His not so secret identity

He wasn't fooling anyone.

Only someone as quintessentially evil and stupid as Trump would think donning (see what I did there?) a disguise as preposterous as orange skin, yellow hair, fat face and baby hands could hide his true self.

I know I have friends who don't believe in the ongoing battle between good and evil. And if you're one of them, may I direct your attention to the state of the union speech last night.

It was a bunch of cliches that said nothing. A carefully scripted propaganda storm, directed at his base by stoking the fires of racism under the guise of patriotism.

Families who had their children murdered were paraded and exploited to make a false correlation about why the nation is safer without immigrants—by which he meant people of color—from other countries.

A confession of being a man of the people, all people, despite the fact his words and actions for the last year betray that thought, and have sewn nothing but division and invited hate.

Trump, his enabler wife, his idiot children and his oxygen-starved supporters are the embodiment of pure evil.

In this disguise, instead of waving a wand to do his deeds, his tool of choice is a pen to undo all the good his predecessor did. At least for now.

Let's hope Mueller can remove him from office before it's replaced by a button.

Hate of the union

You'll thank me later. I'm going to save you an hour of your life. Because of me, you won't have to watch the orange-faced baboon shithole president drone on in his Big Mac induced stupor as he tries to read off a teleprompter and not go off script. I'll sum it all up for you.

The state of the union is fucked.

Let's review shall we? Regardless of what his press secretary—that condescending, arrogant, lying, daughter of a fake Christian—says, the babyhands administration had everything to do with FBI deputy director Andrew McCabe retiring early. It's part of the systematic degrading of the intelligence and law enforcement community the administration claims to love and support. And it's because they're investigating obvious Russian collusion in the election.

I say obvious because just yesterday, despite rare bipartisan agreement on strengthening sanctions against Russia, Trump refused to do it. Also, Republican lackey Devin Nunes drafted a memo, with carefully curated classified information (I was going to say facts, but then I realized who I was talking about) showing alleged FBI bias in the Russia investigation. It will come as no surprise the House Intelligence Committee has voted along party lines to release the misleading memo, even though the Justice department says that would be damaging to national security. It also won't surprise you the committee refuses to release a Democratic memo answering and debunking theirs.

Let's also not forget the firing of James Comey. Or that Mr. Art Of The Deal has said all 17 intelligence agencies, who agree on Russian involvement with both him and the election, are wrong. There's also the constant accusation the entire investigation is a "witch hunt."

The question isn't what does Russia and Putin have on him. The question is what don't they have on him.

The orange menace is an on-the-record proven racist. Misogynist. Liar. White supremacist. Adulterer. Homophobe. Narcissist. Opportunist. Draft dodger. Thin-skinned baby man. Tax evader. He still has not recanted his statement that Nazis chanting "Jews will not replace us!" are "very fine people." Despite his compulsive tweeting, he hasn't managed to put one out offering condolences to the Kentucky school shooting victims and families, for fear of pissing off (and he knows a little something about pissing) the NRA, a suspected channel for Trump money laundering.

But that's just at home. When you have an assclown as big as the fake president, the vulgarity doesn't stop at our borders.

Remember the wall he talked about during the campaign, the one Mexico was going to pay for? Our dipshit president is now insisting U.S. taxpayers foot the bill. Despite the fact a wall might've been a good idea in the 18th century, with today's surveillance technology, photo drones and increased border patrol agents it's a remarkably primitive and outdated idea. My guess is he's hoping no one tells the Mexicans about ladders.

He has obliterated relationships with virtually every one of our allies, including our longest and most loyal one, Great Britain. He has lowered our standing in the world, to the point of the United States being a laughing stock and punchline for having elected him (which technically we didn't since Hillary got 3 million more votes, but that's for another post). He has the smooth, soothing, reassuring diplomatic skills of sandpaper coated in barbed wire. By shooting off his big piehole about North Korea, and weapons he knows nothing about and has no understanding of—other than thinking they make his puny dick look bigger—he has put us in the very real position of having to live with the threat of nuclear war. He has surrendered our leadership position on attacking climate change by withdrawing us from the Paris Accord. We are the only nation on earth not part of it.

