Goodbye Bill Paxton

Here's how I met Bill Paxton.

One of my best friends and my best man Scott Thomson was filming Twister in Ponca City, Oklahoma. Coincidentally, Scott was going to have a rather significant birthday while he was shooting. So the wife and I decided to fly out there and throw him a surprise party to celebrate the occasion. We also thought it might be a hoot to take in the sites Ponca City had to offer—one of which was the WalMart on a Saturday night. Whole other post.

Anyway, with Apollo 13 taking off (no pun intended), in order not to be bothered Bill didn't use his own name when he checked into hotels. In one of the conversations we had while he was filming, Scott happened to drop the name Bill did use. I made note of it, then called the luxurious Holiday Inn the cast was staying at, got hold of Bill and we proceeded to plan Scott's party.

Unfortunately, on the weekend we were going to have it, Bill was going to be in Houston doing PR for Apollo 13. But we set it up, and since we were flying in on Friday would have a chance to speak with him before he took off for his home state of Texas.

Bill was one of Scott's best friends, and we'd heard a lot about him over the years. We were excited to meet him.

Scott introduced us, and with a firm handshake and smile as wide as Texas—with a drawl to go along with it—Bill said hi to us. He was gracious, funny, energetic and didn't let on at all we'd been talking and planning Scott's party.

I don't remember exactly what my wife said to him, but the answer Bill gave in his Texas drawl, with a little Elvis thrown in, is a line we use to this day, and deliver in Bill's voice: "That's right baby.""

The next time I met Bill was at an Academy screening of a film he directed called Frailty. He was in a whirlwind that night, but he took time to speak with me and we reminisced a bit about the time we spent on set with him watching them film Twister.

My other memory of the party by the way is being in the basement of the Ponca City VFW, playing Barrel Of Monkeys with Helen Hunt, which I wrote about briefly here. She won, but I don't hold it against her.

You hear the term "underrated" a lot when people write or speak about Bill Paxton. But it doesn't quite jive with the place he held in the industry. Well respected and well liked by his peers, he was money in the bank. A guaranteed great performance given with everything he had, regardless of the medium, the material or the location.

Just this week I watched Bill in A Simple Plan, one of my favorite films. I know from Scott he had a less than fun time filming the movie, but testimony to his exceptional talent, it's one of the best performances he's ever given. There are dozens of reviews to back me up on that.

I'm going to miss Bill. He was always a bright light for me whenever I saw him on screen. Rare as an actor, even rarer as a person, Bill was one of those personalities deeply liked by everyone he encountered.

There was so much more of his talent to be revealed. But for now, all I can do is be grateful for having met him, and the work he leaves behind.

That's right baby. Rest in peace.

FAQ this

It's become as much of an accepted acronym as LOL, OMG, WTF, SMH, IMHO, SWIDT (my personal favorite) and TBT. I'm speaking of FAQ.

It stands for Frequently Asked Questions, and you'll find a link to it on virtually every company website you visit. There you'll find the same questions every other person in your situation asks over and over, along with many no one asks. It's supposed to be a convenient way to get answers when you need them.

The operative word is supposed.

From personal experience, I think a more appropriate name for these sections would be FUQ - Frequently Unanswered Questions. More times than not, they don't even come close to addressing the issue at hand.

In those instances, I'm made to go to the contact section, where I then have to spend time tracking down a phone number to reach a voicemail thread to find an extension to leave a message for the assistant of the person who might be able to answer my question. Right after they route my call through the customer service rep in Kuala Lumpur.

Or I could just let it go. But if you know anything about me, and really, if you've been following this blog for any amount of time you should know everything about me, you know letting things go just isn't in my wheelhouse.

Usually what winds up happening is I don't get an adequate answer—meaning the one I'm looking for—and then I sit my ever expanding derriere down at the laptop and fire off a Jeff Letter to the CEO of whatever company I'm having the dispute with.

To help you get your questions answered, and because I'm a giver, here's my FAQ section regarding Jeff Letters.

Should I send my letter email?

I don't usually send an email. When I have an issue I want the top dog to take seriously, in my experience a letter on my personal stationary, sent snail mail, with a Harry Potter postage stamp seems to have more heft and impact. Emails are easily ignored. CEOs like clean desktops, they don't want hard copy letters lying around. If you're out of Harry Potter stamps, use the Star Trek ones.

How do I know they'll give me the answer I want?

