The bore is strong with this one

SPOILER ALERT: Ok, I'm required by blogging law to let you know I'll be talking, actually writing (if you can call this writing) about things that happen in the newest Star Wars installment, The Last Jedi. If you don't want to know about them, you might want to skip this post, you know, the same way you blow by most of the other ones.

The fact the Star Wars mythology and its characters are all some people live and breath has not escaped me. In fact, I appreciate and understand it. When it comes to being compulsive about things, we're all on this bus together (for reference, look up posts on Springsteen, Breaking Bad and sushi). So agree or disagree, I fully expect there'll be a lot of blowback. I can take it. And besides, the comments are moderated. Just like Trump's EPA, you don't get to use all your words here.

Alright, you've been warned. Which is more than I was before I walked into the theater. Perhaps I've tipped my hand.

Here we go.

I don't know why, but my son, along with several friends of mine, were somewhat perplexed at the fact I didn't rush out to see Star Wars: The Last Jedi on opening weekend. What can I tell you? On the list of things I had to do for the holidays, it wasn't at the top. But I did get there today, and I left the theater with a few questions.

First and foremost, at what point do the Star Wars movies become parodies of themselves? Answer: this one. It's like that holiday recipe you have every year. You know it's coming, and exactly what to expect. Start with the "long time ago in a galaxy far, far way..." line, a crawl explaining the story you're about to see so you know what you're seeing, add a cup of Skywalker legend, mix in a smattering of Storm Troopers, add a pinch of rebellion, some force whammy-jammy, a surprise appearance for absolutely no reason of a Jedi Master (guess which one you will), nervous, chatty droids, double-bladed lightsabers, a new character for no reason other than they'll sell plenty of plush-toy versions of it next Christmas, a couple cameos from serious actors who don't usually do "these kinds of films", lots of talk about the First Order and Supreme Leader, TIE fighters, X-wing fighters and a casino scene reminiscent of the bar scene in the original film.

Mix thoroughly for two and half hours, and it's done. Just like last year's movie. Just like next year's.

Here's another question: how tall is Oscar Isaac? The Google says he's 5'9", but if that's true it doesn't show on screen. He's supposed to be the next generation Han surrogate, cracking wise, looking handsome and mad pilot skills. But to me all he looks is short. Don't get me wrong, I like Oscar Isaac. I just think in a world of 7' tall wookies and a 6'2" Kylo Ren, maybe taller might've been a way to go.

When did Luke become a stand up comic? The Last Jedi is funny in the way the Terminator movies are funny. There are laugh lines written in, and Luke has a lot of them. Many of them stick the landing, but they also break the tone of the film.

Speaking of the tone of the film, what is it? Serious? Funny? Suspenseful? Is it a love story? A story of redemption? Luke is always tearing up in the close ups, which makes me think he has some issues he's not dealing with—besides that whole father thing and kissing his sister a few films back. Will or won't Kylo Ren and Rey start dating?

Then there's just the overwhelming sadness of Carrie Fisher. Like in the last film, she seems to be in a somewhat enhanced state, giving all her lines a neutral, relatively even, emotionless read. Still, she is the one character you care about, not because of the film but because of real life. There is a moving exchange between Luke and Leia near the end of the movie that takes on much more poignancy in light of her passing.

Why the hell is Adam Driver yelling through the whole thing? What's with the shirtless scene? Never mind, I know.

Why is Snokes chamber a bare stage with a seamless lit in red? My guess is the budget went to the effects, and by the time they shot those scenes that's all they could afford. Seriously, you can see where the curtain hits the stage floor.

Who am I supposed to care about? I suppose the answer would be everyone, but that would be wishful thinking in the extreme. I cared about Rey a bit. I was invested in Luke for a while. Didn't care much about any other characters. Film after film, they're not really growing or doing anything different. Can't mess with the recipe.

Did I mention two and a half hours? The last thirty or forty minutes aren't bad, but the two hours before that are slow. Really slow. The opposite of hyper speed slow.

The movie crawls to its end, only to have us discover what we already knew since The Force Awakens—that Luke is in fact not the last Jedi.

At least not as long as Disney keeps making billions cranking them out.

Christmas, November 2018

I know it's Christmas Eve day right now. But for me, the truth of the matter is no present I get tomorrow morning is going to be better than the one I'm expecting next November. And by the way, it's not just a present for me—it's for the world.

My hope is that the November midterm elections will restore control of the house and senate to the Democrats. Then, from net neutrality to tax cuts for billionaires to eliminating environmental controls to reducing liability for banks to the war on women, gays, minorities, immigrants, Muslims and many, many more, they can start systematically reversing every single awful, destructive, uninformed, self-serving, racist, oppressive, shitty decision the current liar-in-chief and Russian operative has made.

And they can do it the same systematic way he's tried to undo every good thing his predecessor (are you sure he can't run for a third term?) did.

While Republican dipshits who voted for a tax code that lines their pockets at the expense of the middle class will have long cashed out by then, despite what you've heard about those cuts being permanent they're not. It's only legislation, and fortunately, with the right people in office it can all be reversed with the stroke of a pen.

So, a merry Christmas to all today and tomorrow. But my hope is the real present is coming next November, which should also make it a happy new year for all.

Until then, please accept this as my little (emphasis on "little") gift to you. It's sung to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Please to enjoy.

You better watch out

You better not cry

Better not pout

I'm telling you why

Democrats are coming to town

They're making a list

And checking it twice

They already know who's naughty and nice

Democrats are coming to town

They'll start impeachment proceedings

Like all polls say they should

They'll re-write executive orders

So they'll actually do some good

You better watch out

You better not cry

Better not pout

We're not gonna die

Democrats are coming to town

School lunch programs will be funded

Infrastructure will improve

Obamacare will save thousands of lives

Even though Republicans disapprove

They'll be draining the swamp

For real this time

Immigrants won't have any

Stupid walls to climb

Democrats are coming to town

Democrats are coming to town

Democrats are coming to town

Cutting the cards

It's that time of year again.

The one where I'm making last minute runs to the post office for stamps, and can't stop thinking about that Seinfeld episode where George's fiancé dies from licking envelopes.

What you're looking at is this year's crop of Christmas cards. Maybe some of you loyal readers (stops to laugh for thinking anyone's loyal, or for that matter that I have readers) will be receiving one of your own in the mail. The thing is, I can't guarantee that.

There's a master list of friends and family we send cards to. But from year to year, through a series of seemingly and sometimes actually random criteria, people get added and subtracted from the list. It's like getting a home loan, a job, knowing how planes fly or bread rises. You're never exactly sure how it happens, you just know that it does.