There's just too much bad for one post: his taxpayer-funded golf trips. The Muslim ban. His weakening of clean air regulations (brave taking a position against clean air). Appointing people as uniquely unqualified and with as many conflicts of interest as him to cabinet-level positions. The annihilation of the public school system. Affairs with porn stars. Paying off porn stars not to talk about affairs. Leaving millions without healthcare. Eliminating net neutrality. Privatizing prisons for profit. Trying to privatize the FAA. Twitter outbursts against rap artists, Broadway shows, NFL players and Meryl Streep. Proposing a law saying restaurant owners can keep tips their employees earn. Using tonight's speech to fundraise for his re-election campaign by putting donor names onscreen (true fact).

He is a vengeful, vile, vulgar, vicious, villianous and any other derogatory word starting with "V" little man. His agenda has four missions: wipe out all trace of positive changes from Obama's legacy. Line the pockets of corporations and billionaires at the expense of the middle class. Taking a page right out of Joseph Goebbels playbook, he attempts to demean and diminish the press by calling everything they write about him he doesn't like "fake news." And use the presidency to promote his own businesses.

It is a sad, sobering, depressing time in the history of the nation. Still, if he manages to get through tonight's speech without too much improvisation, the delusional and complicit Republican congress will rattle on about how presidential he was, and how he demonstrated genuine leadership.

Maybe they'll even give him a cookie and let him stay up late.

There is a glimmer of good news. He, along with spineless Paul Ryan and ninja turtle reject Mitch McConnell, have hammered a long overdue nail in the Republican party coffin, which only bodes well for the future. Provided he doesn't get us nuked before it gets here. He has unified America and created a political consciousness that hasn't been this vocal or adamant since the '60's.

And thanks to Robert Mueller, a man Trump once considered for Secretary of State, there's no doubt he'll only be a one-term president. Or with any luck, a half-term one.

So get ready for tonight's lie-fest. The biggest one will be the first, when he comes out, waits for all the boot-licking, ass-kissing, brown-nosing Republicans to stop applauding, and then says the state of our nation is strong.

Fortunately for the country and the world, there's every indication the opposition is stronger.

Spoiler alert

First of all, for some reasons probably having to do with personal vanity and self-image, it's important to me you know this is not the front spoiler on my car. The scrapes and scratches on my front spoiler are much more symmetrical and artistic in their own unique, random way.

Pardon my Seinfeld-ness, but (high-pitched, whiny, East-coast voice) what is it with designing front spoilers so low? Don't they have curbs where these cars come from?

I drive a Lexus ES 350. Despite the fact you see them coming and going it's a nice car, but really nothing more than a Camry dressed up for Saturday night. Still, I like the smooth ride, the burled walnut, the rear-window shade I've never used and the fact it came pre-wired for SiriusXM. Even though it'll never give me the performance thrill my old Audi A6 did, before it caught fire, as far as cars go I file it under things could be worse.

What I don't like about my Lexus is how low the front spoiler is. It scrapes on curbs. Parking space blocks. Driveways that aren't properly angled. Speedbumps. Dips in the road. In other words, almost anything a front spoiler would be in proximity to.

I have a body shop I go to that's inexpensive and does great work. And when I tell them it's out-of-pocket and not through my insurance company, they give me even more of a break. They're located senseless-murder-district adjacent, so the overhead is low (no pun intended) and they can offer great rates. Sadly, they know me there because I've had to have the front spoiler repainted three times since I've owned the car.

I suppose I could choose to not let it bother me, and just go about my day not thinking about it. But in my heart, like I know the sky is blue, every time I'm behind the wheel I can't stop thinking about the fact I'll scrape it again. Probably pulling out of the repair shop driveway.

The Lexus is the latest black car in a series of them I've owned. And the white scrapes, while unavoidable, aren't a good look. I can only take it for so long.

So I've been looking for something higher. A little more off the ground. Which puts me squarely in the crossover/SUV arena. To date I haven't found anything I like and that I can afford. That's mainly because I can't afford anything in life since we remodeled two bathrooms, our living room and gave the kitchen a complete makeover.

If I'd only put a V6 and a steering wheel next to the microwave I'd be set.

But I'm determined not to let it get me down. Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my dogged persistence and laser-like focus when I set my mind to doing something.

Unless it's losing weight or vacuuming. Then, you know, screw it.

Anyway, I'll keep scouring AutoTrader and the OEM CPO sites (yeah, I work on car accounts) for something I can fall in love with and afford. Like my high school girlfriend.