I always ask for the order. I don't leave it up to them how to resolve the situation. With full bluntness and tone that lets them know I mean business but isn't overly aggressive, I ask for what I want. That way they know what I'm expecting. Most of the time it works, and many times they'll even go above and beyond to make sure they keep your business.

What do I do after they've gotten back to me?

Once they've replied in a positive manner, and taken the action I've asked for, I make a point of sending a follow up letter thanking them. They get complaint letters all the time. Complimentary ones are a breath of fresh air for them, and will help get you remembered should you have to contact them again. Besides, in letters, as in life, manners count for a lot.

Does your personal website have an FAQ section?

As a matter of fact it doesn't. I use this blog to answer most of the questions I get.

What if I can't be bothered to follow your blog?

You don't really want to hear my answer to that.

Flying Solo

Very often people confuse Hollywood movie stars with the characters they play.

For example, I'm fairly sure Christian Bale isn't Batman. James McAvoy doesn't have twenty-three different personalities. Tom Hanks doesn't sit on park benches eating chocolates. And apparently Harrison Ford isn't quite the pilot Han Solo is.

In his second publicized airplane event, Ford mistakenly landed on the taxiway instead of the runway at John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California. In the process, he flew dangerously close over an American Airlines 737 that was on the taxiway waiting for clearance to take off.

Contrary to popular belief, after airport officials questioned him, his first question was not, "You mean this isn't Alderaan?"

Landing a role isn't like landing a plane. And unlike his Star Wars aircraft, there was no chance his old biplane was going to make the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs.

Instead, it just sputtered to a bad landing, which may cost Ford suspension or even revocation of his pilot's license.

This incident comes on the heels of bringing his plane down for a hard landing on a golf course in Santa Monica a couple years ago, and being seriously injured in the process.

Commercial pilots have a mandatory retirement age of 65. Ford is 74. And even though there's no such age limit for recreational pilots, and while he's an experienced, respected one, there does come a time when reflexes, vision, concentration, memory and alertness just aren't what they used to be.

For me that time is in status meetings.

Anyway, in the same way I believe drivers of a certain age should be required to regularly prove their abilities before they get behind the wheel, pilots should also have to be tested to see if they're airworthy.

My guess is that Ford will just get a temporary suspension of his license, and then be back in the air. It's one of the perks of being one of the biggest movie stars in the world. And naturally, however long that suspension is, at the end of it he'll be even older than he is now.

Or as Han would say, "Here's where the real fun starts."

What looks good?

As someone who's binged Breaking Bad ten times, seen every single show—not tour, show—that Bruce Springsteen's done in Los Angeles since '78, stays standing at the craps tables long after my legs and budget have given out, and drinks Coca-Cola with the same joy and frequency as Eric Northman necking (see what I did there?) on True Blood, there's a slim to none chance of anyone ever accusing me of doing things in moderation.

But even with my compulsion to over-enjoy things I like, there are places I firmly believe a little moderation is in order. Menus for example (Menus? In order? Thanks, I'll be here all week).

I think the number of items listed on a menu should be like the food itself: not too little, not too much. Just enough to satisfy. When I'm hungry, I don't want to sit down with a spiral-bound menu the size of the yellow pages and read through it. I want to see sections I like, find the item, get the order in and start scarfing.

Of course what makes a monster menu easier to navigate is the same thing that makes shopping on Amazon quicker: knowing what you want going in. If the menu's that big, they'll either have whatever I'm in the mood for or probably be able to whip it up.

At the restaurant, not Amazon.

For my dining dollar, the best menu in town is In-N-Out.

Simple, friendly, easy to navigate in a hurry, it's essentially the same as it was the day they opened in 1948.

They're a little sly about the fact they have more items than they list, but with the tiniest bit of detective work you'll find the additional dishes on their not-so-secret hidden menu.

What's great about the hidden menu is when I ask for something no one around me sees on the displayed menu, I feel like a real insider, a person in the know. It makes me feel special.

Okay, it's just a hamburger place, but I'll take my self-esteem where I can find it.

Where was I? Oh right. To the everyday diner, the regular In-N-Out menu is a quick glance and an easy decision, which is exactly the way menus should be at every restaurant. To be fair, I suppose there's a certain mood-setting that happens when you have to ponder the menu for a while. But if I'm at a restaurant, my mood is already set on hungry.

I'm not gonna lie, after all this talk of menus and food I'm starving. It's probably time to drag myself out and get something to eat.

Right after I finish Season 4, Episode 7 of Breaking Bad. Again.

Comedy tonight

I don't know about you, but with all that's going on in the world I could use a few laughs. So I decided to go find some. I have three two-man routines that usually bring a smile to my face and take me away from thinking about the nightmare in Washington D.C. for a few minutes.

