Nothing but grateful

Despite the fact I’m an only child and the world revolves around me (that’s just science, look it up), I’ve always had a grateful heart and a thankful attitude. I appreciate there’s one day a year designated for celebrating our gratitude, but I think a better approach is to practice it everyday.

Ok, so it’s not going to be my funniest post.

Anyway, between the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade hosted by Savannah Guthrie and Hoda Kotb (It’s the Riverside City College marching band!) and the generically titled National Dog Show (where the German Shepherd came in fourth – rigged), I started thinking about things I’m grateful for, not just today but everyday.

I know what you’re thinking: is he going to tell us or not? I won't keep you in suspense - I am.

I’m grateful for my wife and children. I’d say they somehow manage to put up with my craziness and idiosyncracies and love me in spite of them, except that—and they’d be the first to tell you this—I’m the perfect husband and father. I know, they can hardly believe it either.

I’m grateful I enjoy almost all the people I work with. They’re creative, funny, smart and they challenge me in a positive way to raise my game. I spend a lot of my life with them, so it’s a good thing I feel that way. Except for that one guy—he’s a total asshat.

Grateful for my long-time friends, the one’s I’ve known forever and even though I don’t see as much as I like, can pick up right where we left off. The conversation usually goes something like this: ME: Hey, remember that $500 I loaned you that time we were in Vegas? THEM: I’m pretty sure I paid you back. ME: You didn’t. THEM: Huh. Ok. When I get home I’ll get it to you. (Fast forward ten years) ME: Remember that $500 I loaned you that time we were in Vegas?

I’m grateful for my good health. Despite having to do a little more maintenance than I used to, I’m in pretty good shape. Could stand to lose a few pounds, but I don’t think this is the day to be thinking about that. In fact, I probably won’t worry about it until after the Olympic trials.

So grateful for my dogs. Unconditional love in both directions. They’re both beautiful and smart, but they still don’t pick up after themselves in the yard. If they only knew how many treats were waiting for them if they ever do.

I’m grateful my dear friend, ex-office wife and person who encouraged me to start blogging (blame her) Janice has been declared the winner in her bout with cancer. She’s someone I love and hold in my heart in a way reserved for a special few, and a world without her just would not have been acceptable.

I can’t name all my friends here—not because I have so many, I’m just bad with names—but if I'm lucky enough to call you my friend, know that I am grateful for you every day of the year. Each of you in your own way make my life richer and more frustrating. I meant meaningful.

Finally, I’m grateful for Robert Mueller. And I hope with all my might to be even more grateful to him very soon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Something is afoot

If you know anything about me, you know when it comes to doctors I like to go to the top guy or gal. In fact I'm the person always being asked for recommendations by friends and family.

Note to self: write memo on finder's commission.

Anyway, I have a support system—I’d say life support system but that might give you the wrong idea—of medical professionals that are tops in their fields, and there when and if I need them.

One of them happens to be my podiatrist, Doug Richie. He's seen me through all my foot woes: plantar fasciitis, broken toes, stepping on glass, orthotics, sprained ankles, in-grown toenail, neuropathy. As far as I'm concerned, he's the top guy in podiatry.

And the fact he has a picture in his office with Jerry Seinfeld in no way influences that opinion. “What is it with the little toe? Exactly what is his job?”

Sadly for me and my tootsies, while on his website today I found out he’s retiring at the end of the year. After practicing 37 years (slacker), he’s handing (footing) the practice over to his two associates, who I’m sure are just fine or they wouldn’t be working with him.

But it won't be the same.

I have a relationship with Doug that’s developed over the years. I trust him completely. We have mutual friends, and we actually live in the same neighborhood. In fact occasionally I see him jogging down our street, and I always think the same thing: I hope he’s wearing the proper running shoes.

And speaking of running shoes, Doug holds patents—5 but who's counting—on footwear and ankle braces he's designed and invented. How many patents does your podiatrist have?

I thought so.

So Doug, thank you for everything. I always looked forward to seeing you, and I never minded footing the bill (I know, sorry). Regardless of the circumstances (although I'm not gonna lie: the cortisone shots for the plantar fasciitis weren't my favorite part), I always knew my feet were in good hands. I know you'll still be extremely active, and I wish you nothing but the best in your new season.

When you run past our house, be sure and wave.

Taking one for the team

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Of all the snappy little phrases that get tossed around in ad agencies, and God knows there are plenty of ‘em, the one I like least is “team player.”

Now, before you start getting your panties in a bunch, wagging your finger, stammering and screaming, “I knew it!” you might want to hear me out. Then again you might not.

My life will go on either way.

Anyway, just because I don’t like the term doesn’t mean I’m not one. For instance, I’m also not a fan of the phrase “slightly overweight” or "distinguished gray" but, well, never mind. Bad examples. The point is, as much as it goes against my grain, I’m a team player when I need to be.

New business presentations? My sleeves are rolled up, and I’m banging out manifestos and taglines faster than Bret Kavanaugh driving to a liquor store at closing time.

Client meetings? Point me towards the bagels and let me loose. I love presenting, the bigger the room the better. I have a slightly different way of measuring if it’s been a good meeting. Here it is: If I get the big laugh, it was a successful meeting. I know some people think if we sell the work or get the account that’s actually the measure of success.

Whatever. To each their own.

The off-campus pep talk/morale boosting/team building meetings? You don't have to ask me twice. I’d be there even if there weren’t luxury buses to shuttle me, and free food and liquor after. I just wouldn’t stay as long.

Where I seem to be unable to muster up one for the team is Halloween. To me, October 31st at agencies is like personalized license plates: once you’ve seen the costumes, the joke’s over. What starts out at 9 with everyone oohing and ahhhing over the costume you made winds up with everyone tired of looking at it by 9:30.

However, I have nothing but love for the team I work with. So when they decided our group would dress up as characters from iconic 90's movies, even though all my Jedi instincts were screaming no, I decided I'd do it.

I thought it would be good for me to get over my bad attitude and insecurities—and I know what you're thinking: besides my weight, bank balance, increased memory loss, receding hairline, bad skin tone, limited wardrobe, nine-year old car, complete inability to fix the simplest things around the house, having to wear glasses, feeling like an outsider, not liking sports and, did I mention weight, what do I have to be insecure about?

Perhaps I've said too much. You never read this.

The point is I eventually decided to come to work as one of my favorite characters and perpetual profile photo on Facebook—The Dude from The Big Lebowski.

I found an exact match for the Dude's bathrobe. I went not to a pop up Halloween store, but to a professional wig shop and got my long hair locks like the Dude. I bought L'Oreal Light Brown Root Control spray to match the Dude's hair color (I'll probably be hanging on to that). I bought the sunglasses and brown flip-flops to complete the look.

I was ready and set, but I didn't go. I just couldn't do it.

Was it that the look wasn't as exact and perfect as I wanted it to be? Or was it that I couldn't get past the image of me wearing a white t-shirt under the robe that, well, remember the "slightly overweight" phrase? Talk amongst yourselves.

And despite the fact I could've legitimately gotten wasted downing White Russians all day, told my creative director "Well, that's just your opinion man" and said things like "That rug really tied the room together" to stay in character, it wasn't enough for me to suit up.

But not wanting to let my colleagues down, I did finally decide to come in dressed as an older, overweight, gray-haired, married Jewish guy with kids.

I know, it was a stretch. But what can I tell you. I'm a team player.

The waiting is the hardest part

As the late, great Tom Petty said—God bless his rock and rollin’ heart, the waiting is the hardest part.