Until I do, every time I hear the sound of my spoiler scraping the ground, I'll pretend it's my own personal reminder that the faster I can unload this thing, the sooner I won't have to hear that noise anymore.

Like my high school girlfriend.

How low can you go

In the limbo dance (I'll pause while you all hear "Leembo Leembo Leembo" in your head), the goal is to see how low you can set the bar before you decide you can't go any lower.

Sound familiar?

In advertising unfortunately this is a dance you get invited to on a daily basis. It comes at you from all directions: Client. Budget. Holding companies. People on your own team. And if you say no to the invite, then suddenly you're not a "team player" (as if I ever was), and pegged as difficult, which I may have been called once or twice. Today.

Most creatives I know would wear that label as a badge of honor. We'd all rather fail with quality than succeed with garbage. But it's easy to see just by grabbing the clicker and turning on the TV or radio, opening a magazine or going to a website, that it's not a landscape that supports that point of view very often.

It's not a state secret that in this world of reduced budgets, no AOR/project-based clients and the amount of money being spent on 360 campaigns for everything from running shoes to laundry detergent (how're those Twitter and Facebook engagement numbers for Tide working out?), agencies operate much more fearfully than they ever have.

So I just want to take this opportunity to raise a glass and say thank you to my fellow creatives, creative directors and everyone who keeps pushing to make the work better, tirelessly fighting the powers working against them and managing to turn out work that's as creative, interesting and inspiring as it is results-getting.

Also, thanks for leaving your dancing shoes at home.

The lost art

A long time ago, in a world and time that seems more quaint with each passing minute, people had this thing they used to do with each other. Can you guess what it was?

I'll give you a hint. It didn't involve phones, smart or otherwise. Or glowing screens. Not even fast typing with your thumbs. Give up? People used to talk to each other.

Uninterrupted, interested, interesting, engaging conversations. Even in disagreement, their tongues managed to stay civil. They were receptive to new ideas. And found joy in the camaraderie. Told you it was a quaint time.

The picture above is from a movie that wouldn't stand a chance of getting made today, unless it had commitments from Vin Diesel and Mark Wahlberg. But, you know, neither of them are known for being great talkers. So probably not even then.

The movie was called My Dinner With Andre. Made 37 years ago, it was directed by Louis Malle and starred Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory. The entire film is the two of them sharing a conversation at Café des Artistes in Manhattan. They talk about their lives, their philosophies, the simple pleasures. There are no car crashes, no CGI monsters or superheroes and no phones ringing.

And it is wildly intelligent and entertaining.

What brought on this unexpected nostalgia for a time where a social network was a cocktail party at Tavern On The Green was a conversation I had with my writer friend Eric at work today. We weren't solving any of the world's problems. For that matter we weren't solving any work problems either (Shhhh!). We were just chatting it up about cars, family, movies, This Is Us and how the older our kids get the stupider they think we are.

I enjoyed it immensely. The exchange of viewpoints, the in-the-momentness of it all. Nobody was rushing to answer a call or get back to work.

It's a contradictory world we're living in, what with devices that promise connection yet deliver isolation. Yet without a two-year plan, roaming charges, eye strain or digital chimes we can make a human connection that's so much more entertaining and enjoyable.

As Wallace Shawn in another movie might say, "Inconceivable!"

Guilty Pleasures Part 11: Paddington 2

Okay, okay, okay. Before you start in on me, let me explain.

It's been awhile since I've done a post to my wildly popular, highly quotable and often referenced Guilty Pleasures series. I'm sure you all remember Guilty Pleasures 1 through 10, including such overlooked, underrated and attention-starved films such as the Final Destination movies, Breakdown, The Faculty, Carrie, Devil's Advocate and the ever popular Three Stooges.

Now in a normal world, which I think you'll agree it hasn't been since January 20, 2017, you couldn't drag me into a theater to see Paddington 2. Not that I have anything in particular against animated, British-accented, marmalade-loving bears. It's just not my wheelhouse.

So it begs the question: why did I see it?

Because my film major son recommended it. Highly. I figured okay, I'll check out exactly why I'm paying thousands of dollars for his sensibilities and cinematic taste to be corrupted to the point of him liking Paddington 2.

My review: it was outstanding. And as you can see by the Rotten Tomatoes score below, I'm not the only one who feels that way.