The Peter Cook/Dudley Moore sketch from the Secret Policemen's Ball never ceases to amuse. Most people remember Dudley Moore from the movies Arthur and 10. But long before, him and Peter Cooke were part of a comedy revue called Beyond The Fringe. And in this reunion piece, it's clear they haven't skipped a beat.

Watching Abbott and Costello perform their classic Who's On First always leaves me in awe. Not just because of their flawless timing, but also the brilliant intricacy of the writing and total commitment to the performance.

Finally, the Smothers Brothers. They've always held a special place for me, even more so after I wound up years ago having breakfast with Tommy Smothers.

Anyway, if you're anything like me - and seriously, if you are you need to set your role model goals higher - these three sketches will bring a smile to your face as well.

Settle in, and enjoy.

I've always loved Nordstrom

Since this has been a stellar news day for Nordstrom, I decided to go back into the Rotation and Balance archives—all the way to May 2010—and repost an experience I had with them that's forever made me an advocate for the store as well as a regular customer.

Of course, the reason they're in the news today is that they've decided not to continue their business relationship with Ivanka Trump, which means they won't be carrying her merchandise. The reason is because it wasn't selling. Ivanka's dad, the so-called president and liar-in-chief, thinks it was a political move against him.

Here's a little lesson in economics and American capitalism, just in case he's taking a tweet break and having someone read this to him: if it sells, it stays. Simple as that.

The decision wasn't political, but it did coincidentally align with my political leanings. So naturally I was happy about it.

Anyway, I've always loved Nordstrom's, and this post will tell you why. They're an extraordinary store when it comes to customer service. For example, if you bought Ivanka Trump merchandise in the past, I'm sure they'll let you return it with or without a receipt.

You're welcome. And please to enjoy.

There are things in this world I admit I'll never understand. How deep the ocean is. The vastness of the universe. My income tax forms. And why every store can't offer the same extraordinary level of customer service as Nordstrom.

There's such a thing as going the extra step, and then there's going above and beyond above and beyond. Which is exactly what Nordstom's did for me.

If you know me at all, you know I practically live in black shirts. Specifically lightweight, black corduroy shirts from Nordstrom. These magnificent shirts are incredibly comfortable and amazingly versatile. They're equally at home whether the occasion is formal or casual. They save me a lot of decision making when it comes to what I'm going to wear - kind of like Jeff Goldblum's closet filled with all the same outfits in The Fly. (Point of fact: I'm much more careful going through the transponder).

But I digress.

When I first saw these shirts, it was love. So I bought four of them, thinking that would be plenty to last me. But the years take their toll, and the shirts became threadbare, torn, and faded. I admit I took them for granted. I always thought I'd just be able to hop over to Nordstrom and get some more.

Come to find out that wasn't the case.

When I couldn't find them in the store, I went online. They weren't there either. So I sent an email to a Nordstrom customer service person who replied they no longer carried the shirts and weren't planning on getting them in. I asked if they could special order them, and the answer was a polite no.

Here's the thing - "no" is not an answer I'm fond of taking. I decided to take my case higher up the Nordstrom food chain.

I got the name of a senior management person - let's call him Dave - who I thought might be a good person to talk to. After explaining my situation in an email to him, he said he'd see what he could do and get back to me.

Not only did he get back to me, he got back with the answer I was hoping for.

He said even though they didn't stock the shirts, there was a person in their product development department - let's call her Annie - who could make it happen. Annie figured out that they had enough of the material to make four sample shirts. They'd be made at the sample shop instead of on the line, dyed black, hand-stitched, and they'd be just like the original shirts.

Except custom ordered, hand-made and mine.

So the shirts will arrive this week. I'm forever grateful to Dave for his responsiveness, and Annie for her extraordinary efforts to insure I got the merchandise I was looking for. And to both of them for demonstrating that genuine customer service does still exist.

When you see me wearing one, you may not know it's one of the shirts that Nordstrom hand-made for me.

Don't worry. I'll tell you.

I Can't Make You Love Me

Every once in a while, I like to fire up one of my wildly popular, often asked for and reoccurring series on here, like Don't Ask, What Took So Long or Guilty Pleasures. This particular series doesn't have a name, but it's the one where I compare and contrast different versions of the same song. Yeah, that one.

If you follow this blog regularly, as you should because, after all, it is your best entertainment value, you'll remember I've done it for classics like Stand By Me and Tracks Of My Tears to name a couple.