Tomorrow is the midterm election, and frankly I’m grateful on several fronts. First and foremost, I never thought we’d make it. I figured the shithole president would’ve had a hissy fit about ratings or someone looking at him the wrong way and hit the button by now.

Second, it’s our chance to at least partially take back our government and democracy from the self-admitted (white) nationalist president and sycophant Republicans in congress: I'm looking at you, well, all of you.

And by take back, I mean at least have checks and balances on the Liar-In-Chief. Can you say “override veto?”

But just like the general election a couple years ago, this one is going to go well into the night. With pivotal races a percentage point or two apart, they’ll be tallying their little hearts out. And every time a democrat wins, besides an angel getting their wings, I can already hear republican opponents screaming voter fraud and demanding a recount.

So lets all get out and vote, and then get lots of rest because we’re going to need it.

Not just tomorrow night, but for the next two years.

Goodbye Paula

I got a phone call this week I'd been expected for a long time. My friend Paula passed away.

I've written about her twice on this blog, both times about my visits with her at the Alzheimer's facility where she was during her final years (those posts are here and here).

My friends Alison and Michael both called to tell me she'd died. It's funny how sometimes when you see the name on the caller ID you know exactly what the call is going to be.

Timing is everything. In the last couple of weeks, I'd been telling my wife I really needed to go visit Paula. I knew it had been a while, but until I saw the date on those last posts I wrote about her, I didn't realize exactly how long. I'm sorry to say I never made it back to see her.

I wrote in more detail in those other posts about her, so I won't go into too much length about her here. Suffice it to say she was an extraordinary person, one of the best account people I'll ever work with, an unrelenting encourager and a great, great friend.

Sadly I don't have a picture of Paula, but what I do have is every great memory of her in my heart. Having seen her in her advanced stages of Alzheimer's, I can honestly say I'm happy she's been set free, fully restored and at long last reunited with her husband.

I love you Paula. Thank you for being the friend you were. Rest in peace.

The razor's edge

I realize there are a lot of important things going on in the world. The shithole president is dismantling our democracy piece by piece. There are shootings virtually every day in the news. Hurricane Florence just wreaked havoc on the Carolinas. The deficit has swelled to an unheard of $898 billion. It's a stressful time, and sometimes it feels like all it's going to take is one more thing to break us.

Well, I hate for you to find out this way, but we as a nation have reached a tipping point—a pivotal moment in time where history will judge our actions on yet one more decision that will effect all of us in one way or another.

Should Alex Trebek keep his newly grown beard, or shave it off? I know. No one said it was going to be easy.

About a week ago, Trebek bounded out onto the Jeopardy stage with a newly grown, white beard. Contrasted against his expertly tailored and extremely pricey suit, it lent him a more rugged, worldly look that was not so much that of a well-known, long-running game show host as the third runner-up in the Kern County regional Ernest Hemingway lookalike competition.

Rugged in the way he could look in the mirror now, and grip the one true thought that he was truly alone. Not wanting to, but knowing that despite the stillness of the dark, he could do nothing to prevent morning from making its appointed rounds. And it was a fine morning.

So anyway, you can go online to the Jeopardy website and cast your vote. I don't feel strongly one way or the other, but I am going to let my opinion be known.

Because if we've learned anything over the last year and a half, it's that very bad things can happen when you don't vote. This I can tell you.

What about Bob

Robert Redford has a movie coming out the end of the month. It's called The Old Man & The Gun. From the trailer, you can see Redford doing what he's always done: charming us with his talent, humor, intelligence and the twinkle that still shines in those knowing eyes.

The sad part is Redford, now a hard-to-believe 82-years old, has said he's retiring from acting after this film. Which got me to thinking that we're coming up fast on the end of an era.

Redford is one of the last of a golden generation of actors. Each time out, he gave us something different, but always intelligent whether he was in front of the camera or behind it. He never pandered to the audience, and you never got the feeling he was phoning it in for the payday. And while like all actors, some films were better than others, his instincts for quality material rarely failed him.

From Three Days of the Condor to All The President's Men to The Natural to The Way We Were to Ordinary People to Quiz Show to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and even to fluff like Indecent Proposal, we believed he was who he said he was.

Redford brought his best game every time out. And we showed up to see it.

I was talking to the wife years ago about Indecent Proposal. I said it was about someone who got to sleep with Robert Redford for a million dollars. She said, "Great. Who do I have to pay?"

I realize each generation has its own stars, but really, will we feel the same way when Bruce Willis retires from cranking out the same movie over and over again? I'm guessing we won't.

As Roy Hobbes in The Natural, Redford said, "I've got to reach for the best that's in me." Somehow he always found it.

Thank you for sharing it with us.

Climate change

If climate change deniers need proof it exists, all they had to do was watch the first day of hearings to name Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court.

The mood, between Republicans in the room anyway, was warm and amiable. They were praising Brett Kavanaugh's judicial experience, his good character as a family man and his track record in over one thousand court cases.

When they took a break, Kavanaugh stood up and the first person to talk to him was Fred Guttenberg, who tragically lost his daughter Jaime in the Parkland shooting. As Mr. Guttenberg extended his hand in a friendly, unthreatening manner, hoping to have a conversation with the nominee, the temperature in the room instantly turned very chilly.

Kavanaugh scowled at the grieving father, then upon hearing he was the parent of a Parkland victim, turned his back on him without shaking his hand and walked out.

To add insult to injury, when the hearing reconvened, Kavanaugh talked about his daughters, their bright futures and how he loved coaching them in sports. It was painful to listen to knowing Fred Guttenberg's daughter would never realize her future.

Here's the thing: Kavanaugh is whole-heartedly endorsed by the NRA. He is against assault weapons bans, and has been vocal about it. Since the NRA is suing every state that enacts gun control laws that Guttenberg is promoting, they're hoping Kavanaugh would be an ally when the lawsuits reach the supreme court.

And despite his statements about judging cases solely on their merits and adherence to the law, he will almost assuredly be the ally the NRA is hoping for.

Money talks, and judges walk. Especially when they're confronted with the reality of gun violence.

Shuttle diplomacy

Regrets, I've had a few.

Six years ago I was freelancing at Saatchi. That's not the regret. I'd started there for what was originally a two or three week gig, and wound up being there about three or four months. That used to happen a lot because I could always be relied on to get the job done, and my freelance strategy was to just keep showing up until they told me not to. Like all freelancers, I liked when gigs went on longer than I was booked for, because if there's one thing I love it's a day rate that keeps on giving.

I happened to be freelancing at Saatchi at two different times during two memorable events. One was the day they found out Toyota was moving their headquarters to Plano, Texas. They found out about it the same way I did—they heard it on the news that morning. The agency was buzzing about it when I got there, and management held a hastily thrown together staff meeting to reassure everyone the move wouldn't happen overnight, everyone was safe and to not worry about it.

What the meeting actually did was reassure everyone management didn't have the slightest clue what was happening.

The other event was the landing of the Endeavour Space Shuttle at LAX before its drive to the California Space Center. This was a big deal for Saatchi and Toyota, because they'd sold a commercial—and ponied up some of that Toyota money they printed in the basement—where a Toyota Tundra was going to tow the shuttle a very short distance part of the way between LAX and downtown on its journey to its permanent exhibition space. This was to show that if you bought a Tundra, had a specially made hitch, connector, trailer and several NASA engineers and production assistants, you could also tow a space shuttle should the opportunity present itself. As it does.

The door to the roof of Saatchi's building was unlocked, so when the shuttle was coming into the airport on its final approach, everyone went up there to watch the landing.