The animation is as beautiful as anything you'll see this year, especially Paddington's trip through the pop-up book which is central to the plot of the movie. Hugh Grant is wonderful and a revelation in ways he hasn't been before. Funny, loose and clearly enjoying himself more than he has in years, his physical comedy and timing are nothing short of masterful. There's a genuine depth and emotion to all the characters, animated or not, and their family feels like yours by the end of the movie.

The unexpected part, besides the fact I forked over ten bucks to see it, is how emotional it gets-not with manufactured, manipulated feelings but with genuine empathy for the characters.

Like the best of Disney's animated movies—The Lion King, Beauty & The Beast or Little Mermaid—I found myself with a tear on deck for a couple things that happen towards the end of the film. With eyes welling up, I was forced to quickly reach for the incredibly thin napkins I got with the $15 dollar hot dog and medium drink combination.

Sally Hawkins plays a lead role in Paddington 2. If you saw her outstanding performance in this year's The Shape Of Water, you'll appreciate a scene at the end of Paddington 2 (one of the emotional ones) that's sort of an unintentional inside joke referencing that other film.

Before the movie, there were five trailers for other animated films that all looked like crap. Chaos, fart jokes, stupid one-liners and characters you couldn't care less about.

A lot like my high school graduating class.

Anyway, if you're in the mood for an entertaining couple of hours, do what I did. Get over yourself, put away the attitude and get ready to have some good laughs and a good cry at Paddington 2.

And don't worry if you haven't seen the first Paddington. You won't have any trouble following along.

Grabbing his attention

To celebrate the first anniversary of the shithole president's inauguration, millions of mostly women, together with many good men, took to the streets around the country and the world to protest virtually every wrong, misguided policy and decision the liar-in-chief has made since day one.

Which if you're keeping count would be all of them.

The beauty of these protests is we can be assured that he's watching, because chowing down Big Macs in front of the TV for hours on end seems to be what he does most days.

What I love about the march, besides the fact it's happening and so many millions are participating, are the signs. They're creative, heartfelt and on point. Or points. Whimsical to serious, humorous to straightforward, every one of them is a unifying message we all should be behind.

The energy of it all gives me, dare I say it, hope.

I took to the Google to show a few of the signs from today's marches. Some of them didn't have a date, so a few might be from last year's event. No matter. The message is the same.

I think the important thing is now that women have grabbed his attention, it's important not to let go. We all have to keep our energy and enthusiasm up because backing down is simply not an option. Not when it's our country, democracy and standing in the world—not to mention compassion and decency—at stake.

And besides, November will be here before you know it.

Thunder Road

You didn't really think I was going to get through the week without a Bruce post did you?

Anyone who knows me—as much as anyone can know anyone—would tell you Thunder Road is not just my favorite Springsteen song. It's my favorite song ever. I was trying to think about why that is. It's not the first time.

As you'd imagine, I get asked about my Boss obsession a lot, and I've pondered it for hours, months, years trying to figure it all out.

I was reading through the comments on this Thunder Road video, and I read this one from Jimmy Braum.

The second I did, it felt right.

So thank you Jimmy for putting in a line the feeling I probably would've rambled on for paragraphs about, without getting anywhere near as clear and succinct as you have.

As I write this I'm getting ready to leave work and head home.

I bet you can guess what I'll be listening to on the drive.

My hat's off

I suppose it'd be easy to think this is another post about Breaking Bad, what with the picture of Walter White, er, Heisenberg. That and the fact I'm the one writing it.

But it's not. It's actually about the hat.

On one of my Breaking Bad binges, I've lost count (9), I started falling in love with his Pork pie hat and wondering how it'd look on me. It was a rhetorical question, because the truth of the matter is no hat looks good on me.

For starters, there's the problem of finding hats that even fit me given the rather large noggin I use as a carrying case for my oversized brain.

Then there's the douche factor: I think 99.9% of guys in Pork pie hats—unless they're Justin Timberlake, Bryan Cranston, Buster Keaton or Gene Hackman in The French Connection—look like they go to eleven on the Douche-O-Meter.

My infatuation with the hat I'll never wear comes from my desire to have a style to call my own. Any style, I'm not particular. But I don't have one, and whichever one I eventually land on may not require a hat. Also, the "style to call my own" part wouldn't really apply since so many hats are being worn by guys in their own little fantasy world, where the Douche-O-Meter doesn't exist.