Then there's the picture. For years the cards have had a shot of the kids, or what used to be the kids. Now they're like our kids, except bigger and older. And they're not exactly fond of having to sit for the Christmas card picture. Again. They humor us because, after all, there is car insurance, food and college tuition in play. But frankly, they'd rather we just send out cards with a picture of a surfing Santa, a wreath or lights on a tree.

I'm hopeful that doesn't come across in the picture.

Anyway, if you get a card, you're welcome. And if you don't, it's nothing personal. Try to move past the disappointment, enjoy the holiday, have a merry Christmas, and know the odds are 50/50 you'll probably get one from us next year.

Unless you wind up on the naughty list.

Office shuffle

No matter how close you're watching, you still won't know where it winds up.

You don't have to work at an advertising agency long before you go through it. In fact, you'll probably go through it several times if you're there for more than a few months. It starts innocently enough, usually with a casual stroll through reception. Everything seems normal, but then your Spidey sense alerts you to the boxes, bins and packing tape sitting against the wall, trying desperately not to be noticed. And then the realization hits you—it can only mean one thing: you're being moved to another office in the building.

Every once in a while, someone "upstairs" gets an itch that can only be scratched by inconveniencing and relocating dozens of employees who were perfectly happy and productive right where they were. The reasons, like the creation of the universe or how a dipshit like Trump got elected, might never be fully known. But when it comes to educated guesses, there is always the list.

We're putting each group all together.

We're growing and need more room.

We're giving everyone a fresh start.

And the ever popular, we're shaking things up (or in agency speak: disrupting things).

Whatever. Before I was one person in an office of four. After the move, I still am—except the office is virtually half the size of the old one. And since the desks, monitors, chairs, ideas and my stomach haven't gotten any smaller, needless to say it's going to be a tight fit.

But damn it, I'm paid to solve problems day in and day out. So after putting a little of my pricey brainpower against this issue, here's a solution I've come up with.

For starters, maybe instead of wasting everyone's day with a move they don't want they could just leave things the fuck alone since they were working fine before. Even if it wasn't perfect, to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, "Agency life finds a way."

The other thing I'm sure isn't calculated in the bottom line is how much time is wasted while people walk around trying to find where their colleagues are sitting now.

"Oh, you're here now?" There's a seating chart, but so far no one's carrying it with them.

I'll stop my whining now (you're welcome). It's not the worst thing that's happened in my life, and I'm sure eventually I'll get used to the new world order, as I always do. Besides, it'll only be the new world order until they decide to move everyone's office again.

In a month.

Boxing lessons

What you're looking at here isn't actually my garage. It's a representative picture, you know, to give you an idea of what my actual garage looks like. In the same way, for example, a picture of Chris Hemsworth would be a representative picture of me.

You know I can hear you laughing, right?

When we started our kitchen/bathroom/living room remodel almost a year ago, the first thing on our to-do list was pack up everything and get it out of the house before the contractors came in to demo the place. After several runs to Box Bros., daily struggles with the tape dispenser and inhaling more marker fumes than I care or can remember while we were labeling them, we finally got it done.

That was then, and this is now. The remodel is complete, and looks fabulous.

But while the remodel proper is finished, we still have sixteen boxes sitting in the garage that have yet to be unpacked and moved back into the new kitchen.

So what's in the boxes? Who the hell knows.

We labeled them with the main items (Did I mention the markers? I can't remember), but there are lots of little gems also packed into each one just waiting to be rediscovered. The box marked "Mixing bowls" might also have clay sculptures the kids made in second grade. The "dishtowels" box could also have a stack of unpaid bills from last January waiting for us. The "Cups and saucers" box is probably filled with....well, that one is likely cups and saucers.

The thinking is one thing at a time, and do everything in the right order. First, we have to clear some room in our new kitchen cabinets so we can put away whatever is hiding in those sixteen boxes. We have yet to do this. And with the holidays upon us, it's a safe bet the boxes in the garage holding Christmas decorations are going to be unpacked way before the remodel ones. Right after we clear some room for the Christmas tree. Don't get me started.

I imagine we'll hit the year mark—January 26 to be exact—before we even start on the remodel boxes. But we'll get to unpacking them just as soon as we're able. And who knows, once we get motivated and start ripping those suckers open, we may even decide to really surprise ourselves and tackle a box or two that's been there since we moved in.

Twenty years ago.

A glimmer of it

I was a little worried this morning. I was feeling something I hadn't felt in a very long time. Since November 9, 2016 to be exact. At first I thought it might be gas, but that wasn't it. I had my flu shot, so I wasn't coming down with anything.

Then it dawned on me. It was hope.

It crept up on me right after I grabbed the clicker (you heard me) and turned on the TV. On every channel I turned to was the familiar Breaking News banner emblazoned across the screen. Only instead of being the end of a high-speed chase (I wish) or another show biz name being outed for sexual misconduct (Louis C.K., Matt Lauer and Brett Ratner walk into a bar...), it was a ray—well, alright, a glimmer, but still—of hope in the form of Michael Flynn pleading guilty to lying to the FBI.

I haven't cheered out loud for anything like that since Springsteen extended his Broadway show until June.

Of course, Flynn is the disgraced former National Security Advisor in the Trump administration (I just threw up a little writing that) who was fired after just 24 days on the job. Before that, he'd been an integral part of the vile, vulgar, racist, misogynist Trump campaign. In on every meeting and decision at the highest levels, he knows where the bodies are buried.

And he has no intention of letting his become one of them.

So, rather than roll the dice on getting charged with treason for being a spy and agent of the Turkish government, Flynn struck a plea deal with Mueller to the lesser charge of lying.

Wondering about that singing you hear? That's Flynn ratting out everyone from Kushner to Priebus to Bannon to Pence to Miller to Trump to Trump and to the other Trump.

Hope. It's a beautiful thing. Even in small doses.

As we head into the weekend, I can only wish each and every one of those traitorous dipshits is charged, then forcibly removed from the people's house. In orange jumpsuits. Leg irons. And handcuffs.

If Trump really wants to draw a big crowd, that's how he'll get one.

And all the simpering, sniveling, ass-kissing Republican cowards who were supporting him until they got their tax reform that favors millionaires and billionaires at the expense of the middle class—seriously, a deduction for private jets?—your day of reckoning isn't far behind.

Can you say midterms?

The glimmer of hope I have today is we'll be able to get back to and rebuild our democracy while there's still a shred of it left. That we can regain our standing in the world as a beacon of freedom, a nation of laws and eventually elect a leader with character, a firm moral compass, a compassionate sense of decency. Someone who will serve as an accurate and proud representation of all we truly are, and aspire to be.

I also hope he doesn't get us all killed before it happens.

The rafters

I put up a Facebook post recently about my trip back to New York to see Springsteen On Broadway. In the comments, I saw my good friend Shivaun put one up asking me if I saw anything in the rafters. I was startled by it, not because of what it said, but because she remembered. It was a reference very few people in my orbit know about, and an experience I hadn't thought about in many years.