Since Saatchi is in Torrance, not far from LAX, it was a great view of the NASA 747 carrying the shuttle piggyback, and the two fighter jets escorting it. Plus if you looked down, you could also see the entire shopping mall parking lot Saatchi sits in the corner of.

After seeing it land, I decided I desperately wanted to be one of the thousands lining the streets over the next few days as the orbiter was towed downtown.

I've had a few once-in-a-lifetime experiences in my time. I met and became friends with Groucho Marx. I snagged sixth row center tickets to see a certain gravel-voiced singer from Jersey in his broadway show. I had floor seats at SNL, hung out backstage and went to the after party as a guest of my friend Kevin who was one of the Not-Ready-For-Prime-Time players. I hung out with my friend Holland Taylor backstage at Lincoln Center after a Tony-nominated performance of her one woman show ANN. I played Barrel Of Monkeys with Helen Hunt at the VFW in Ponca City, Oklahoma when she was shooting Twister.

It's important in life (here comes the life advice, stop rolling your eyes) to recognize real once in a lifetime experiences when they happen. And I figured seeing the shuttle rolling down neighborhood streets was going to be one of them.

I watched the coverage on TV with my daughter, and kept telling her we should go see it in person because nothing like this was ever going to happen again. For reasons I don't remember now, I either wasn't able or decided not to go. In case you couldn't tell, that's the regret.

Today however, I was able to somewhat remedy that missed chance by going to the Science Center with the wife to see Endeavour for the first time since it arrived. I know it's been six years, but you know, life in progress. My daughter wound up seeing it years ago with her class on a field trip, and now it was my turn. Not to see it with her class, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, it was magnificent. I'm not gonna lie. I got choked up. It genuinely felt like I finally stopped denying myself something I really wanted, as well as a dream come true.

Just like my high school girlfriend.

The wife and I watched the Journey Into Space 3D IMAX film before walking into the Endeavour exhibit. And the idea that this, the most complicated machine ever built, that we've seen take off and land so many times over the years, has come here after having been in space orbiting around this little blue ball of a planet was almost too much to take in.

In a world that's felt like it's been crumbling since January of last year, and with ignorant, fearful men trying to convince the nation that science is something as evil as they are, looking up at Endeavour gave me a feeling I haven't had in a while: hope. It restored my faith that mankind's intelligence, ingenuity, curiosity and never ending need to keep exploring ever further might still prevail, and guide us all towards our better selves.

Just like the hope I had that Saatchi's roof door wasn't locked when it closed behind us.

Body of work

When my pal Rich Siegel first saw this picture, his reaction was I should wear a hat more often. I know (think) he was kidding, but the funny part is even though I know that fabulous looking, thin, brutally handsome, dark haired guy on the left is me, or a former version of me, in my mind's eye I see myself as the guy on the right. I have issues.

Anyway, what you're looking at would be the before picture of me. Today's after picture would be an older—and by older I mean more distinguished and attractive—grayer (my dad went gray at 25, I never stood a chance), fuller version of myself. But nowhere near as full as the gentleman on the right.

Of course I'd be wearing black in both pictures, because, you know, black.

In my head, I've always felt like I was overweight, even though much to my everlovin' surprise I keep stumbling on to more pictures that prove otherwise. So the question is if I was that thin once, could I be that thin again?

And I'm starting to think the answer is fuck yeah.

For starters, it's not like someone stuck an air hose up my ass, tattooed Goodyear on it and sent me flying. I'm carrying slightly more weight than I should be, and might I add carrying it quite well. But I am getting tired of my doctor and my pants telling me to lose a little. So I'm making small, manageable changes to my routine I think will result in slow, steady progress towards getting me back into my 32-inch 34-inch waist pants that have been hanging in back of my closet since, well, that's not important right now. I know it's an ambitious goal, but if we can put a man on the moon...

Here are a few of the steps I'm taking to look as thin as Chandler did on season 3 of Friends.

Soda is off the menu. Mostly.

I've always loved Coke. And I used to drink a lot of it, but not so much anymore. I now go almost all week long without having one, or any soda for that matter, and try to stick strictly to water (preferably lemon flavored and carbonated). Sure I might have a sip or two of my son's soda at the movies on the weekend, but he gives me the side eye when I ask, doesn't like to share, and lets out a disapproving, judgmental sigh because I know he thinks it's just hastening my demise and he doesn't know where the insurance policies are. I'm just kidding. He knows exactly where they are.

Timing is everything.

Grazing used to be a 24/7 proposition. I think the electric bills were so high because of all the times I'd stand at the refrigerator with the doors open just staring, hoping something I wanted to eat would appear since the last time I opened the doors and stared. Ten minutes ago. Now, mealtimes punch a clock. Breakfast, lunch and dinner happen, with healthy snacks in between. But when dinner is over, the diner is closed and it's only water and Lipitor until morning.

Up the down staircase.

I work on the 2nd floor of my office, but I park on P2. I'll do the math for you—it works out to six flights of stairs. I'm excellent going down them, and getting better going up them, except when the weather is hot and humid. Since I sweat like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News anytime it gets over sixty degrees, I haven't abandoned the elevator just yet. But I do try to think about Rosalind Shays in L.A. Law when I press the up button, and that seems to motivate me to make the climb manually.

Staying in for lunch.

I'm a social animal. I like going out to eat, and spending tons of money I don't have on lunch. But the lunch hours they are a changin'. For a more than reasonable price, my friend Maria prepares clean meals for me to eat everyday. If you don't know, clean meals are just like healthy ones except they have flavor, fill you up and leave you excited about the next day's meal. Other people in the office have seen the meals Maria has been making for me, and asked if she can make meals for them too. She has a built in market for her budding business, and I'm ready to pony up the bucks to invest in her commercial kitchen. She's a clean-eating food empire waiting to happen.

Skipping is a good thing.

This three meals a day, food pyramid, five food groups bullshit is just the man's way of keeping you round. I'm learning to listen to my body more, which is good cause lately it's been doing a lot of talking. And it's saying, "Hey chubby, maybe you don't need lunch today." Maybe I don't. The new rule is if I'm not hungry, I'm not eating. And if I'm only a little hungry, then I just eat a little. Then I burn off some calories getting mad at my body for calling me chubby.

In addition to those steps, I'm making it a point to exercise more. I have an expensive mountain bike with flat tires sitting in the garage. I also have an expensive air compressor sitting there with it. I don't need a roadmap to see I'm minutes away from getting back in the saddle and biking all around town. Although I won't be doing it in bike shorts. No one needs to see that.

While I'm talking about exercise, I may as well mention I'm finally joining a gym. When I used to live in Santa Monica, I'd get up at six in the morning, walk over to the legendary Gold's Gym in Venice and work out surrounded by world-class body builders and steroid abusers. In fact my former personal trainer was a Mr. Nebraska. I could've found it intimidating, but instead it was inspiring. Being the Hollywood kid I am, one of the things I loved about Gold's was the occasional celebrity I'd see working out there. During the Gold's years, I like to say I worked out with Jeff Goldblum, Laura Dern, Jennifer Connelly, Keanu Reeves and the late, great Gregory Hines to namedrop a few. I'm not sure if they bragged about working out with me, but I like to think so.

Inspiration also happens on the local level. My once and always neighbor Sebastian just lost 35 lbs. and is still going. Other friends have lost weight as well, and somehow their lives seem to be going on just fine and no one appears to be going hungry.