I think baseball caps are an exception. For starters, one size fits all. Even me. And it's considered, you know, a baseball cap—not a fashion statement (usually). Almost anyone can pull off wearing a baseball cap.

The point of all this is I've come to the realization, begrudgingly, that I'm going to have to put the Pork pie hat on my long list of things I wish I could do, but know I can't.

Of course I might have to binge Breaking Bad a tenth time to make sure.

Nice rack

One of the great joys remodeling the kitchen is paying the thousands of dollars in bills that seem like they'll be coming in for years after I'm dead. No, wait, that's not how I wanted to start this.

One of the great joys of remodeling is I get to pick out new appliances. There we go. And one of my best choices was our brand spanking new Bosch dishwasher.

Just to give you a little background, because I know you were hoping I would, our dishwasher is what started the entire kitchen remodel project. I won't get into all the gory details, because I already did that here. Suffice it to say eleven months and $20K over budget later, it was the right choice.

The Bosch is the third dishwasher we've had. The first that came with the house was a Westinghouse with a black door that clashed with the cabinets and counters. It sounded like a 747 taking off when it was running. So we replaced it with a snow white Maytag dishwasher, that was much quieter, went with the kitchen decor (such as it was) and worked fine for years.

Then one day, the handle broke when we tried to open it. We called a repair guy, who told us we could spend the money to get a new handle/door on it, or we could just use a dinner knife to unlock it by wedging it in and pushing down. Since we already had the knife, we decided to save the money. Besides, it felt a little McGyver-y and it was fun. At the beginning.

Soon after, we were unloading it again and the top rack broke its railings, almost crashing all the glassware in it to the linoleum floor. We could've had a nice down payment on a new dishwasher for what it would've cost to fix it, so for years we adapted to holding up the top rack with one hand, after we opened the door with the knife, and loading it with the other.

The McGyver-y part was starting to wear off.

Fast forward to the remodel. Now keep in mind it'd been years since I'd been appliance shopping, so it was a whole new world of dishwasher technology for me. I'm standing in the vast showroom at Friedman's Appliances, and our salesman—ask for Johnny—shows me the Bosch. I believe the sound I heard in that moment was the angels singing.

First of all, the Bosch is whisper quiet. So quiet in fact, if it weren't for that little red light I'd never know it's on.

Next, the controls are on the top of the door instead of the front. So whether it's running or not, it's just a slab of uncluttered, shiny, stainless steel sitting there looking beautiful (a skill I happen to know a little something about).

While those features were important, the final one that sealed the deal was when Johnny (ask for Johnny) showed me the third rack. I didn't know whether to cry or faint with happiness. After years of trying to figure out how to put soft plastic lid tops and smaller items in a place they wouldn't melt or fall through to the bottom, this opened up a whole new world for me.

I just read the last couple sentences and I'm thinking the same thing you are about my getting a life. But I digress.

The third rack could've been part of my immensely popular and often read What Took So Long series of posts. But because of the impact it continues to have on me, I thought it needed a post of its own.

If you've followed me on here for any length of time—and if you have you really should pay more attention to what's going on in the world around you, because it's not pretty—then you know I'm somewhat of a dishwasher savant. I look at the pile of disorganized dirty dishes, and in my head I see them all placed perfectly in the dishwasher. I've never used the "there isn't anymore room" excuse. There's always enough room if you do it right.

Judgmental much?

The third rack makes my life easier. Ask anyone that knows me—I'm all about easy. While it brings me joy every time I open the door, there's now an entirely new strategy to employ when I'm loading the dishes. The third rack has a spray spinner attached to the bottom of it, which means the items in the second rack have to be low enough to clear it. It's dishwasher Tetris figuring it out.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I've spent enough time rambling on about this.

Don't even get me started on the front-loading, full-size, stacked washer and dryer. That's for another day.

The 12th of never

As I've said many times here, I'm the least disciplined writer you know. I'm not proud, but I am consistent. To that end, you'll be glad to know that finely honed, well practiced lack of discipline carries over into many other areas of my life as well.

Here's the thing: I had big plans coming into 2018. A whole new me in almost every aspect. Extreme makeover, Jeff edition. While I didn't voice my ambitious plans to a lot of people, I did make a list for myself. Reviewing that list now, it really begs the question— is it really breaking a resolution if you never started it?