And Shivaun, if you're reading this, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of it.

It begins, as so many of my stories do, at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Bruce was doing a five-night gig at the late, great Los Angeles Sports Arena. My girlfriend at the time—now my wife—would always go with me to the opening and closing shows of his multi-night gigs. So it didn't come as a surprise that she didn't want to go to all five shows this time—two were enough for her.

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

Naturally I wouldn't have missed the shows for any reason, but this tour it was more important than usual that I be there. My dad had died unexpectedly a couple months earlier, six years after my mom had passed away. Being an only child, after I lost my dad, I jokingly (kind of) referred to myself as an orphan. My spirit—sad, defeated, lost and feeling very much alone—was in dire need of the kind of lifting only a Springsteen concert can give me.

I don't remember which show in between the opening and closing one it was, but with me that night was an art director, friend and one-time roommate of mine named Monte Hallis.

Now anyone who knows me knows I'm long past believing there's any concert worth a few hours sitting in the nosebleed seats. Unless of course that concert is Bruce Springsteen. If it means the difference between being in the building and not, I'll sit wherever I can get a seat.

Monte and I sat in the very definition of nosebleed seats: the very last row where you could reach up and touch the ceiling of the arena, at the complete opposite end of the building from the stage (may I direct your attention to the yellow arrow in the top picture).

It was just after intermission, and Bruce came out to start his second half of the show. Because I'd already seen it two or three times, I knew the first song was going to be Cover Me.

My Bruce tramp pals and me have a name for his songs we're not crazy about. We call them bathroom songs, because if we have to go, those are the ones we don't mind missing. And, I know you never thought you'd read these words from me, but there are songs of his I'm just not crazy about.

Working On A Dream is one. So is Outlaw Pete, or as my friend Kim appropriately calls it Outlaw Pee. And at the top of my list, Cover Me.

So the lights dim, Bruce rips into Cover Me, and I'm just removed from it all. I'm watching Monte watching Bruce. I see the entire arena in front of me rocking out.

Then it happened.

It was like a fog set in, figuratively speaking. Movie like, the sound slowly faded way, way down but not out entirely. The crowd jumping up and down and pumping their fists seemed to be doing it in slow motion. Scanning the building, I tilted my head up and peered into the darkness that lay just up above. Moving my eyes along the rafters from one side to the other, my vision landed on a beam above and a little in front of me.

And a smile came across my face, because that's when I saw him. My dad was sitting on the rafter waving to me.

He was sitting on a horizontal beam, legs crossed and dangling below him. His right arm was wrapped around a vertical beam, and he was wearing the new purple plaid bathrobe my girlfriend and I had given him at Christmas—two months before he died. He had his blue striped pajamas on underneath, and his brown slippers with the fleece lining on his feet. His glasses, like always, were sitting askew on top of his nose that'd been broken years ago and never set correctly.

As our eyes locked in what definitely was a moment out of time, I realized he wasn't just waving randomly at me.

He was saying he loved me.

He wanted me to know everything was going to be okay.

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

I understood, and I smiled and nodded up at him. Then, I slowly looked away from him and came back to the room. The sound dialed back up again, the fans were moving in real time and Monte was enjoying herself immensely.

I looked back up at the rafter, and he was gone.

Take a stab at it

I have a good idea about the first thing you noticed when you looked at this picture. I saw it too. The iPhone makes me look like I still have a 32-inch waist. Damn I love that phone.

The other thing you might have noticed are what look like meth-tweaker track marks on both my arms. "He really needs to stop bingeing Breaking Bad."

I have to admit when they first appeared, they actually were a pretty combination of blue, purple, yellow and green. I sort of stared at them, detached from the fact they were actually my arms. Which is better than staring at my detached arms. Word play, it's ON!

Anyway, I think it was a lot to go through for a regular blood test.

I take a couple of meds for blood pressure and cholesterol. It's a pretty common cocktail. Whenever I start talking about it I'm always surprised how many of my friends are also in the same artery clogging, systolic and diastolic boat. I mean sure, I could drop a lot of weight and I'd be off both pills. But I'd have to have much more self-discipline, will power and respect for myself and my body. That's just crazy talk.

Anyway, every six months I go in for a blood test to make sure the Lipitor isn't acting like a meat mallet pounding my liver into ground round. Just one of the lovely possible side effects of cholesterol medicine, along with short term memory loss and, wait, what was the other one?

See what I did there? I still got it.

Now I'll be the first to admit I don't have the best veins, even though I do work my guns lifting those Double-Doubles up and down. And I've had excellent blood draws in the past. Sometimes it's over before I even know it's happened—which is the case with many things in my life.

Clearly this wasn't one of those times.

One of the downsides to being me, and despite how easy I make it look there are several, is that I have no problem watching while they stick me with the needle and make the draw. I know some people can't watch, but I have to. So I had a nice view of the technician moving the needle around, trying in vain to find the vein (sorry). After what seemed like forever, she decided to try the other arm. You see how that went. But somehow she managed to get enough blood out of me.

The good news is I don't have to go through it again for another six months or so.

Until then, I'll be working on getting in better shape. And by better shape, I mean taking more pictures of myself with the iPhone.

Answer the call

You can’t overstate the ability of advertising people to inhale their own fumes. It may be part of the job description. I’ll have to check with HR.

Many of them have what I’d call an unrealistic sense of consumer behavior that should rightfully be filed under wishful thinking. For example, against all evidence from the beginning of advertising time, there’s a prevailing thought that just because you bark an order at the consumer and tell them to do something, they’ll actually do it.

If it were only that easy.

How else to explain the fact almost every piece of—let’s call it marketing communication—that gets produced has what’s referred to in the biz as a CTA. In civilian terms, a Call To Action.

It’s the instruction from the advertiser on what they want you to do next. And it’s not one-size-fits-all. There is no standard CTA. It can be anything from Learn More to Call Now. Sign Up to Get Started. Take the Survey to Talk To Us. Let’s Go to Join Free For A Month (that was Netflix-it was a great month).

It’s a good thing it’s there. Otherwise how would you know what to do, amiright?

Here’s the truth: agencies consider a 2% click rate on web ad CTAs a resounding success. If you were getting a 2% return on any investment in your life you’d be looking for a new place to invest. But when it’s a 2% click through on banner ads (don’t get me started), the champagne is flowing, the overgrown frat boys are high-fivin', backs are being slapped and the junior team is getting assigned the agency promo piece touting their digital prowess.

On every agency brief—the six to eight page document explaining the assignment and showing that otherwise educated people don't know what brief means—there’s a description about what the agency/client wants the consumer to do as a result of seeing the CTA. For example, “Include CTA to visit website to drive user to website.”