So there you have it. I don't usually like to share about this particular topic, but I felt the picture called for it. I'm uncharacteristically optimistic, and looking forward to the new me.

But just in case things don't work out, I did ask Mr. Red Hat where he got his pants.

Client rewrites

I'm doing something right now I'd advise anyone writing a blog not to do. I'm writing this post while I'm extremely pissed off. I know what you're thinking, "But Jeff, you're usually so funny and easygoing and levelheaded, what could possibly put you in such a foul mood?"

Well, I'll tell you. Clients who want to be copywriters.

There's a story I may have told before here, but it bears repeating. Paul Keye, who owned Keye Donna Perlstein, one of the great Los Angeles creative shops that isn't around anymore, wasn't just the creative director. He was also a copywriter, and a great one at that. He was presenting his work at a client meeting, and the client was being particularly dickish about it. Finally the client made some bullshit, insignificant, arbitrary change, like "the" to "a". He looked up at Paul and said, "What can I say Paul, I'm a frustrated copywriter."

To which Paul took a beat, then replied, "No, I'm the frustrated copywriter. You're an asshole."

Any copywriter who's been in the ad biz more than ten minutes has had the joyless experience of the client reworking their copy, with total disregard for what goes into creating it. Even when they like the copy, clients rarely get the nuance, cadence, subtlety, humor and rhythm of words well written. One of the most common places they take refuge is "I don't get it, how will any of our customers?"

Respect from clients for consumers intelligence is harder to find than a Christmas bonus.

Don't get me wrong: I'm sure occasionally a client will contribute something positive and helpful that doesn't make the copy sound like a strategy statement. Just like occasionally I believe I'll win the lottery, or Scarlett Johansson will return my calls.

If you think I'm painting clients in broad strokes and generalizations, take a look and listen to TV and radio commercials tonight. They were all client approved before they got there. We'll talk about the ratio of good to bad when you're done.

Originally this post was going to be about the subject of overthinking, but then I realized it's essentially the same thing. Clients examine copy with a magnifying glass the consumer will never use—assuming they even read the copy in the first place (you know the old saying).

It is endlessly frustrating with one client. The good news however is I have several who've been chiming in on how they think it should read. Copy by committee. Mmmm mmmm good.

Here's what I try to think about to keep it all in perspective. When Goodby had the notoriously bad Carl's Jr. account, they insisted on rewriting virtually everything that was presented to them. When asked about it, Jeff Goodby allegedly said, "It's a great deal. They write the copy and pay me." After it left, Goodby apologized to the staff for taking the business in the first place.

Whenever a creative chimes in with anything unflattering about the client, they're usually met with the fact that the client pays the bill and can have it the way they want. Thanks, but we already know this. I pay my doctor bills, but I don't get to tell him how to do the surgery. But then medicine isn't a collaborative sport like advertising. Which leads me to another thing: we're not curing cancer here. Don't get me started.

Here's the thing: this isn't my first rodeo. I know clients are always going to be changing copy, sometimes with the genuine intention of thinking they're making it better. And sometimes just because they're frustrated copywriters.

So I'll try to keep Jeff Goodby's comment in mind, along with my own personal motto.

The checks clear.

Clean machine

Having followed this blog for some time—and don't tell me if you haven't, I'm fragile right now—I bet you were expecting a picture of an In-N-Out Double Double with animal fries instead of the one you're looking at. I know. I'm as shocked as you are.

But the truth of the matter is I may have finally reached the point where I've decided to turn over a new arugula leaf.

One day I was talking to my friend Maria, who I work with, about the meal she was having. She'd prepared it herself, and not only did it look healthy, it looked delicious—two things I usually find mutually contradictory. Don't get me wrong, I suppose given enough lifetimes I could develop a taste for tofu and sprouts, but frankly I don't see it happening in this one.

Anyway, faced with going to the same five places around the office I always have lunch, and, you know, the chore of finding yet another thing to have off Wahoo's menu (the citrus slaw is overrated), I told Maria if she ever wanted to make a side gig out of it, I'd be first in line, cash American.

The good news is she took me up on it, so today is the first day of the rest of my life. Or at least the rest of my week. We've embarked on a pilot program—as a trial run, she's going to prep healthy, clean-eating lunches for me all week long, and I'm going to eat them.

Today's menu was Grilled Wild Shrimp & Veggie Quinoa salad with feta and pine nuts in a lemon vinaigrette. It was gluten free, sugar free, high protein, high fiber and low sodium.

I'll bet you feel healthier just reading that sentence.

Now look, I'm not going to go to extremes here. I'm putting off the Iron Man Marathon, the triathlon and tryouts for the 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo until we see how the week goes. I'll let you know.

What I will say is there are cupcakes in the kitchen at work, and after my custom-made, healthy lunch today I don't even have a hankerin' for them.

In fact, right now the only thing I'm craving is lunch tomorrow.

Everybody feng shui tonight

I was sitting with my work roommates today and for some reason, perhaps to avoid work, or maybe to avoid work, we got to discussing the Chinese pseudoscience of feng shui.

According to Wikipedia (if you can't believe them who can you believe?) feng shui "claims to use energy forces to harmonize individuals with their surrounding environment."

Whatever.

But I suppose since I was the one who started this discussion, I should probably see it through. So let's unpack this. Or at least rearrange it.

Years ago on the late great show Penn & Teller's Bullshit, they did an episode on feng shui (and by the way, feng shui has the same number of letters as bullshit—coincidence? I think not). They recruited several different feng shui "experts" and had them all work on the same room, and rearrange the same furniture to achieve maximum harmony with the environment. What's so amazing is each of them arranged the room in the exact same way, proving feng shui is real and they all knew exactly what they were doing and talking about.

I'm just funnin' ya. They were quacks, and monumentally full of, well, you know the name of the show.

Here's the thing: I'm rarely able to harmonize with anything, much less my environment. My energy flow, such as it is, gets interrupted on an hourly basis. And moving the bed out from under a window, making sure it's not directly across from a door or having it face east isn't going to change that.

In the example of feng shui you see above, apparently placing the bed over the stove is not a good idea. I'd add especially if you have a one-story house. But I think if you're sleeping on another floor, the stove is off, and the house isn't on fire, you'll be able to harmonize with your pillow just fine.

Feng shui "experts" always remind me of dog whisperers—those people who claim they can talk to dogs and tell you what they're thinking and feeling. If you've ever hired one, I can answer that for you.

You're thinking you have too much money and feeling like throwing some of it away.

At any rate, under the heading of don't knock it until you've tried it, I might just move my favorite chair closer to the patio window to bask in the morning light, align my chí and absorb all the energy of a new day filled with potential and possibilities to see how well I'm able to harmonize with my environment.

Plus I can see the TV better from there.

The polished man

It's been a little over a month since I last posted here, and judging by the endless flow of heartfelt emails and texts asking what was wrong, I've come to the conclusion I probably could've taken another month. Or two.

What I'm saying is thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

So here's the thing: when I think about other career opportunities from time to time, as many of my co-workers have suggested I do, hand model has never been high on the list. In fact it's never been on the list at all.

As you can see by the picture, unless I've underestimated the market for sausage-fingered, mildly spotted, chubby hands holding all kinds of consumer products, I'm probably going to stay where I am.

One other career I've opted out of is Photoshop artist. You can probably tell I tried to soften the visible wear-and-tear on my paws, although I'm not sure to what degree of success.

The one item that isn't photoshopped is the black nail polish on the pinky (really, what color did you think it would be?). Now I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not going through my metrosexual stage or trying to upset my wife any more than I usually do.

