Au revoir

You don't have enough paper, or a monitor big enough to list all the things I'm not good at. There just aren't enough hours in the day. But if you decided you had nothing better to do than to try, at the very top would have to be saying goodbye to my children when they're taking off somewhere.

Lets start here: I want them to travel the world, be explorers and adventurers, have experiences and memories that will shape who they are and widen their horizons.

It's just that I hate saying goodbye to them.

When my daughter went on her 8th grade class trip back east I was a mess. When they left us to fly home from New York together it brought me to tears. When my son went to UT in Austin, you could've mopped the streets with me.

Then when he transferred back and I saw the grocery bills, well, I digress.

So today was another one. He took off about an hour ago for Paris, with a couple of days planned for a side trip to London. He'll be meeting up and traveling with a good friend of his, and he'll be staying with a good friend of mine in London. Plus, if he has any questions at all about Paris, he knows how to get hold of my friend Janice MacLeod, who literally wrote the book on it.

I'm excited for him, but I hate to see him go. But let's be clear again—I do want him to go.

What makes it harder is he's not traveling in the world I traveled in. It's a lot more dangerous, although at least he's going to two cities that are probably among the safest in the world right now for all the wrong reasons.

See, that part right there? You know what that is? That's the parent tax anyone with children pays every day. It's that low, constant hum of white noise in the back of your brain asking "Are they alright? Are they safe? Are they being careful?" You come to understand it's the reason our parents still treat us like kids no matter how old we get. They'll never stop. And I suppose I won't either.

So, I put on my brave face, bid my boy au revoir, wish him a safe, wonderful and exciting (in the good way) trip. And when he returns in a week, his horizons will have been widened, his world view expanded and his budget blown.

But then I was already thinking this was going to cost me a few Euros by the time it's all over.

The envelope please

There are conflicting perceptions about what it's like to work in advertising.

The first, and I believe more commonly held belief, is that it's a contemptible, gutter occupation right down there with used car salesman, personal injury lawyer and income tax auditor.

The second is that it's a glamour-filled, creatively-driven, Hollywood-adjacent profession loaded with travel to exotic places and awards with stupid names that take up lots of shelf space.

Both are correct. But sometimes the pendulum swings more to one side than the other.

Case in point would be the assignment my art director partner and I just got: to design a window envelope for one of our clients.

Now, I say my art director and I, but this kind of assignment is what I like to call "an art problem." My partner, being the perfectionist she is, will attack this assignment with the same intensity she'd give a global branding campaign. Me? I'll probably head out for lunch.

The point is all that glitters isn't gold pencils when it comes to assignments in ad agencies.

Just because I had nothing better to do, when we kicked-off the assignment (yes we had a kick-off for an envelope), I asked about the strategy, data indicating need for an envelope, wanted to see examples of competing envelopes, needed to hear any "insights" the planner had on envelopes.

You can't do the job if you don't have the information. And even if I had the information I couldn't do the job. Art problem.

So in between social and digital campaigns, national branding brainstorming, new product introduction campaigns and assorted other communication channel assignments, I'll be right there in spirit with my partner while she designs the four or five window envelope options the client will want to see.

But as far as this particular assignment goes, I'm mailing it in.

Where's my parade?

I'm not gonna lie—I'm feeling a recognition shortage when it comes to appreciation for the many things I do for others. As you can imagine, being an only child makes this feeling of not being the center of the universe something I'm completely unfamiliar with.

Here's the most recent example of how I go out of my way to make life better for the people I love, as well as those around me.

Yesterday, I realized the family was double booked for Saturday night, August 12th. I know, right? We had tickets to both Straight No Chaser at the Greek Theater and to The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night Time at the Ahmanson Theater at the Music Center. A decision had to be made, and quickly.

Realizing immediately I couldn't change the concert date, but as an Ahmanson subscriber could exchange those tickets, I called the Music Center box office. I talked with Raphael, a subscriber concierge who spoke with a slightly affected accent and more than a hint of condescension in his voice.

Nevertheless, I persisted.

After finding some equal ground and achievable objectives we could agree on, Raphael then exchanged my four tickets for a week earlier, considerably better orchestra seats, much further up and dead center. Sure, he let me know it wasn't an even exchange and there was an additional fee required, but I didn't hesitate. I fired up the VISA card and paid it.

Giver, remember?

It wasn't easy or fun, took time out of my day and cost me money. But I did it for the same reason Walter White started his meth empire: for the family.

Maybe it's because I work in advertising, where recognition is a form of currency, awards are highly sought after (even if you don't go to Cannes to get them) and getting attention is the name of the game. Or maybe it's just being an only child and a glory hog.

Who's to say?

All I know is recognition or not, I'll keep going out of my way to take on the jobs that have to be done that no one else wants to do.

For example tonight, I'm setting the table for the family. Whether anyone notices or not.

Where's Wilford Brimley when you need him?

Wilford Brimley takes a lot of heat because of those stupid Quaker Oats commercials he did years ago. I didn't like 'em either, but I get it: there ain't no shame in making the rent.

From The China Syndrome to The Firm to The Thing to any number of other films that start with "The", Brimley has had an interesting career chock full of exceptional performances.

The one I want to talk about here is the character he played in a great, too-little-seen movie called Absence Of Malice, starring alongside Sally Field and Paul Newman. Brimley played Assistant U.S. Attorney General James A. Wells, a no nonsense, straight-shooting public servant who was going to do what it took to get to the truth.

He didn't suffer fools lightly.

Speaking of fools, I was watching the Senate committee hearings and the testimony, such as it was, of Jeff "I do not recall" Sessions today. While I was, it dawned on me how much more streamlined and quickly the proceedings would go if Brimley's character was doing the questioning.

Have a read of some of his quotes, and see how easy it is to imagine how much better things would be going if he was in charge.

"Now we'll talk all day if you want to. But, come sundown, there's gonna be two things true that ain't true now. One is that the United States Department of Justice is goin' to know what in the good Christ - e'scuse me, Angie - is goin' on around here. And the other's I'm gonna have somebody's ass in muh briefcase".

"You had a leak? You call what's goin' on around here a leak? Boy, the last time there was a leak like this, Noah built hisself a boat."

"Tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna sit right here and talk about it. Now if you get tired of talking here, Mr. Marshal Elving Patrick there will hand you one of them subpoenas he's got stuck down in his pocket and we'll go downstairs and talk in front of the grand jury."

It only speaks to how surreal and desperate the current situation is that I'm wishing a fictional character would come rescue us.

But maybe it's going to take a fake person to get rid of a fake president.