Hey, Captain Obvious, what color was George Washington’s white horse?

Anyway, it occurred to me how much better agency life would be if there were CTAs, like these, that you could click on when the situation called for it.

Make It Stop
Anytime anyone calls a meeting about what they discussed at the last meeting, and what they'll be discussing in the next meeting as a result of this meeting, all you do is click on this CTA and immediately all the sounds stop coming out of their mouth. Their lips are moving, but they're not saying anything. Oh wait, that's already happening.

Go Away
This one's a lifesaver. Great for personal space invaders, hallway talkers or the smug, self-righteous contrarian that lives to argue with everything you say. It's essentially the CTA that wishes them into the cornfield. I'm guessing that's going to be one crowded cornfield.

Not This Again
Remember that revision the client wanted, and you made, and then they took it out? And now they want it back in? This happens on a daily basis on every account in every agency. It just makes you shake your head and ask if they've always had this much trouble making up their mind (well, yes and no - BAM!). Hit this CTA, and it resets time back 15 minutes before the original request got re-requested. Normally only Superman can turn back time by flying counter clockwise to the earth's rotation. This will make it a lot easier on him.

Drop It
Basically a trap door for every occasion. Whatever they're doing to bother you, just hit this CTA and a trapdoor opens under them. Laugh and smile as they go plummeting down an endless tunnel that will eventually land them in the seventh circle of hell.

Or another meeting.

Land of hope and dreams

Since the very first time my friend Jeff Haas played it for me, Bruce Springsteen’s Thunder Road has been my favorite song. And being the fan we all know I am, it won't surprise anyone when I say that if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it at least ten thousand times.

Except here’s the funny part: last Saturday night, I felt like I heard it for the first time.

I flew to New York last Friday for the weekend to see Springsteen On Broadway, Bruce’s new and first Broadway show, where he tells stories about his life, sings a set playlist of songs and reads from his autobiography, Born To Run.

I'm just thankful we didn’t get the understudy.

What I wasn’t prepared for was how intimate, raw, emotional, joyful, tearful and brutally honest the evening was. I can’t imagine any other artist being that open with their audience (not that I spend a lot of time thinking about other artists). But then again, that’s always been part of the attraction to Bruce. He's not hiding behind his songs, he's revealing our shared experiences and feelings through them.

In the show, Bruce tells the stories of his life—his family, his rockstar journey, pays tribute to his late friend, sax player and sidekick Big Man Clarence Clemons, unflinchingly declares his love for his wife Patti— punctuating and adding perspective to them with carefully chosen songs from his library of forty years. I’ve heard every one of these songs dozens of times in concert. Yet, set in the context of the show, as I said, it felt like the first time.

It’s a scripted show—a considerable change from the mix it up, multi-night gigs and audibles he calls during his arena shows.

And speaking of arena shows, the 950-seat Walter Kerr Theater is about as far as you can get from an arena.

Easily the smallest venue he’s played in thirty years, it’s difficult to imagine a more perfect place both acoustically, artistically, historically and spiritually for Bruce to tell his stories. Yes it's a Broadway theater, but it is every bit as much an essential character in this transcendent experience as the music is.

I don’t want to give away a lot about the show, because I have friends who will be seeing it soon. I will say this: be ready to laugh, cry, reflect, rejoice, pray (you heard me), be grateful and celebrate with 950 of your newest, closest friends.

There is a point in the show when Bruce talks about his music and the journey we’re all on, hoping he’s been a good traveling companion along the way.

Frankly, I never would have made the trip without him.

Where's my HBO documentary?

I've been watching the HBO documentary on Steven Spielberg, and enjoying it thoroughly. I'm learning things I never knew, like the Star Wars crawl at the opening was Brian DePalma's idea. That Spielberg has three sisters. That his mom divorced his dad then married his dad's best friend (floosy).

I'm certainly not about to compare myself to Spielberg. After all, we have very different skill sets. I've never directed an Academy Award winning film. He's never written a Hyundai banner ad.

I know, it doesn't sound as glamorous as what he does. But that's only because it's not.

The point is, I have lots of interesting things that've happened to me in my life, many of which I've written about here, that might add up to a swell HBO documentary. Or even a limited run series. I even have some ideas about who could play me in the dramatic recreations of pivotal events in my life. Depending on my weight at the time, it could run anywhere from Michael Fassbender to Kevin James. I might be getting ahead of myself.

Deep movie trailer announcer voice over: In a world where truth is stranger than fiction, this Tuesday at 9 on JEFF....

Sure, everyone has stories to tell, but not everyone's stories are deserving of a documentary. And lest you forget, I'm an only child. So we already know the world revolves around me.

Look, I have celebrity friends. I've locked myself in a hotel bathroom in New York. I buried both my parents (yes it was after they died). I've hung off the seventeenth floor of an apartment building. I've flown helicopters. I've worked with Advertising Hall of Fame legends. I've copped to my shortcomings, and taken responsibility for my mistakes. I've broken bones (yes they were mine).

It's been a life full of comedy, drama, action, romance and suspense. A story of love and loss, all based on true events. An epic tale of a life well lived - so far. Complex, emotional, heart-wrenching and, as anyone who knows me will tell you, filled with conflict. Like all the best stories.

Interesting characters? I've spent most of my adult life working in ad agencies—my life story is lousy with 'em.

When it comes to the A B C's of me, there's a lot of ground to cover. I think an experienced documentary filmmaker, someone like Ken Burns for example, would do a fine job of bringing perspective and meaning to the events that've shaped me. God knows someone has to.

An important element to any documentary is the narration, which means it's critical the voiceover chosen for the job imbues the proper tone and feeling of the subject matter. I'm thinking Morgan Freeman. I love what he did for those penguins.

With it's high standard of excellence, unrelenting attention to detail, long-standing relationships with the documentary filmmaker community, I really believe HBO is the only premium channel with the bona fides to do a life story like mine the justice it deserves.

And if for some reason they don't want it, I'll add some Nazis and dinosaurs and bring it to the History Channel.

The best policy

The joke goes like this.

An 85-year old man decides to interview for a job with a tech company. The 24-year old HR person asks him, "What do you think is your biggest weakness?" The old man says, "I'd have to say I'm too honest." The HR person tells him, "I don't really think being honest is a weakness." The old man says, "I don't give a shit what you think."

It works for me on so many levels.

First and foremost is the unfrightened attitude. It's something I've been accused of having many times. Guilty as charged. And if you ask me, and you didn't, but if you did, there's too little of it in agencies these days.

A close writer friend of mine was in a meeting with her creative director. He had just finished some work, and said "I finally feel like I'm earning my paycheck." Without skipping a beat my friend said, "Well it's about God damn time."

He cracked up. Honesty camouflaged as a joke.