There's a very worthwhile organization called Polished Man that raises awareness and money to fight violence against children. If you go to their website here, you'll get the whole story, including the reason a painted nail is the representative gesture.

Here's a fact: the reason only one nail is highlighted is because one child is a victim of violence every five minutes. It's a finger thing. And a math thing. And a sad thing.

If you want to support the cause, pamper yourself a little and get a nice manicure. And while you're there, ask them to polish one of your nails. Then go to the website and give time, money or support in any way you're able.

As far as jobs go, hand model is definitely out. But lending a hand to prevent children from being victims of violence definitely feels right.

"I couldn't pick it up"

I started thinking about my life today. I know, I probably should've put some thought into it earlier, but we are where we are. And let me give you some advice: there's no percentage in it. Introspection, highly overrated. Like someone said, ignorance is bliss (see the irony?).

Anyway, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I much prefer floating aimlessly from one experience, one job, one car to another, and not trying to add up what they all mean or say about me as person.

I may have gotten off track here. In fact, forget I said anything.

But while I was in deep thought about my life, I was also finishing up the latest Stephen King scarefest, The Outsider. I highly recommend reading the first 400 pages anytime, and only reading the rest in the daytime. I was looking at the blurbs for the book on the jacket, and thinking what would the blurbs be about me, my life and my career (laughing hysterically for using the word "career").

And while I can't reach out to all any of the people I'd like to and ask for a blurb, I have a fairly good idea how they might go.

"I'm a master of horror, but nothing scares me as much as Jeff's writing. And not in a good way." - Stephen King

"He's always been there for me and the band, no matter how much we charged for tickets. There's one born to run every minute."- Bruce Springsteen

"Actually no one ever saw the show. Our ratings were so high cause Jeff binged it nine times. Might've been ten." - Bryan Cranston

"He likes the salmon very much." — Taka San, Koi sushi chef

Mr. T-Rex

I'm not gonna lie. I can't wait for Jurassic Park: Fallen Kingdom. Even though it'll be the fifth installment in the series, after 65 million years it still never gets old.

After the primordial mess that was Jurassic Park 3, I thought for sure the series was extinct for good. But like a mosquito trapped in amber, sequels find a way.

Being a Hollywood kid I should've known better: never underestimate the power of recycling an old idea to make new money. Besides, even though Jurassic World wasn't great, it was fun. There were enough things about it I liked to keep me wanting more. Just like my high school girlfriend.

The story hadn't gotten much better, but the technology had. Those raptors and the T-Rex were looking mighty real. Plus Chris Pratt is a personal favorite, and always good for a laugh. Put that together with Bryce Dallas Howard running through the jungle in high heels, and you've got gold Jerry. Gold!

I'll never be too old to love dinosaurs, especially when they're running rampant, devouring bad guys and chewing the scenery. And I mean chewing the scenery. Judging by the trailer, it looks like it's going to be exactly what it was intended to be, and exactly what I'm looking for: a great summer popcorn movie, wildly entertaining and satisfying if you don't stop to think too much about it.

And if I'm wrong, there's always the next one.

Slumber party of one

On the list of things I love in the world, right at the top along with air conditioning, the Fastrak lane and good water pressure are naps.

If you've been following this blog for a while—and really, besides the writing is there any reason not to?—you know this isn't the first time I've written about naps. There was this post from back in 2014. But like money and love, naps are the universal language. I'm sure this won't be the last time I write about them.

As you can probably tell by now, I had a stellar nap today. I really had no say in the matter. One minute there I was sitting in the comfy of my favorite reading chair, reading the newest Stephen King book and trying to keep my eyes open (which had nothing to do with the book), and the next my head was hitting the pillow in the bedroom and I was out for two and a half hours.

Clearly, I'm not a power napper. Those little twenty minute catnaps experts keep saying are supposed to energize you? Not so much. They do nothing but make me groggy and unable to think. Which a lot of people think is my natural state.

The good news is after a long nap, I wake up refreshed and ready to tackle what the day has in store for me. Except maybe a good night's sleep. It's the cruel joke of a great nap—I pay for the daytime sleep with no nighttime sleep. I'll be up for hours because another thing my long nap does is take the edge off the sleepy.

Many times at work, I've felt myself start to nod off at my desk. And if I didn't share an office with three other people, I might just turn out the lights, close the door (yes, I have a door) and grab a shorter-than-I'd-like nap.

Right now my agency is undergoing a remodel, you know, to an open office space to make sure no one including me has doors. Don't get me started. Anyway, maybe they'll be forward thinking enough to build out a few nap rooms where people can go recharge during the day. Otherwise, I can just grab a few quick zzzz's the same place I always do.

In the status meetings.

My compliments to the chef

The happy gentleman in the picture is Michel Richard, a French chef and former owner of Citrus, which was and will always be my favorite restaurant in L.A.

Citrus was novel for many reasons. Location was one. On the northwest corner just one block off Highland on Melrose, Citrus was at the end of an unassuming residential block. It had a closed in patio, with large umbrellas and a roof that could be drawn back, although it rarely was.

Instead of hiding the kitchen in the back of the house, Richard was one of the very first who chose to separate it from the dining area with a wall of glass, turning it into a gallery where diners could watch their food being prepared.

They could see the chefs at work. The attention to detail. The timing. The skill. And, vicariously, they could experience the pure joy of creation.

Citrus was also the home of my favorite restaurant dessert ever. Michel Richard's raspberry tart. Now, I'm not a fan of raspberries, and I'm not crazy about tart flavored items. But the way this dessert was made, the blend of flavors, the impossibly smooth texture, the thickness of the crust, the balance of flavors. It was perfection.

Citrus was around during the years I happened to be doing a lot of commercial production in Hollywood. And as any creative team will tell you, there's no lunch like a production company lunch. Or a post-production house. Or music production. If you had a good idea and a budget, you were wined and dined at the restaurant of your choice.

And since all the production companies and editorial houses were within five minutes of Citrus, the choice was easy.

I'm not saying I took advantage of that as often as possible. But I'm not saying I didn't.

Here's the thing. I can remember a lot of great meals I've had and restaurants I had them in: Jeremiah Tower's Stars in San Francisco. Emeril Lagasse's NOLA in New Orleans. Laurence McGuire's Lambert's in Austin. George Lang's Café Des Artistes in New York. Great meals and chefs to be sure.

But for me, none of them match the feeling of adventure, comfort, happiness, camaraderie and satisfaction of eating on the patio at Citrus.

Sadly, all good things come to an end. Citrus closed in 2001. Another incarnation opened at the Hollywood nightclub Social (cleverly called Citrus at Social- go figure). But the experience was never the same, and that version shuttered in December of 2009.

Michel Richard is no longer with us—he died of a stroke in August of 2016. But he did what every great chef aspires to.

He left me wanting more.

The royal treatment

I said I wasn't going to do it, but I did it anyway. I watched the royal wedding of Harry and Meghan. And my macho self-esteem isn't afraid to admit it: I was completely swept away.

I laughed, I cried, I wanted that 1950 Rolls Royce Phantom IV.

I don't think I realized until I was viewing the ceremony how desperately I needed to see something positive and affirming, something that felt like a beginning and not the end. It was a long overdue (since January 20, 2017) counterpoint to the scandals, lies, shootings and injustices we're all inundated with on a daily basis.

There was something reassuring about British traditions that aren't being abandoned for their own sake, or to spite someone out of baseless prejudices. Traditions that've endured, despite the test of time, the horrors of war and the microscope of the occasional royal scandal.