I feel it's important for us as a culture to hear different interpretations of the same material, experience the nuances in varying performances and take time to realize how each version resonates with us in different ways.

It's also an easy post when I can't come up with anything else to write about.

Anyway, since I haven't done it in a long time, and I need a break from my political rants like this one and this one, and let's not forget this one, tonight I'm doing it again.

The song du jour is the Bonnie Raitt classic I Can't Make You Love Me. Here you'll see and hear her version, and artists like Adele, George Michael and Tank doing their magic with it.

Romantic? Sure. Melancholy? No doubt. Poignant? Without question. But enough about me.

Please to enjoy.

A way out

If you follow me on Facebook, you know what was once a snarky, funny, advertising-bashing feed has turned into one long, deservedly anti-Trump rant 24/7. In light of that, this post may surprise you with its sympathetic tone.

Here's what we all know: Mr. Trump never thought he was going to win the presidency, which was fine with him because he never really wanted the job. What he wanted was publicity and his name in the papers and broadcast news everyday. Then he was going to leverage his provable popularity into a favorable deal for a Trump Network, where one can only assume you'd be able to find reruns of man-crush Sean Hannity, and yet another reboot of the Odd Couple starring Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh (SPOILER ALERT: Limbaugh's the sloppy one).

I know the nation wants a way out, and doggone it, judging from how tired he looks and incoherent his thoughts seem to be, I bet Mr. Trump does too.

I'd like to suggest he write a resignation letter, a bold, unexpectedly honest letter to the Secretary of State—who is the person who accepts that letter—and the nation, and simply explain the situation.

And because I'm a giver at heart, I'd like to offer him this draft:

Dear Mr. Secretary of State,

Well, it's been a crazy few weeks. Certainly far more active in every sense than I would've expected. Executive orders, banning Muslims, repealing Obamacare, the protests. Frankly, I'm spent.

Here's the thing: I never wanted the job. I had the kind of life many people admired. Money, beautiful wife, children I like a great deal, my own building in mid-town Manhattan. Don't forget the jet—pretty nice rolling up to runway 25 Left and seeing that baby fueled and ready.

Anyway, the point is I'm tendering my resignation as President of the United States. I believe my biggest campaign promise of bringing the nation together has been done. Mission accomplished. Have you seen those protests? You tell me the last time people were united like that. You're welcome.

Effective immediately, Mike Pence will assume the office of President. Now, Pence is not the ideal man for the job, and let's face it—I'm a tough act to follow. But he knows how government works much better than I do, and he's less likely to launch the missiles over a disagreement. I can admit it, I've got a temper. I'm working on it.

Besides, I was never going to help my base anyway. Did they really think I cared if they had jobs or not? I mean, I could hire a few of them to pull weeds on the back nine at Mar-A-Lago, but that would still leave a lot of them needing jobs.

I know the mayhem I've caused. But it was a wild ride, no? And Pence will look like a hero just for not getting everyone killed. You're welcome Mike.

I also miss Melania. She never cared for D.C. very much, and I can't blame her. I want to be back at Trump Tower, tweeting without all these people telling me not to, and not causing havoc when I say what's on my mind. Which, as you know, is subject to change even within the same sentence.

Frankly, the longer I'm here the more I recognize two things. First, who needs the aggravation? And number two, Obama handled this much better than I can. He's smart, he's calm, he's well spoken. For a guy born in Kenya, you can't do better.

So that's it. United the people. Put America first. Got Alec Baldwin a steady gig. It's time to go back to private life. Johnny, fuel Trump One for take off. Moscow, then Manhattan.

It's been tremendous people, but we're done here. God bless me, and God bless the United States of America.

Although they won't need it nearly as much now that I'm gone.

Yours truly,
President the Donald

Limited menu

I'm married to an insanely great chef. She has a degree in Culinary Arts, she's cooked at the James Beard Foundation in New York and she was a pastry chef at an upscale, white tablecloth restaurant called Amis. She's one of those frustratingly creative chefs who can open a cabinet, see a box of rice, a bottle of syrup and some week-old crackers and whip up a spectacular meal from it. Including dessert.

Needless to say we eat pretty well around here.

You'd think with all the meals she's made for the family, and all the years we've been married, some of that culinary know-how would've rubbed off on me. You'd think that. But you'd be wrong. Cooking wise, I'm still pretty much at the same skill level as when I came into the marriage. One thing I know how to make, and make pretty damn well, is meat squares.

Hang on, I'll tell you.