I've been freelance for a very long time, and one thing it does is knock the fear right out of you. Most fear in agencies is about getting fired or laid off. Here's the thing: it happens to everyone at some point. And if it happens, all it means is you showed up one day.

I don't have that fear. I've been out of work long periods of time, and I've been busier than hell for long periods of time. It all balances out. And if history has taught me anything, it's that I'll eventually land on my feet at another gig.

Or serving caramel macchiatos at The Daily Grind.

What I'm saying is don't keep it all inside. Speak your mind. Spit it out. Tell it like it is. Truth to power. Damn the torpedoes. The universe will reward you for it. You'll respect yourself for it. A grateful nation will thank you for it.

And if you wind up being the most honest person at the unemployment office, at least you'll have learned a valuable lesson.

Don't take advice from bloggers you don't know.

In defense of thoughts and prayers

Sadly there's been no shortage of horrific events where people are moved to offer thoughts and prayers to those who've been involved in them directly or indirectly. What I don't understand is the (mostly online) hostility I see about people who extend that kindness.

The argument seems to be A) it doesn't accomplish anything B) It simply isn't doing enough or C) There's no God to hear your prayers anyway.

I'm not sure where the notion that just because someone offers comfort to another in their thoughts and prayers, it means they aren't doing other things—like donating money, volunteering, taking action, protesting—at the same time.

The two actions are not mutually exclusive.

What I think happens is Republican politicians who control the government right now (hopefully not much longer) make a giant photo op out of sending thoughts and prayers, then having a moment of silence, then going back to business as usual destroying Obama's legacy and lining their pockets. They cheapen the currency of concern and compassion.

Here's the thing: I can't tell you how many times, and there have been many, when friends who are quite vocal about their atheism and skepticism haven't hesitated a nanosecond to ask me to pray or keep a good thought for their sick child or parent.

That they get a job they're up for.

They can find the right words to say to a loved one.

They can make rent.

That the dog comes home.

That the diagnosis is negative.

And when they ask, each and every time, I'm more than happy to do it.

I believe in the power of prayer, and the comfort and peace it can bring people just knowing they're being thought of and loved. I've experienced it in my own life, for example when my parents died and a close friend was dying of AIDS.

In a world that's more and more demanding and uncertain, thoughts and prayers—along with other things—is an easy, meaningful offering I can give to comfort friends or strangers who need it. I don't see the downside.

By the way, I'm fine if you don't believe it, or think I'm foolish for doing it. To each their own. I'm just not sure where the venom and vitriol come from (unless it's the asshat Republican politician posers causing it—see above).

At any rate, I think there are more important things to rage against than me offering or someone taking comfort in the fact I'm thinking about them, hoping for the best and wishing them well along with anything else I may be doing to help their cause.

But if you happen to be one of those who gets angry just seeing the title of this post, you know what I'll be doing to wish you peace and calm.

I am not impressed

I've never been a morning person. For as long as I can remember, the night has been my friend. I like late dinners, late movies, late concerts. I stay up late, go to bed late and whenever possible—usually not by choice—sleep late.

One thing I don't like late at night: email.

Here's the thing. Whenever I get one, I know that somewhere, some account person I work with is up way past their bedtime and pay grade, relaying what they believe to be an essential piece of information on something that barely matters to me at 10am, much less 2am.

By the way, I use "account person" as the example because like aliens, unicorns and the holy grail, I've never seen a late night email from a creative person. At that time of night, we're busy, you know, creating.

It's like when I watch a high speed chase on the news, I always ask the same question about the drivers: "What do they think is going to happen?" People who send work emails in the middle of the night are those drivers. And I ask the same question every time I get one.

I don't know if the 3am time stamp on emails is supposed to let me know that they're a conscientious worker, an insomniac, someone with a serious lack of priorities or maybe a little of each.

When someone says "Can I ask you a question?" I tell them, "Sure, you can ask. But it doesn't mean you'll get an answer."

That's especially true if you're asking at 3 in the morning.

Reconsidering John McCain

As I watched the 60 Minutes interview with John McCain, I felt a deep, unexpected sadness at the thought he's not going to be around. He's bravely fighting yet another battle, this time with glioblastoma—the same aggressive brain cancer that forms in the brain and spinal cord. The same cancer that took Ted Kennedy.

I suppose like a lot of people, I've gone in and out of liking and disliking McCain. But in his sunset years in the Senate, even though he hasn't always walked the walk, I find the thought of his absence painful.

I thought I'd never be able to forgive him for unleashing the political train wreck that is Sarah Palin on the world, but I have. Despite surfacing with some idiotic gibberish every once in awhile, with the exception of the occasional brief appearance on Fox News, she's long ago been relegated to a footnote, like Kato Kaelin or Ross Perot.

Like we all thought Trump would be.

The constant character trait in McCain's life has, without a doubt, been bravery. When he was shot down and held prisoner, he was tortured relentlessly. At one point, he was offered early release, which he refused. He wouldn't leave until all his fellow soldiers who'd been captured with him were freed.

He's fought endlessly and tirelessly for things in the Senate. And whether I agreed with them or not, and it was mostly not, I admired his intelligence and persistence.

Most recently, at 81, he's geared up for yet another battle. He's made himself a pariah in many dark, dusty corners of the GOP for having the unmitigated gall to do the right thing, and stand up to the most unqualified sociopath ever to hold the office of the presidency. People speculate he's doing it because at this point he's got nothing to lose, but I think it's more than that. I think it's what he genuinely believes.

Donald Trump's statement about liking heroes that weren't captured should make everyone cringe. With McCain being a genuine hero, from a military family of heroes, the statement from Trump is as vile, vulgar and uninformed as the liar making it.

The reason it angers him so deeply is that McCain has become the de facto conscience of the Republican party. His seniority gives him the gravitas, and his sense of what's right and what elected representatives are supposed to do has earned him respect from both sides of the aisle.

I have a friend who was involved at the highest levels of the McCain presidential campaign. We don't see each other often, but when we do we never talk about it, because we both know where each other stands.

I'm nothing if not vocal about my views.

But lately, I see what she saw in him.

I hope McCain beats the odds and beats his cancer. At this critical time in history, it'd be an unthinkable loss to say goodbye to one of the senate's last voices of reason.

Let's hope we don't have to for a while longer.

Game of Phones

It's September again. That time of year when the weather gets suprisingly, unbearably hot for a month.

Fall is gently knocking at summer's door.

Kid's are learning and playing back in school.

Christmas displays are going up at Home Depot.

Rich Siegel starts waxing nostalgic.

Oh, and one more thing.

The new iPhones are announced.

Every year at this time Apple introduces their newest iPhone model. Sometimes the changes and improvements are minor, sometimes more substantial. Either way, they're always expensive.

This year was different. Not in the price tag, but in the offerings.