The fact it was a biracial wedding, with a black, London-based gospel choir singing Stand By Me, and a black, Chicago bishop—Michael Curry—whose fiery and passionate sermon about the redemptive power of love made it one for the history books. Set against the stuffy yet tolerant British audience, reminded that diversity is something joyous to be embraced. Not for its own sake, but for the results it elicits.

The decency and rightness of it all. A country united and happy for them. Leadership that inspires love and admiration, even when there's strong political disagreement. A stark contrast to the hatred and divisiveness being peddled as the new normal here.

If you know anything about me, and really, you should know something about me by now, you know I usually think of weddings as a waste of a perfectly good Saturday.

But it sure was nice to feel that good and hopeful, at least for one day.

You're soakin' in it

First things first. These are not my feet, my legs or my pink slippers. Not that I have anything against pink slippers. In fact I'm sure some pink slippers can be quite fetching, and I have no doubt were I to wear pink slippers I'd look fabulous in them.

But we're not here to talk about pink slippers. We're here to talk about my feet. Again.

In my last post, I described in more detail than anyone asked for about the minor procedure I had to remedy my ingrown toenail. In what us medical professionals like to refer to as the post-op phase, I've had to soak my recovering tootsie twice a day in luke warm water, with a half cup of epsom salts mixed in.

First, because of the water temperature, every time I fill the bin, in my head I hear James Earl Jones saying "Luke, I am your water!" Yeah, I know.

Second, I've never really known what epsom salt is. I've heard of it, I know it's something you soak in, but that's about the extent of it. Come to find out it's crystals of hydrated magnesium sulfate (pay attention class) that not only relax the feet and reduce swelling, they also draw out toxins and promote healing.

The problem is apparently epsom salt only comes in an eight-pound bag or larger. Do you have any idea what a cup a day for five days weighs? Neither do I, but it can't be much cause it doesn't make a dent in that gigantic bag.

Regardless, five days after the procedure the toe is looking swell. Not swollen, just swell. I don't know how the epsom salts do their job, I just know they are.

I know you'll be disappointed, but this is going to be the last post about my feet. Two is enough, and three would just be weird. I don't mean to be callus about it, I just want to manage your expectations.

Sorry about the callus joke. It was downright corny. Sorry again.

Foot jokes are my Achille's heel.

Ok. I'll stop now.

Nailed it

I've known for days something was afoot. I know, I'm already sorry I wrote it. But it's going to be that kind of post, so you may as well start getting used to it.

This is not an actual picture of my foot. For starters, my story is about my right foot not my left one. My legs are also considerably more muscular from the exercise they get walking from the bedroom to the refrigerator several times a night. It's all about the calves.

Anyway, I've had an ingrown toenail on the big toe of my right foot for a while now. It had gradually gotten more and more painful, finally to the point where I had to do something about it. So I went to my podiatrist, Doug Richie, who also happens to be Jerry Seinfeld's podiatrist when he's in town. Hope I don't hurt my foot again dropping a name on it.

With my vast medical background, I figured Doug would trim the nail properly, the pain would be gone and that would be that. Were it only that easy.

He said apparently what happened is the shape of my toenail has changed, something fairly common as "one gets older", a phrase I can never really hear enough. He then informed me the best way to stop it from reoccurring was to do a minor surgical procedure called a wedge resection.

This little piggy screamed ouch.

Basically, it consists of numbing the toe, then trimming the wedges on both sides of the toenail so they don't grow into the toe. Ever again. Part of the procedure involves putting acid—not the fun kind—on the roots where the trimmed nails were to make sure those suckers are gone for good.

When it's over, he wraps the toe up and it looks like the toe in the picture. Actually, by the time I got home, the bandage looked a little more, shall we say, colorful. Which is why I'm sparing you a picture of my actual foot.

So if you need me over the next few days, I'll be sitting here soaking in epsom salts while I finish bingeing Hannibal.

By the way, I don't know if you noticed, but I got through this without any "arch" enemy or "He's a heel" jokes.

And we had a ball anyway.

Take the afternoon off

You might think what you're looking at is a ratty old baseball cap with 330 embroidered on it. You'd only be half right. What you're actually looking at is a collector's item.

Years ago, my colleagues and close personal friends Alan Otto, Tena Olson and I decided what America, and dare I say the world, was crying out for was another advertising agency.

And really, can you ever have enough?

So to fill the void, and to have a place to go where we could work with people and clients we like all day long, we immediately leapt into action and started getting together every Sunday morning at Starbuck's to map out our plan of attack for opening our own agency. Between lattes and banana bread, we batted around ideas how we'd differentiate our agency from the zillion others out there.

The first name we were going to go with was The Beefery. We took an old butcher cow chart, and instead of the names of the cuts we substituted clever ad terms, none of which I can remember right now. That may be why we never went with it. Under the heading of collector's items, there are also Beefery t-shirts and hats hidden away deep in some storage locker somewhere.

Anyway, we knew an agency called The Beefery wasn't going to get any vegan clients, but we were okay with that. Then, somewhere in the course of those caffeinated Sunday morning discussions, we decided to go with a name that represented something the three of us had experienced many, many times in our combined years in the business— nothing really good happens after 3:30 in the afternoon.

Ideas. Strategies. Disruptions. Pitches. Performance reviews. Client meetings. They all happen, but just not as well as they should after 3:30PM.

Our promise was we were going to get while the gettin' was good in the first three-quarters of the day. People were fresh, their creative juices flowing, they hadn't burned out yet. Every single day, we were going to hit the ground running first thing in the morning.

We'd be unstoppable. Then completely stoppable by 3:30.

Of course almost immediately it occurred to us, what with this being a "service business" and client emergencies having a timetable all their own, that clients would have a tough time buying into our philosophy. Which explains why, at the end of the day, 330 never got off the ground.

Despite that fact we continued to meet at Starbucks for months afterwards, occasionally talking about opening an agency but mostly just enjoying each other's company and the people watching.

Optimists that we were, when enthusiasm was at its highest we ponied up and had these hats made. I wear it all the time, and have to say I still like it a lot.

But not nearly as much as I like the idea of calling it a day at 3:30.

Things that annoy me: Volume 1

You know, if the world worked the way I wanted it to I wouldn’t have anything to write about in this post. Of course, after reading it you might still think I don’t, but just hold your water and reserve judgement.

I know everyone could pump out a list of things that annoy them. But, as you should already know by now, I’m an only child. So it’s a given the world revolves around moi. Which means my list of annoyances is far more important than yours.

I’m glad we got that settled.

NOT UNLOADING THE WASHER

Frustration comes in many forms. One of them is a washer loaded with wet clothes that aren’t mine. I suppose there's an argument to be made for leaving them in there all day. After all, the delicate cotton and mixed blend fabrics have just been through a traumatic event, what with that extended spin cycle and all. They're probably still in shock.

I also understand the reluctance and hesitation in moving wet, overflowing, slightly moldy smelling clothes. It takes an almost Herculean effort to place them in a dryer that's an impossible Fourteen. Inches. Away.

I’ve always said the great thing about laundry is I can do it while I'm doing something else. It's just I don’t want the something else to be moving your clothes to the dryer.

And no, I have no idea where that favorite shirt of yours went—why do you ask?

THE DOG NOT LISTENING

We have two incredibly smart, cute dogs at home. Because one of them is an energetic German Shepherd, we wanted to make sure he was well trained. We didn't want a dog that big and powerful out of control and not listening to us.

That’s the kid's job.

