ben Peters, Johanna Joseph Peters, Debbie Lavdas, Imke Daniel, Cameron Young, Amy Cook, Zac Ryder, Leroy Tellez, Janice MacLeod and Cecilia Gorman, thank you for loving on Max so much in those early days. He hadn't been exposed to a lot of people at that point, and your kindness, caring and demonstration of love towards him gave him a sense of confidence and security, and taught him from the beginning people weren't something to be afraid of.

I don't know if you all remember doing that. I'll never forget it.

Here's another thing: even though Max was the dog-liest of dogs, he was cat like in that it often seemed he had nine lives.

Years ago he had what turned out to be a bacterial infection that caused him to stumble and fall, off balance and confused. At first we were told it was likely a brain tumor. Fortunately, our close friend David Feldman is one of the premier diagnostic veterinarians in the country. We told him Max's symptoms, sent him the tests, and he prescribed antibiotics. It cleared up in a few days.

About three years ago, my wife noticed Max was being lethargic and not his usual self. Her Jedi instincts jumped into action, and she rushed him to the vet where they discovered a giant mass on his spleen which could rupture and kill him at any minute. Again, we turned to David, who arranged for us to bring Max to his practice where there was a surgeon and team standing by at midnight on a Saturday night. At two o'clock in the morning, we got a call Max had come through his spleen-ectomy just swimmingly.

It was not lost on us how close we came to losing him, and we've always considered every day since then gravy.

There was also the time he had his ass kicked by the neighbor's cat, and almost got his eyes clawed out. I'm certain he wouldn't want you to know about that.

In the past few days, he'd been lethargic in the extreme. Not getting up to walk, eat or pee. We took him to the vet, who saw right away he was critically anemic. After some x-rays, he discovered a large mass in the cavity where his spleen had been. It was crushing his intestines, and he was bleeding internally either from it or through it from his liver or kidneys.

There were options, including surgery. But because his red cell count was so low, he never would've survived it. We could've transfused him, but because he was bleeding internally, it would've been like a leaky bucket, going in his vein, bleeding out inside and not doing any good at all along the way. None of the options were promising or guaranteed - except to cause him pain, vastly reduce his quality of life and confuse and scare the hell out of him. He was 11 years old. We weren't going to put him through it.

It's almost always a lose-lose situation when your brain has to win out over your heart.

Since my parents never owned a house, we lived in apartments my whole life. In fact the house I'm in now is the first one I've ever lived in. I could never have dogs growing up. Max was my first. Thanks to him, I know I'll never be without a German Shepherd.

Max also had a very special trick. We didn't train him to do it, he just did it. His trick was making each one of us feel as if he loved us the most (although if I had to place money on it, I'd bet on my daughter). Max will always be the dog of our lives.

So we move on, grateful for having had him as long as we did, and finding peace knowing he's running free in greener pastures. As real dog lovers like to say, he's crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, and he'll be waiting.

It's a crazy world, and the older I get the less sure I am of anything. But there are two things I can say with absolute certainty: Max was well loved every single minute of his beautiful life.

And so were we.

Wild card

It's still one of the most electric performances I've ever seen on screen. Ray Liotta in Something Wild.

It's not his first film: that was The Lonely Lady starring Pia Zadora. Enough said.

Back to Something Wild. From the minute Ray Sinclair (Liotta) appears he takes your breath away. There's tension and danger in the air, and you're on edge just waiting for it to be unleashed.

Not unlike me in a client presentation.

The problem with an entrance like that is the bar is set. Fortunately, in roles like Henry Hill in Goodfellas, Shoeless Joe Jackson in Field Of Dreams, Donald Carruthers in Smokin' Aces and many others, Liotta is money in the bank. He always delivers.

I started thinking about him because I saw a promo for a new television show created by Barry Levinson, starring Jennifer Lopez and Liotta called Shades of Blue that premieres later this week. I'm excited about it because I'll get to see Ray Liotta onscreen at least once a week. And confidence is high, because of the cast and the pedigree, that this will be one to watch.

To get a little taste of what I'm talking about, here's the trailer for Something Wild.

Keep it in mind next time we're in a presentation together.

The finish line. Again.

Five years ago, I put up this post about my run up to the new year.

Sad to say it's a relevant now as it was then.

Sure, I could've thought up a brand new post to start the new year off. But then I would've had to put down my bagel with cream cheese and lox, cookies, egg quiche and homemade waffles.

Of course I wasn't eating them all at once. But every time it occurred to me to get a post up, I did seem to have something in my hands on the way to my mouth.

Anyway, tomorrow or the day after I'll start bringing the funny with brand new posts again. In the meantime, please to enjoy this gem one more time.

I'm going to get dessert.

I do it every year. The resolution about losing weight. And before the clock strikes midnight on New Year's, I also do something else every year.

I pack it away like Oprah in a cupcake factory.

I'm not proud. I'm not hungry either.

It's just that I know with the resolution made and the food deadline looming, I want to make sure and stuff my face while I still can.

Without the least bit of the restraint or will-power I've resolved to exhibit in the new year, the run up to midnight is filled with cramming down every last bit of sugar-filled, cholesterol-causing, artery-clogging, waist-growing, clothes-tightening, mirror-avoiding food I can possibly get my hands and mouth on.

I'm like a runaway train. Except my train is all dining cars.

I know what you're thinking - it can't possibly be that bad. The reason I know is because that's what I thought too. Right up until I got on the scale this morning.

Truth be told, it's not quite as dire and desperate as I've made it sound. And even if it were, it's a new year and I'm on it.

After all, I made a resolution. What could possibly go wrong?