Sure, they went sequentially and introduced an iPhone 8 and 8Plus with some marginal improvements. But because it's the 10th anniversary of the introduction of the iPhone, anticipation for this year's event reached a fever pitch, not just among fanboys and the Apple community, but also the press and the general public. And the credit card companies.

To mark the occasion, Apple cooked up (#seewhatIdidthere) a special edition model: the iPhone X (pronounced "ten"). And to go with the special edition is a special price: $999 for the 64GB version, and $1149 for the 256GB version.

The iPhone X comes with all sorts of new technical whammy-jammy like facial mapping and recognition, emojis that animate with the users facial expressions (dubbed "Animojis"), using gestures instead of a home button among a few of them.

I have the same problem with iPhones as I do with cars—I hang on to them too long (insert high school girlfriend joke here).

My first one, phone, not girlfriend, was the 3GS. I thought it was amazing, and I never missed the chance to gloat about it to my friends who only had the iPhone 3. I was so happy with it, I sat out the 4, 4S and the 5. By that time though, it had gotten to the point where I couldn't update the system and a lot of apps wouldn't work on it. So when the 5S came out, I was first in line.

Well, figuratively. I'll never be first in line for a new iPhone. I can't wait that many days in line for anything, unless it's Springsteen tickets. Which I can now get on the iPhone.

The circle of life.

When the 6 Plus came out with the larger screen, I traded up. My eyes get worse every second they're open, and the larger real estate for the screen was a no brainer. Then the 7Plus came out with the better camera. Since I'd gotten the 6Plus on the lease program where you can upgrade without penalty every year, I walked in and did just that.

I'll admit it. I've been an Apple guy almost since the beginning with computers and phones. Every September when they announce the new iPhone, I'm like Steve Martin in The Jerk with the new phonebook.

If I'm being honest with myself, and where's the percentage in that, I don't really need the iPhone X. My 7Plus would do just fine for another few years, and I could bank the $1149, or put it to good use towards something else (Springsteen tickets).

But knowing me, and the tower of strength I am, I'll probably cave like Jim Gaffigan at the dessert bar and get it.

Unless next year's iPhone 11 cleans the house, walks the dog and washes the car.

Then I might wait.

Lecture series

I know one of the things that makes life a horserace is the fact friends can sometimes have differing opinions. God knows there's only a scant few who aren't fed up with me talking about Springsteen, Breaking Bad, sushi and Vegas as much as I do. I know it, you know it and the American people know it. Yet, I love those friends anyway. I have no choice—it's right there in small print on the friendship contract.

And, because I'm also passionate about certain points of view, I completely understand someone wanting me to see things their way. Often times, after giving it some thought or reflection, I will. I'll eventually come around to their thinking.

I'm nothing if not open-minded.

There are usually two approaches people take when asking me to change my mind about something. One is objectively giving me the facts to consider, and then allowing me to consider them. The other is bludgeoning me with their opinion, especially if they know I may not be entirely on board with it, and then continuing to bludgeon me when I don't immediately come around to their point of view.

Here's which way works better for me: Spoiler Alert: it's the first one.

There's someone I've followed regularly for a long time. I get a lot of good out of their teachings, and they've helped me view the world in a more compassionate, less fearful, more confident way. But recently I've had cause to question their character, and whether I should continue investing time in them.

Here's my process. First, I consider the context of events. I listen to both sides. I take into account the good I've gotten out of it until this point. Then, I make a decision.

What I require is a little patience from the person arguing the other point of view.

And the understanding that mocking, condescending and badgering comments—because I don't instantly agree with them—make it less interesting to give their argument the consideration they'd like me to.

And that I'd like to. Because I'm nothing if not a giver.

All the continual bombardment does is crowd the field. It makes me focus on the diversion and attitude, not the topic at hand. It does not make the argument they think they're making.

I get we're in a time when passions run high, feet get dug in, lines get drawn and everything is black and white. Gray area? That's just crazy talk.

Listen, I'm not a delicate little flower, and if you're my friend and you want to rant and rave at me, have at it. I'm a big boy and I can take it. But if you want me to take it seriously, here's some free advice: there's a better approach.

Why free advice? Told you I was a giver.

The most wonderful time of the day

I think breakfast has been hogging the spotlight as "the most important meal of the day" for far too long. It's a new morning in America. And as the sun rises on this new morning, we skip breakfast and go straight to the rightful holder of the title: Lunch.

There are a couple things I look forward to everyday as I make my scenic, freeway-free commute to work. One is the end of the day, and the other is lunch.

Neither ever gets here fast enough.

There's a strange phenomenon in advertising agencies I've talked about before here and here. People take themselves way too seriously. They think they're contributing something—shall we say, more meaningful—to society than they really are.

One way that kind of thinking reveals itself is by not going to lunch.

Apparently some agency people have talked themselves into thinking the work they're doing is too important to stop for lunch (it isn't), if they take a lunch break they'll fall behind (you won't), and that they can't go to lunch because what if the client calls? (News flash—the client's out to lunch).

You see these people in the kitchen between 11:45a.m. and 1p.m., loitering in front of the bad coffee, next to the dirty microwave waiting for it to ding. Then they're back at their desks, typing that Powerpoint presentation with one hand and eating Stouffer's Lasagna, again, with the other.

From where I sit, at the restaurant down the street waiting for my food to be brought to my table, it's a sad existence.

A few agencies I've been at cater lunch in every day. It's positioned as a nice, money-saving perk for the employees. But don't be fooled. Their intentions aren't that altruistic. They knows people take shorter lunches if they don't go out, so they can get more work hours out of them. As if just being there actually equalled productivity.

Anyone who's ever worked with me can tell you that's not true.

Personally, I have to make a break from the compound everyday. I spend too much time there already, and if I don't get out, feel the air, the sun and walk around a bit, it just feels like I'm biding time until my parole hearing.

I understand not wanting to spend money eating out every day. By the time you've split the check with the person who had a three-course meal while you had a cup of soup, and add tax and tip, you feel like you need a co-signer just to pay the check. But I think the more important thing to ask is what's the psychological cost of not going out for lunch at least once in awhile?

I have no idea either, but I'll bet it's pretty high.

The right connections

Assuming you're going to read this post—and I recognize that's a big assumption—are you going to read it all the way through the first time, or stop halfway, go do something else for an hour, then come back and finish it?

Stop talking, it's a rhetorical question.

If you're going to read it, you'll do it nonstop until you get to the end. And why wouldn't you? It's easier, it takes less time and you can get to whatever you're doing afterwards a lot faster.

All the same reasons I like to fly nonstop.

It's literally been 21 years since I last took a connecting flight somewhere. The only reason was because it was the only way I could get to a surprise birthday party I'd arranged for a friend who was shooting a movie in Ponca City, Oklahoma. If you've never been to Ponca City, the Walmart on Saturday night is the hot tip. You're welcome.