So when we got him from Westside German Shepherd Rescue, every weekend for what seemed like forever, we loaded him and his little friend in the back of the SUV and carted him out to the same trainer in Corona where we’d trained our first GSD.

I’m happy to say after all those weeks of training, fighting the hordes of traffic on the 91 East and spending lots of money to "work with the experts," he has been thoroughly, selectively trained. That is to say he listens when he wants to and doesn’t when he doesn’t.

This is a picture of him after I said "Heel."

Still, when he’s backlit in the front window, and someone is outside thinking about making a move, it’s the visual that says, “Maybe the next house.” So we’re willing to cut him some slack.

THINGS ON THE FLOOR

There's tripping the light fantastic. Then there's just tripping.

It's not bad enough I have to navigate area rugs everywhere that are lying in wait for me. They look innocent enough, but their rug pad is just a ruse—they slip and slide around like Crocs on a freshly watered lawn.

If rugs were the only thing, then at least I'd know the enemy. But, like magic, other things appear to create my own personal obstacle course at all hours of the day and night.

Backpacks. Shoes. Dogs. Shoes. Boxes. Shoes.

On the bright side, it is cutting down on my 2AM refrigerator runs.

Since this is only Volume 1, you know there'll be more installments to look forward to. You might even be inspired to make your own list of things that annoy you.

I'm guessing my list is the first thing on your list.

The two best days in parenting

It's no secret there are a lot of hellish days as a parent, but there are also a great many good ones. There'd have to be, or no one would ever have kids, amIrite?

Naturally there are the memorable milestones. Birthdays, graduations, proms. And all the firsts are etched in every parents memory forever. First time walking, first time speaking, first date, first kiss, first recital, first tooth. First time they break something really important to you that can't be replaced. First time they feed the dog pizza.

Part of being a parent means getting to see the world through your child's eyes as they discover everything new around them. It makes it hard to narrow days down to the best two, but I think...oh hell, no it's not. It couldn't be easier.

The best days are when they're finally toilet trained. And when they get their driver's license.

Let's start with number 2 first. It's amazing what a person can get used to. But somehow, wiping your kids' butt and changing diapers for years has a certain—how you say—je ne sais quois that never becomes appealing in any way.

Fortunately, my kids are 21 and 19 now, so they've been toilet trained for at least 5 years.

It's been awhile, but I remember juggling diapers, baby wipes and a squirming, toxic-waste smelling infant in all sorts of places not designed for it. The trunk of my car. Elevators. Airport lounges. The front lawn. The neighbor's front lawn. Restaurant booths. Concerts. Movie theater aisles. Hotel lobbies. I would've preferred to change them on changing tables and at home, but when they gotta go they gotta go.

And just to prove God has a sense of humor, the little suckers always decided to let loose at the most inconvenient times and places.

I'm not exactly sure when they realized they could do it themselves. I wasn't the parent who let them soak in it until they figured it out. I gave them instruction, they wanted to do it themselves and they did. The day it happened, I swear I heard the angels sing. It might've been the sound of the toilet flushing. In the moment, they sound the same.

The second best day comes about sixteen years later, when they get their driver's license.

It's an image that strikes terror into the heart of parents—their baby behind the wheel of an automobile. The questions come flooding in: will they drive carefully? Will they pay attention? Will they get in an accident? Will they ever pay for their own insurance?

Because we have years up on our children in dealing with crazy drivers coming out of nowhere, we know what's ahead of them and can't help worrying about their ability to dodge the crazies their first, tender years on the road.

But that worry slowly evaporates as suddenly there's more time in the day. And I didn't even have to set a clock back an hour to get it.

For the first time in their lives, I'm not driving them to and from doctor's appointments. Soccer practice. Little league. School. School plays. Rehearsal for school plays. Winter formals. Playdates. Music lessons. Acting lessons. Dancing lessons. Football practice. Their friend's house. The movies. Disneyland. The beach. And a dozen more places that, for my own sanity, I've forgotten about.

My mom taught me to drive when I was fourteen, and that's when I started teaching my kids to drive (when they were fourteen, not me). Actually, I let my daughter get behind the wheel when she was thirteen. Shhhhh! Don't tell her brother. I wanted them to be ahead of the game by the time they took driving lessons. And they were. Nothing but compliments from the AAA instructors about what great and comfortable drivers they were. One of them is still pretty great, and the other has a bit of a lead foot. Not saying which one it is, but I can't imagine for the life of me where he got it from.

I don't want there to be any misunderstanding: I loved the time with my kids, the fact they relied on me and the bonding when I had to drive them everywhere. I just didn't love it as much as them driving themselves.

And as far as all the worry and those questions? The answer is that's what insurance is for.

I'm sure every parent has their best two days, but those are mine. I've heard it said the third is the day I don't have to pay tuition any more.

I'll let you know when I get there.

Don't ask: Taking the middle seat

In my ongoing Don't Ask series I've covered such hot-button issues as moving, watching your stuff, sharing a hotel room and loaning you money to name a few. In tonight's installment, I tackle a topic that makes me very uncomfortable. The middle seat.

The middle is a place I've never cared for much. Middle management. Middle America. Middle earth. Middle of the road. Thanks, but no (being a night owl, I don't mind the middle of the night, but we're going to table that for the purposes of this post).

Let's start at the movies. When I go with friends, often they like to sit dead center in the theater. Alledgedly the picture and sound are calibrated for the optimum movie-going experience in those seats. You know who doesn't have the optimum experience sitting there? Me. My comfort zone is on the aisle—right or left, center or side. Doesn't matter. I've been going to movies my whole life, and I don't feel like I've missed much by sitting on the aisle.

There's a method to my no-center-seat madness. For starters, I'm a not a small guy. I'm built for comfort, not for speed—at least that's what I used to tell my high school girlfriend. I don't like feeling crowded.

I also have the bladder of a three-year old. At some point he'll want it back, but until then I'm using it (I'll be here all week). Because of that inconvenient truth, I don't like having to crawl over strangers in the dark, potentially stepping on their toes or knocking over their stupid bag of popcorn that should've been in their lap instead of on the floor. But can I tell them that? I can't, because there's no talking during the movie. And besides, I don't have time to chat. I need to get to the bathroom.

The other place you'll never find me in the middle seat is on an airplane.

Being the pampered poodle I am, it's always my preference to fly in the front of the plane, where middle seats are imaginary, non-existent things like unicorns or responsible Republicans. People always ask me, "Isn't it really expensive to fly in the front of the plane?" I always give them the same answer: that's what the college fund is for.

But on those occasions where I do find myself in a three-seat row on the plane, my seat choice happens in this order: window, aisle or window or aisle in another row.

I don't fly in the middle seat. Ever. Not to sound mean, but I'm not switching to the middle so you can be closer to your wife who's sitting behind us. Or so you can put a little distance between you and your screaming baby. Not because you're scared of flying and my window/aisle seat would make it easier.

I used to be scared of flying, and look how good I am at it now. Know what helped me get over it? Not flying in the middle seat.

If you somehow find yourself traveling with me, or going to the movies, I promise we'll have a good time. But make sure you set your expectations ahead of time, because when it comes to where I'm sitting, there's no middle ground.

So don't ask.

New math

I have a high threshold for creepiness. I like horror movies. I want the teenagers to go into the dark cave. After the car breaks down in the rain on the deserted road, I can't wait for them to knock on the door of the creepy house. I love it when they don't know their shadows are moving independently of them. And toy clowns with eyes that follow them around the room? Yes please.