In what seems like a nanosecond, I suddenly find myself halfway through January, and I'm already checking things off my evil twin list.

Not walking every day. Check.

Not working out. Check.

Not riding my bike. Check.

Still carrying on a torrid love affair with bread. Check.

Still cheating on bread with sugar. Check.

But it's not just the personal improvement goals and deadlines I'm not accomplishing. I'm not accomplishing so much more than that. In fact, I can not accomplish more in a day than most people can't do in a month.

Simple things like reorganizing my dresser drawers so they're not all "that drawer."

Making the bed every day, although the 90 lb. German Shepherd laying on it doesn't make it any easier.

Cleaning out the garage.

Emptying the boxes from the remodel still in the garage.

Reorganizing shelf space in the garage.

Putting a window in the garage.

Putting up the wi-fi extender in the garage.

Clearly the garage is a thorn in my side, and perhaps my inability to get to it and put it in order represents a more significant issue that needs to be dealt with.

Which begs a different question: Who asked you?

Anyway, it doesn't take a stable genius to see the pattern of avoidance and denial, two qualities I'm far more comfortable with than I should be.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea, although it may be too late for that. This may ruin my underachiever reputation, but since the new year I actually did manage to get two new pair of glasses, a haircut and the flu. So there's that.

But when it comes to my New Year's list, I'm going to file it all under better late than never, and not wait another year before I think about addressing all those chores and promises. I'm going to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, if I can find them in the garage, and take care of them in the most timely way I know how.

Tomorrow.

A no-day work week

Last week was a four-day work week for me. I took a paid day off on Friday because I wanted to catch up on a few things I didn't have time to get to over the holidays.

And because I could.

My timing was impeccable as always. Friday was the day I came down with the flu. This is Wednesday night, and for those of you keeping count, I've been down and out with this misery for six days.

However, in a bold gesture of generosity and consideration for others, I decided not to force the issue and drag myself into work and risk giving this cold/flu-ey thing to everyone who has managed to dodge it so far. It's the kind of thoughtfulness I wish the person who gave it to me had exercised. I'm not naming names, but you know who you are.

Anyway, I'm at the point of being bored and restless out of my mind, yet not well enough to drag myself back into the office yet. Even the dogs are ready for me to be out of the house. I think the coughing is keeping them awake during the day.

So, as if I had any other choice, I'll just ride it out.

And to my colleagues who are the picture of health, working hard, exercising at lunch on the beach and taking the stairs up to the office without having to nap for three hours after, I just have two words for you.

You're welcome.

The goodbye girl

Here's the thing about having a daughter who goes to an out-of-state college. It is a constant, seemingly never-ending series of goodbyes.

And I'm not going to lie to you. I hate it.

I first wrote about this when my son decided to go to UT Austin for his freshman year. As anyone who ships their kids away to school knows, it's heartbreak on a schedule.

I moved her in to her dorm in Iowa and then said goodbye as I left my baby girl behind. She was a mess. Fortunately I was the tower of strength my children have always known me to be. In other words I managed not to start crying like a baby until we were in the car and heading towards the airport—in South Dakota. Don't get me started.

I fly her home for a quick Thanksgiving, then a short four days later we're saying goodbye. She comes back for Christmas break. We have a great three and a half weeks, celebrate the new year and then we're saying goodbye again.

The next goodbye is scheduled for Easter break in March. Maybe I'll be able to ramp up for it.

I suppose the goodbyes would be easier if she were going to school in state. She'd be away from home, far enough away from us, but not sixteen-hundred miles, two plane rides and a three-hour drive away.

What can I tell you? I love my girly. And while I love that she's growing into an independent, educated, wickedly funny young woman who can belch for forty-five seconds straight (it's a skill), I hate that she's doing it in Iowa.

So until March, we'll be burning up Facetime, which is the next best thing to being with her.

It'd be unfair, selfish and manipulative for me to try to sway her into coming back by playing on her emotions and trying to bribe her.

That's why I'm not saying anything about how much her grandmother and her dogs miss her. How she'd have her car here, you know, the one we'll be painting for her. And how'd she'd probably have a big increase in her allowance and credit card spending.

It wouldn't be fair. So let me just say, have fun back at school baby. Make the most of every minute—this will be one of the big adventures of your life. And take full advantage of all the variety, options and diversity that Iowa has to offer.