Of course, part of the reason it's been so long since I've been on a connecting flight is I usually fly to destinations that are easy to get to directly. San Francisco. Las Vegas. New York. Las Vegas. Seattle. Las Vegas. Portland. Las Vegas. Austin. You get the pattern.

With how much I love gambling (how could you tell?), you'd think I'd book connecting flights more often. It's always a roll of the dice whether or not it'll be on time, the connecting flight will be there when I land, or the weather will cooperate at the second airport of the day.

I was just in Iowa. I had to fly to Denver, connect to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, then drive an hour and a half to where I was going in Iowa. It was an adventure, but it wasn't fun.

Like visits to the dentist, prostate exams and tax returns, I just prefer to have it done and over with as soon as possible. But because of the airline hub structure, and my need to go to little out-of-the-way towns in Iowa, I don't have as much choice in the matter as I used to.

I suppose the thing to do would be to look at connecting flights as a way to see parts of the country I wouldn't normally see, fly a variety of aircraft I wouldn't otherwise get to experience and rack up more frequent flier miles than I might going nonstop.

I also suppose I could also look at kale as cotton candy, but that's not happening either.

Rustic never sleeps

You know the old saying—you can take the boy out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the boy. Whatever. I'd actually hoped that saying would propel me into some kind of pithy segue into this blogpost about the most rustic restaurant you'll ever eat at.

Come to find out I was wrong. So let's just dive straight in, shall we?

This past Sunday we took my son—a newly-minted 21-year old—to the Saddle Peak Lodge for his birthday brunch. The wife and I have been there many times over the years, but not recently. And when we were thinking about where to take him, my wife was the one who came up with the SPL, which like many of her ideas, was a brilliant one (Hear that? It's the sound of me scoring marriage points).

The SPL is definitely unlike any other restaurant in L.A. For one thing, it's not in L.A. You'll find it on the side of a mountain in Calabasas, about five miles up the road from Pepperdine University and the Malibu Colony on Pacific Coast Highway.

Like someplace out of the 1800's, the SPL is built from logs, and has stuffed animal heads hanging all over the walls, looking down at you while you're dining on the superb, pricey food. Maybe it's that I've been to Disneyland too many times, but I kept expecting the heads to turn and start talking and singing like at Country Bear Jamboree. Or maybe the scene from Diner. "You gonna finish that?" "If you want it, just say it!" "Well, if you're not gonna finish it..."

They didn't. But it would've been bitchin' if they did, amIright?

Dining there, you really feel you've gone somewhere away from the city, and time-traveled to a more genteel era. Or a more gentile era, if that's possible. I may be getting off track here.

Anyway, the point I'm getting at is its rustic charm and semi-isolated location (even though only a few miles from the coast and a freeway) makes it feel like more than a nice meal. It becomes an easy getaway.

Unlike the Rainforest Cafe or other fabricated "theme" restaurants, the SPL comes by its rustic charm honestly. According to its website:

"Part roadhouse, Pony Express stop, hunting lodge, European auberge, perhaps even a hint of a bordello, Saddle Peak Lodge has been many things to many people in its long history. For 100 years—some say even more—Saddle Peak Lodge has been a place of enchantment, romance and great dining for generations of those who seek a unique experience."

In case you were wondering, my son had steak and eggs, and to celebrate his new 21-ness, washed it down with a mimosa. I had Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and a heart-stopping good Hollandaise sauce. The wife enjoyed California Goat Cheese and Broccoli Quiche, you know, like they had in the old west.

Everything was exceptional.

The only suggestion I'd make is if you're going to dine there, it might be a better idea to visit at night. Away from the glare of the city lights, you can see the brilliant light of the stars against the dark blue blanket of the night sky. Also, the restaurant is decorated with lights inside and out. There's a lot of twinkly magic going on after the sun sets, and it brings out the enchanted quality even more.

Not to mention it hides all the bone-dry brush in the canyon that's one cigarette butt away from a raging inferno.

That might be the city boy talking.

A-maize-ing

Johnny Carson was born there. So was Ashton Kutcher. And The Duke himself, John Wayne. Herbert Hoover is from there. As are comedian Adam DeVine and actor Elijah Wood. TV Superman George Reeves hails not from Krypton, but from Woolstock, Iowa.

The point is a lot of famous things come out of Iowa. Not the least of which is corn.

I had my very first experience with Iowa this past weekend. Instead of going to one of the premier universities in the California system located virtually around the block from our house, my daughter had her heart set on a private college in Iowa, which we moved her into this past weekend.

Sure, it would've been nice to have her closer to home, but then we wouldn't get to pay out-of-state tuition, take two airplanes, drive two hours and travel 1,692 miles to see her. Apparently she doesn't know there's an east coast and it would've been even further from us. Maybe she'll learn about it in college.

Here's the thing about Iowa: cornfields everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean everywhere.

There's a certain beautiful monotony (Note to Rich Siegel: Beautiful Monotony, The Whiskey '06) to the rows of corn as you zip by them on the two-lane highways. And what it made me think about—besides how I was going to die when the driver of one of the eighteen-wheelers coming the other way fell asleep and slammed into me head on—was just how big a part cornfields have played in some of my favorite movies.

I know people don't like Signs because a) it stars Mel Gibson b) it's directed by M. Night Shyamalan and c) it's a story about faith lost and found, and not aliens (for the most part). But it does have Joacquin Phoenix, German Shepherds and cornfields, so that makes it a must see in my book.

The ultimate father-son film couldn't help but be corny. Field Of Dreams takes place almost entirely in an Iowa cornfield. One of the ball players in the movie asks Kevin Costner, "Is this heaven?" To which he responds, "No, it's Iowa." Boy is it.

The first film anyone mentions when I say cornfield is Children of the Corn. Not exactly quality motion picture faire, but a horror classic for it's kitschiness and that tall, ugly red-headed kid. That short kid is yelling and chewing scenery all throughout the movie. Good thing most of it's edible.

Lions and tigers and corn, oh my. Perennial favorite The Wizard Of Oz not only has a cornfield, but a talking, singing and dancing scarecrow right in the middle of it. Ironically, the song the scarecrow sings is the same one our fake president sings to himself every night.

The other thing Iowa (and South Dakota where I connected through) have plenty of are the nicest people I've ever met anywhere. It's startling how genuine they are. Glad to see you, ready to help, open and honest, it really is a refreshing change of pace.

Now if they could just truck that to the big cities the same way they do their corn.

Start spreading the news

Even though you could probably guess, I'll say it anyway—I love New York. It's the best city in the world, and it vibrates with talent, creativity and possibilities.

As a theater arts major, the fact there's a city where I can go to a Broadway play or two every day is a little bit of heaven on earth for me. I'm always looking for reasons to hop a plane and go there. Fortunately, over the past few years, I've had a couple very good reasons to visit.