First you go to the market and get some ground beef. A pound, two pounds, three pounds depending on how many people you're feeding. Then you mix it up with ketchup, onions and some salt and pepper. Mix it up good, and flatten it into a square Pyrex dish. Place in oven at 350 degrees for twenty minutes, then serve to a grateful, hungry public.

I know meat squares isn't the most appetizing name. It even sounds like a euphemism for something far less savory. But when you bring that hot meat square out of the oven—I prefer using the Hello Kitty oven mits—I guarantee mouths will be watering. They may be watering for something else, but still.

The other dish in my pre-marriage repertoire is a little item I like to call the open-face, reverse turkey melt. Here's how it goes.

Take two pieces of bread, I prefer sourdough. Then squirt the ketchup of your choice into a design of your choice on each of the slices. Sometimes I'll make a happy face, other times it'll be the sun with ketchup rays emanating from the sides. One time I tried to do the comedy and tragedy masks, one on each slice. Let's just say tragedy won out.

Next, put a couple slices of turkey on each slice of bread, and sprinkle some shredded pepperjack cheese over each slice. Then put them your toaster oven for four and half minutes at 275 degrees.

When the little bell dings, out comes a hot, cheesy, delicious, almost real tasting meal.

Of course, the good news is I don't have to make a meal for myself very often. It's intimidating being married to someone who can cook anything when I'm only limited to a couple dishes of my own. Don't get me wrong, I can do a few other things. Eggs scrambled or over easy. Put pasta in boiling water. If I'm feeling particularly healthy, even steam some broccoli. But those things aren't my creations. I just know how to do them.

As a gift the wife gave me two cooking classes at Sur La Table not too long ago. I took the first one, which was called The Ten Things Every Chef Should Know.

In my cookbook, number eleven is meat squares.

Eating healthier

If you work in an agency, you already know you're surrounded by many things.

Foam core. Account planners. Knit beanies. T-shirts with ironic sayings. Storyboards. Conference rooms. Ideas both great and wretched. Millennials. Broken printers. And, most importantly, food.

Agencies can come up short on the big idea, results, deadlines and insights. But one thing they're never wanting for is food.

It comes in all forms: leftovers from client and vendor meetings, food brought in for late night work (allegedly) sessions, donuts because someone felt breakfast is the most important meal. And when you work in an agency that has it's own café and barista, there are always snacks.

Snacks come in two forms: unhealthy, and the illusion of healthy. I prefer the illusion of healthy. For example today I had these. They're made with real fruit. They have 100% of my daily vitamin C requirement. Fat free. And gluten free, which means you can eat them in Los Angeles.

Right under the banner that reads Mixed Fruit is the disclaimer Natural and Artificial Fruit.

Well sure, but there's nothing artificial about the way these little gummy fruits taste.

I suppose if I was under oath I'd have to admit there are apples, bananas and those little Cutie tangerines on the counter next to the cookies, chips, candy and these "fruit mix" packs.

But then again, no one's under oath here.

Hearing it differently

I've always been a big fan of Ben E. King's Stand By Me (if you recall, and I believe you should have perfect recall of every post I write, I posted an article with several versions of the song here). To me, it's not just one of the great vocals of all time, but also one of the great songs of all time in its purity and simplicity.

Like everything else in life, what it means and who it's being sung to are open to interpretation. Over the years when I've heard it, I've often thought it was a song about lovers and loyalty, staying with each other no matter what.

But today, I have a different take on it.

Here's my truth: it's getting harder and harder to maintain a sense of humor when our country is being dismantled by a mentally unstable, billionaire (?) dictator and the neo-Nazi pulling his strings behind the curtain. I wake up with a sick sense of dread every day, convinced it can't be happening, yet slapped in the face by the reality of the situation with every newscast and social media post about politics.

I know I'm not the only one. There are at least seventy million in this boat with me.

Not to sound preachy (although it may be too late for that), smug or sanctimonious, but in this stark, stripped-down version of Stand By Me sung by Tracy Chapman—which I left out of my original post about the song—I hear something different. In this version, in this time, in this country, it feels like the voices of democracy, decency, morality, kindness, humanity and all things good crying out for us not to abandon them. Is hearing verses about the sky falling and mountains crumbling so far fetched in a time when an egotistical, ignorant, morally and intellectually bankrupt liar has control of the nuclear arsenal? Is it?

This particular version, to me, is everything good about America crying out, asking us to save her and be there for her.

I plan on doing that every second this narcissistic sociopath manages to stay in office.

Again, I know I'm not the only one.