Corn on the cob. Corn chowder. Corn muffins. Corn casserole. Corn pudding. Corn salsa.

I can run but I cannot hide

You'd think I'd learn by now, but some lessons you just have to keep learning.

Let's start here. For years I went without a flu shot. The reason wasn't some protest against big pharma, some wildly allergic reaction or an irrational fear of CVS nurses wielding hypodermic needles. The reason was I never got the flu.

That all changed four or five years ago when "Is it cold in here? I have the chills." turned into "Oh my God, I'm dying! Hold that thought I'm going to the bathroom. Again." I came down with the flu from hell. Ever since, I've gotten my annual flu shot right at the start of the season. I don't care if it doesn't protect against all the strains. At least I'm not getting the ones it covers.

But, come to find out, a flu shot isn't a guarantee.

I was feeling pretty good about not having gotten sick, even though people around me at the office were dropping like overworked, underpaid flies. Then a funny thing happened. My throat got sore, my nose got runny and my sleep got sneezy. Still, because I'd taken today as a paid day off, thinking I'd get around to errands I didn't do over the holidays, I refused to entertain the thought I was going down for the count.

My thinking changed this morning when I got full on chills. Started making bathroom runs faster than Carl Lewis. And blew through (pun intended) boxes of tissues with the usual cold symptoms.

The good news, and I hate to jinx it but I'm going to say it anyway, is I haven't had any fever. And, as anyone who knows me will tell you, it'll take more than a few rogue germs to kill my appetite.

The bad news is I'm taking my daughter who's home from college and her friend to brunch at the Magic Castle tomorrow. They took a few planes to get here, and they've been looking forward to this for awhile. Disappointing them is not an option.

So I'll be mixing a little magic potion of my own in the morning, starting with a Coricidin omelette and a DayQuill chaser to get me through the day.

Then, it's back home and to bed until this thing runs its course.

I'm trying to think of a snappy line to end this post. A flu-related joke that'll leave you laughing. Alright, smiling. Okay, not tossing the laptop across the room.

But I got nothing. So instead, I think I'll go back to bed and binge a television show about a meth kingpin named Walter White.

That always makes me feel better.

Christmas past

As you may know if you follow this blog, and if you do maybe it's time to stop reading and seek gainful employment, we've recently finished a major kitchen remodel. The kind that makes me wonder how we lived with the old, small, inefficient kitchen so long. The kind that makes me wonder how many lifetimes I'll need to pay for it.

In the video above you can see the new peninsula we added. Well, you'd see it if it weren't covered with the mélange of Christmas ornaments that were carefully taken off the tree, and are now waiting to be boxed up and shoved back on the top shelf of the garage where they'll live until next year, neighbor to the Easter, Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations.

It's a lot of ornaments. But it was a big tree.

As I've written about here, I have mixed feelings about packing up the holiday. I like the joy and spirit of the season, but then I can only take so much joy and spirit. It's a short ride from "Merry Christmas" to "Bah-humbug."

The good news is every time this ritual is officially over, I feel like the slate is clean once again and I can start the new year in earnest, breaking resolutions then promising to start them for real the following week.

The beauty of it is I only have to do this fifty times. Then it's Christmas all over again.

Everyone in the pool

You cannot win if you do not play.

As a former lottery winner—you heard me—I know the thrill of realizing you've won. And while my winnings were enough to get me into a new 1986 Toyota Supra, they weren't quite enough to make the kind of life-changing moves a bigger jackpot would've allowed.

I'm hoping that all changes tonight.

Tonight's Powerball drawing is up to $460 million as of this writing, and will probably go higher as it gets closer to it.

Now, as anyone who knows me will tell you, the very last thing I'd ever describe myself as is a team player. But for tonight at least, I'm going to be the best team player ever.

The group of mostly fabulous people I work with—you know who you are—and myself have a lottery pool going for tonight's drawing. It was a $4 buy in, and we managed to pony up enough to buy 63 tickets.

The team player part? I'm rooting for the team. In fact, I may be its biggest cheerleader.

As we all spend the afternoon sitting around contemplating what we'll do with our winnings, I'd like to say it's been great working with all of you. I know there are a few responsible, forward thinking individuals who will, in a fit of common sense and an eye towards the future, squirrel their winnings away in a low interest yielding account somewhere, while they continue to do God's work selling luxury automobiles to people with a FICO score of 750 or higher.