The first was to see my friend Holland Taylor perform at the Vivian Beaumont Theater at Lincoln Center in ANN, the play she wrote and starred in about former Texas governor Ann Richards. It was a master class in acting watching Holland literally inhabit the spirt of Ann Richards.

Now you say, "Oh sure, of course he'd say that. He knows her." Just to be clear, she received a Tony nomination for Best Performance By A Leading Actress In A Play for her performance, so apparently I wasn't alone in my thinking.

This past April, the family and I hopped a plane to NY to see Hamilton. We'd had the tickets for a year, and even though it was coming to Los Angeles, we wanted to see it on Broadway. It's one of those rare plays that transcends the massive hype around it—for all you've heard, it's even better than that.

This October, I have yet another reason to head east. I don't know if you know this, but there's this singer from New Jersey I like quite a bit. Come to find out he's doing an 8-week residency on Broadway at the Walter Kerr Theater. It will be a night of stories, music, with just him, the guitar and piano. It's a 946-seat theater, the smallest venue Bruce has played in 35 years. And I'm going to guess at that size, there are no bad seats.

For as hard as it is to get tickets to a regular Springsteen concert, I'm going to wish it was that easy come August 30th when they go on sale. I've already seen one estimate that said it'll sell out in 45 seconds.

While Bruce has never done a show this intimate, I imagine it will look and sound a little something along these lines, minus the farm:

I'm going to say my prayers, keep my fingers crossed, live right, and be nice to everyone I know in New York and just hope I can see this once-in-a-lifetime Springsteen show. I know, I can hear you saying, "Geez, hasn't he been to a billion Springsteen shows? When's it going to be enough?"

That's easy. Never.

Yes, Iowa

If you know anything about me—and seriously, if you don't by now then we have nothing to talk about—you know that underneath this winsome, easygoing and slightly-overweight-but-still-brutally-handsome exterior lies the restless spirit of a globetrotting vagabond.

In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't asked for it back - BAM! I'll be here all week.

So knowing that, you might be asking yourself about now what exotic destination my travels will take me to next. Belize? Madagascar? Nepal? Fiji? Sadly, no. My next trip, coming up next week, will find me in two places I've never been in my life. And up until now had no reason to go. First is Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Followed by Orange City, Iowa.

Don't be jealous. It's such an ugly emotion.

Why those two cities? Well, I have to go through the first one to get to the second. And the reason I'm going is to take my daughter to college as she starts her freshman year.

I'll bet you're asking why she's not going to the world-class university located just blocks from us, even though she was accepted there and could live rent free at home. I've asked that my own self. I suppose the answer is I'm not the only one with a restless vagabond spirit.

The good news is the more I learn about Iowa, the more interesting it becomes. No really.

For instance, James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the starship Enterprise was born in Riverside, Iowa.

The Field of Dreams location, yes, that Field of Dreams, suits up in Dyersville, Iowa—a mere four and a half hour drive from Orange City.

Quaker Oats, world's largest cereal company, is in Cedar Rapids.

Meredith Wilson, who, I don't have to tell you, wrote The Music Man, is from Mason City, Iowa.

I'm completely going against my nature here, and not just because I'm taking a connecting flight. I mean I'm trying to be optimistic by looking at this Iowa trek (see what I did there?) as a big adventure.

Besides all the new things and places I'll be seeing, I'll also be a Jewish Democrat in a part of the country I'm pretty sure doesn't have very many of either. So I'll be as novel to them as they are to me.

I hope my girl is looking at it as an adventure as well, because the going-away-to-college years are one of the great life experiences not to be missed.

And, according to her, neither is Iowa.

Fighting fire with fire and fury

I've seriously stopped counting how many ways our dipshit, liar-in-chief, fake president, and Putin's personal lapdog, is unqualified to hold the position he has. Frankly, I can't count that high. But here's a good example that happened just today: apparently he's decided to fight stupid with stupid. On learning news North Korea most likely has been able to miniaturize a nuclear warhead that can sit on top of a missile aimed at the west coast of the U.S., Trump said they'd better stop making threats or they'd face "fire and fury like the world has never known." He then followed it up with "Nyah, nyah, nyah."

I suppose there are two ways to look at this. First, Trump is smarter than any of us think, and he's speaking in language the chubby psycho with the bad haircut in North Korea understands. But more likely, he's an idiot completely ignorant of the ramifications of the sabre-rattling he's doing, trying to overcompensate for a dick he couldn't find with a flashlight and a search party, and at the same time edging us closer to nuclear conflict than we've been since the '60s.

And what does he care? He'll be holed up in his gold-leafed bomb shelter, watching Hannity on Fox News and Dancing With The Stars, complaining how unfair North Korea is being to him.

Or maybe it's just all a rouse to get Melania to finally hold hands with him (insert small hands joke here).

Regardless, this is what happens when hillbillies, greedy billionaires and spineless Republicans give nuclear codes to clowns.

At any rate, with all this going on it seemed like a good day to repost this piece, which was originally called "Gimme shelter, or not." It's a little personal plan of attack (pardon the phrase) if you will about what to do as we reach the final chapter.

Put on your sunglasses, pop open a beer, rev up the credit cards and grab that guy or gal you've been thinking about. The big bang is getting serious. Please to enjoy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, get to Vegas.

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

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

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

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

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

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

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

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

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

Where never is heard an encouraging word

Work in advertising long enough, and you realize despite all the books, effective management style classes and lists on the subject, there really are only two kinds of bosses in the agency world.

Command and control. And nurture and inspire.

Unfortunately, agencies are usually lousy with the first kind and scarce on the second.

There isn't a creative working that hasn't felt the clumsy, heavy-handed thumbprints of an overbearing creative director on their work.

For some reason (cough "ego" cough "insecurity" cough cough "douchecentric personality disorder" cough), they feel the need to "make the work their own," agency code for "Just put my name on the award show entry form." and "I think I'll stay at the International Carlton at Cannes this year."

Having been a creative director, I always made it a point never to forget what it's like to present work. And being a copywriter, I never forget what goes into coming up with those ideas. So I always went the nurture and inspire route.

Here's the dirty secret about being a creative director: it's a lot easier than some of them make it look. The trick is to hire great people, make sure they don't run off the rails, clear the path by running interference for them, then get out of their way and let them do what you hired them to do.

Their success is your success. Bask in the glow. Repeat.

I'd like to suggest not only creative directors, but everyone in agencies—and in life for that matter—try to be more encouraging, supportive and inspiring to their colleagues. It's not a lot to ask, and it is the golden rule after all—or at least golden rule adjacent. Be the kind of person people want to work for - it's how you'll get the best work out of them.

After all, you've already got the job.