But I saw something on television this morning that creeped me out more than any movie has in a long time. This commercial for Mathnasium.

First of all, in the same way people who live in Anaheim never go to Disneyland, I almost never pay attention to commercials. However when the creepfactor is cranked up to eleven, it can't help but be a slow, drive by car wreck I can't look away from.

To quote Stefon, "This spot's got everything."

A pedestrian concept.

White-bread casting.

Bargain-basement CGI.

Needle drop music.

Giant A+ spray painted on the classroom wall (to go with the A+ on all the freakishly animated student sweaters).

Annoying voiceover.

Kid giving a thumbs up.

A token Asian cause, you know, math.

A maybe Hispanic kid and his maybe Hispanic mom.

A kid that says, "Awesome." Because that's how kids talk.

Not sure why, but for some reason for me the spot has an "It's a cookbook!" quality to it. Maybe it's the bad CGI on the badly animated students.

Here's what I think would help: if the kid at the end of the spot smiled and looked at his reflection in the car window. We'd hold for a beat, then his reflection suddenly turns into a killer clown, breaks through the glass and rips the little suckers' throat out.

I know, it probably wouldn't be good for enrollment. But you can't tell me it wouldn't add up to a much more memorable spot.

Guilty pleasures Part 12: Rampage

It's been awhile since I posted my Guilty Pleasures series which, ironically, is a guilty pleasure in itself. The last one, I don't have to tell you, was Paddington 2. It was a fine addition to others in the Guilty Pleasures universe, keeping good company with films like the Final Destination movies, Breakdown, The Faculty, Carrie, Devil's Advocate and the ever popular Three Stooges.

Anyway, as much as they all might want to, the truth is not every movie will qualify for the honor. But while all of them got there for different reasons, the chances of being included are exponentially increased if the film has plenty of B movie dialog, A movie action, big budget special effects and a well-known character actor who wanders into critical scenes just in time to crack wise.

This one meets all the criteria—including the last thanks to Jeffrey Dean Morgan—without breaking an action/adventure sweat. I'm talking about Rampage.

For those keeping track, Rampage is the second Dwayne Johnson film to make it into the GP series. The first was San Andreas. I don't know exactly what it is about Dwayne Johnson, besides the fact we're so similarly built. It's like looking in a mirror.

Anyway, the beginning of the movie sounds like the start of a joke: an albino gorilla, an alligator and a wolf walk into canisters from outer space. Seems there was illegal testing by a gene-editing company that was so wrong, it had to be done in the space station. But of course, as we learned years ago, in space no one can hear you scream.

When one of the experiments goes south, the last surviving crew member makes a weightless dash for the escape pod—but not before she's instructed by her evil overloads to bring the merchandise they were testing back with her.

I know this will come as a surprise, but the journey home doesn't go exactly as planned. The samples come crashing back to earth, the gorilla, alligator and wolf get a whiff of whatever's leaking out of them, then all hell breaks loose. All three start growing faster than Baywatch was pulled from theaters. Fortunately, Dwayne works in something like CSI: Primate for the San Diego Zoo where the gorilla escaped from, and already has a relationship (not that kind) with him.

By the way, the gorilla's name is George. Curious isn't it?

I won't spoil much more of it. But if you're thinking these oversized plush toys wreak havoc on the city, kill lots of people, flip a lot of cars and can only be stopped by Dwayne Johnson, you're not too far off. See it during the day, pay matinee prices and go be mindlessly entertained for a couple hours.

I'd tell you what it's more fun than, but I have a feeling you already know.

Dead band walking

Before The Walking Dead, 28 Days and World War Z, The Zombies had already arrived.

See if this sounds familiar: do do do aaahhh do do do aaahhh. I knew you'd recognize it. Time Of The Season was The Zombies first big hit in the states. The British band started in 1958, and 60 years later, they're still singing it.

The best part is it still sounds great.

The clip above is from The Tonight Show a few years ago. Aside from the vocals which are surprisingly strong and confident, the organ solo is killer. And if Steve Rodford isn't the most relaxed drummer I've ever seen I don't know who is.

The Zombies had two other big hits: She's Not There, and Tell Her No. They're right here for your viewing and listening pleasure. I think there's something hopeful and encouraging about people so good at what they do, doing it for so long.

It doesn't take any brains to know rock and roll will always get older. But it'll never die.

Don't ask: Working the weekend

This being Friday night, I started thinking about all the things I have to get done this weekend. And how I'm going to have plenty of time to do them. Know why? Cause I won't be working.

Everyone needs a philosophy to live by. I actually have a few of them, and one is if God wanted me to work on weekends he would've called those days Monday 1 and Monday 2. But he didn't, and I don't.

Anyway, there are plenty of times writing these posts feels like work. You know, the same way you feel when you read them. So since tonight is the official start of my weekend, it's pencils (keyboard) down.

In that spirit, I've opted for a re-post from my critically acclaimed, almost award-winning, fan favorite "Don't Ask" series. I think it'll be a perfectly swell start to your weekend.

Please to enjoy.

I know what you're thinking: why haven't I posted a new installment of my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such widely read and revered gems like Don't Ask: Moving, Don't Ask: Picking Up At The Airport, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Sharing A Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Writing A Letter For You and the perennial Don't Ask: Sharing My Food.

Well, tonight's your lucky night. I'm posting my latest in the series, and it's about a particular nuisance that effects every creative person in the business: working the weekend.

Jay Chiat of Chiat/Day fame had a quote that's been misquoted and bounced around ad agencies ever since he said it. If you're in advertising, you're already saying it to yourself: "If you're not here on Saturday, don't bother coming in on Sunday."

Looks like I won't be seeing you Sunday.

Agencies are notorious for their outsized and aggressive disregard for both working smart and your life. If they did the first one, working weekends wouldn't happen nearly as often as it does. Which would mean you'd get some of your life back.

Since I believe agencies will start working smart and utilizing their time more efficiently about the same time I ride my unicorn to Xanadu while drinking from the Holy Grail, I've chosen not to wait. I'm taking it back. Weekends are personal time. They're days of rest by definition. They are non-work days. Here's what I do on weekends. I spend time with my kids. I go out with the wife. I get things done around the house. I veg and binge Breaking Bad again.

Know what I don't do? Work.

Maybe if there were fewer 12-person meetings to kick-off the latest banner ad, not as many mandatory attendance pep talks to rally the troops, and less presentations to the staff from the Executive Group Specialist In Experimental Branding Strategy & Innovative Demographic Search Engine Optimization Solutions, there'd be enough time during the week to get the actual, bill-paying, income producing work done.

Not to brag, but because I have this policy of no weekends, I get my work done during the week. When I pack up Friday night, everything that needed to be done is done. Monday will bring a whole new set of challenges, and I'll get those done during the next five days too.

I know this is a radical position for a freelancer with a kid in college to take. Especially since weekends are usually double time. At a nice day rate, that can add up pretty quick. I know freelancers that hope for weekend work - something about gettin' while the gettin's good. Whatever. When your relationship with your kids turns into a Harry Chapin song, don't come crying to me.

Don't get me wrong. This is not to say I haven't worked weekends and won't again on those very few occasions it's necessary. But it usually isn't, despite the desperation, authoritative tone, insinuations about reputations and false logic that since they have to be there you have to be there. Almost as weak an argument as "If I do it for you, I have to do it for everyone else."

So go ahead, talk about how I'm too good to come in on Saturday. How I don't want to be a team player. How pissed everyone's going to be that they're at work and I'm not.

And if you want to tell me to my face, fine.

Call me. I'll be at home.