As for me, Harvard University School of Engineering has yet to create a device able to measure exactly how fast I'd be out of here.

So from me to the team, good luck to all of us.

And if for some reason we don't win, the MegaMillions drawing is Friday.

Down the Hatch

Orrin "Hey you kids get off my lawn!" Hatch, Utah senator for the last 1500 years, handed in his resignation from the senate today. Well, he didn't so much hand it in as cash out. As one of the liar-in-chief's main sycophants, and a major advocate, proponent and beneficiary of the recently passed billionaire tax break, Hatch stands to increase his already formidable wealth in a big way.

So as the superhero, which he is most definitely not, always says, "My job here is done."

Not a minute too soon.

The good news is with Hatch leaving the senate, the road is cleared for Mitt Romney to replace him. Now, in the past I've been somewhat harsh on old Mitt. But in light of the last election, and the dipshit currently destroying our country, democracy and every good, decent, compassionate social program and progress of the last fifty years, I'm reconsidering him in a whole new light.

And frankly, he may be more man than I initially thought (look closely—see what I did there?)

Utah isn't going to elect a democrat. It's just not going to happen. But Romney may be the next best thing, having said this about Trump:

"Here's what I know: Donald Trump is a phony, a fraud. His promises are as worthless as a degree from Trump University. He's playing members of the American public for suckers: He gets a free ride to the White House, and all we get is a lousy hat."

But wait, there's more.

"Dishonesty is Donald Trump's hallmark."

Spoken like, well, like anyone who's listened to the fake president talk for more than a minute.

I applaud Romney's take down, assessment and honest opinion of Trump. And short of a democrat getting elected (although Doug Jones in Alabama shows miracles can happen), I support Romney and hope he has the cajones to stand his ground once he's in the senate.

What makes me optimistic, a word I haven't used since January 20, 2017, is that Romney is already a billionaire. He can't be bought. And he's a strict Mormon. So I'm guessing there's not much chance he can be blackmailed (for reference see Lindsey Graham).

Although not fast enough, the midterms will eventually get here. Hopefully with them comes the sinking of this ship of fools controlling the government.

Don't let the door hit you on the way out. Goodbye Orrin Hatch.

And good riddance.

Not a keeper

The first post is about the last year. Ironic ain't it?

So here's the thing. When it comes to the promises I made on our last trip around the sun, I'm a lot like the road to hell—I'm paved with good intentions. Alright, so maybe analogies aren't my metier (look it up), but you see where I'm going.

I made a lot of promises in 2017, some spur of the moment without much thought—you know, the same way I approach my career path (rolling eyes at the word "career")—some to you and even more to myself that despite the best intentions, well, we've already covered that.

For example, this one that would've made your Christmas shopping infinitely easier when it came to stocking stuffers. Or this one, where I vowed to be more disciplined and prolific with my blog postings (stops to laugh hysterically at the thought of being disciplined). But not as prolific as Round Seventeen because, frankly, my Crank-O-Meter doesn't go to eleven. And I'd rather read his posts than write my own.

Besides making gift buying easier and giving you more posts to avoid reading, I also made several promises to myself which I've broken like a fine china vase on a sitcom.

"Whatever you do Joey, don't touch the vase!"

"What, do you think I'm stupid? Of course I'm not gonna touch the vase."

SFX: Vase crashing to pieces on the floor.

Laughter and applause. Freeze frame. Roll credits.

Some are the same promises I've made before like losing weight, changing my style (which would involve actually having one), opening the folder marked Jeff's ideas and following through on some of them, any of them, one of them (yes Cameron Y., that includes the one marked "Screenplay ideas").

Those are the actionable, external promises. There are also the internal efforts that met with mixed success.

Cutting people some slack and realizing everyone's not going to do it my way or on my timetable, although for the love of God I still have no idea why not (only child, does it show?).

Following Elvis Costello's advice about trying to be more amused than disgusted at what's going on around me.

Sticking to the golden rule, no matter how hard someone is making it to do.

Not taking any of it personally, although I have to say I'm actually pretty good at that one.

Got a little heavy on you there didn't I? (Insert diet joke here). Yeah I know, I didn't see it coming either.

Anyway, all of this to say my promise to me and you for 2018 is to do better at keeping promises I make, and not make ones I can't keep.

This year, it's like Jules said in Pulp Fiction: "I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard..."