See you next year

As we wrap up another spin around the sun, I can't help but feel uncharacteristically optimistic about what the next decade has in store for us all.

First and foremost, I believe a return to sanity is coming in November, when the unstable genius is voted out of office (according to the actual count he wasn't voted in - don't get me started), and forced to wear even more orange as he's perp walked out of the White House to a solitary jail cell in upstate New York with neither a gold toilet or internet connection.

Before that happens, I'm hoping as the new decade begins Nancy Pelosi will hold the articles of impeachment from the senate until the traitor-in-chief gives his Hate Of The Union speech. But only because I think a meltdown of that magnitude on national television would be once in a lifetime, very entertaining, and probably something even the red caps and mint julep senator from South Carolina couldn't ignore.

On a more personal note, I'm grateful for many things that happened this past year, not the least of which are the friends I made at my last gig (you know who you are). I anticipate many of those relationships getting even closer now that they can flourish in much saner, more fun and healthier environments. Not that advertising agencies aren't healthy environments (pausing to make my eyes stop rolling).

Also grateful I don't have to see certain people every day anymore. Well, mainly that one guy.

I'm also planning on bringing some projects I've kept on the back burner to a full boil this year. A screenplay based on my favorite book. Another based on a sci-fi story from a famous author that I'm this close to getting the rights to. And a script for a show with one of my aforementioned friends, who is a far better, funnier and talented writer than I am (you know who you are). Oh are those your coattails? Yeah, I can hang on.

Crap, I just put it in writing. Does that mean I have to do it? I mean, no one's under oath here.

Anyway, if there's ever been a year where you could say, "There's nowhere to go but up" this is it. Here's wishing you and yours best year ever. I hope it's everything you want it to be.

Except that one guy.

What's in your wallet?

The day after Christmas, somehow I was able to overcome my food coma from our annual Christmas morning brunch and actually get a few things done. One of them was something I'd been meaning to do for years (if you said "Get a real job" calm down - you're not the first).

For some reason I never was able to find the time for this particular chore. But after years of procrastination, it finally happened: I cleaned out my wallet.

Oh sure, it may not seem like a big accomplishment to you, but considering the amount of paperwork and junk I was carrying around it was definitely life-changing. Well, okay. Pocket changing. The best way to describe the process is it was alternately a trip down memory lane, and a slog through a land fill.

If you know anything about me - and after over 1000 blogposts you probably know more than you want to - you know I'm usually an exceptionally organized person. As a rule, I like to clean as I go. I'm good that way. I put things (and when necessary, people) in their place in real time so I don't have to come back and do it later. Occasionally though, it's not always possible to do.

For example, my wallet was loaded with restaurant receipts I meant to file away in my incredibly organized tax receipt folder the day I got them. It's December, and I was clearing out receipts from as far back as March. The nice part was getting to reminisce about the meals, remember who I had them with and relive them a little bit.

The bad part was my wallet looked like the one in Costanza's hands in the picture.

Also in the billfold were souvenirs from trips I'd been on this past year, mostly in the form of hotel room card keys. I had my Comic Con hotel key from last July, my San Francisco visit room key from October, and discount coupons from each of those hotels for cocktails in their swingin' bars.

There were little notes to myself about things that seemed important at the time, and a few lines I thought were funny and I should remember.

The big surprise was that I'd actually been carrying around more than a few of the 500 Innocean business cards I got when I first started there. Of course now, they're collector's items which could probably fetch in the high $1's on eBay. A lot of the time I keep stuff using the "just in case I need it..." approach. Pretty sure I won't be needing them. And besides, my shredder needs something to do.

The nice part about all that clutter out of my wallet is it's considerably thinner now, and folds comfortably in my front pocket.

Plus now when I hug somebody I don't have to say, "Don't worry, it's just my wallet."

T'was The Night Before Christmas - 2019 Edition

It's been about three years since I put up this post on Christmas Eve. I wanted it to become somewhat of a holiday tradition. I say somewhat, because nobody really expects or wants it, but I'll keep posting it anyway. It's like Deck The Halls or Do You Hear What I Hear. The request lines aren't jammed, yet you hear it a lot. Besides, normally I'd be doing all my last minute errands like eating all the cookies the wife made for tomorrow, and dipping into the pumpkin pie early. But it is the season of giving, and damn it, if we know anything about me we know I'm a giver.

This year, I happened to get laid off along with ten other people at my agency right before the holidays. So this verse strikes a little closer to home than usual. But despite that small setback - and was it really a setback or a blessing - I look forward to the coming year with uncharacteristic hope and optimism.

I know, Mr. Glass Half Full. I thought I'd try it and see what it felt like.

So for the holidays, give those you love the best present. Hug them tight and make sure they know they're loved. Please enjoy this little diddy one more time. And the very merriest Christmas to each and every one of you and yours.

Except that one guy.

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of Gold Lions danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

She screams for ice cream

Before I get to the post that answers the question, "Why is there a picture of vanilla ice cream on here?" I should probably address the other burning question you have: "It's been 4 months since his last post. What the hell happened?"

I'll tell you what happened - I didn't feel like doing it. There it is. I know, you're about to remind me of the many posts I put up about how I was going to be more consistent and productive in my postings. How I was going to match, if not beat, Roundseventeen.com post for post. Whatever. I get tired just thinking about it.

The truth of the matter is every time I'd sit down to write a post, all I wanted to talk about was that festering piece of shit in the White House. The unstable genius. The traitor-in-chief. But I figured there were so many smart, incisive, critical, analytical and factual articles and opinions being written about him - and not by the fake news - that I didn't really need to chime in.

So what's gotten me off my big fat bahookie and propelled me back to the keyboard and pictures of vanilla ice cream? My daughter is having her tonsils out tomorrow.

First off all, I think you all need to thank me for the fact you're looking at a picture of ice cream. At first I went to the Google and searched tonsilectomy - I don't recommend it.

My girl is home on Christmas break from college in Iowa (don't get me started). And we just thought what's more fun over Christmas break than having throat surgery, amirite?

Her tonsils have been inflamed for awhile and making her sick at school in Iowa, but her mother and I wanted her to have the procedure done by our ENT surgeon here. Someone we know. Someone we trust. Someone who doesn't use corn-based anesthesia.

So starting tomorrow afternoon, her diet for the next couple of weeks will consist primarily of ice cream, yogurt, chicken broth, ice cream, applesauce, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and more ice cream.

The good news is I'm not working for the next couple weeks, so I'll be able to lavish attention on my girl, and nurse her back to health while she's recovering from the surgery.

The bad news is since I'll be home, it means less ice cream for her.

Gone Dogs

It's taken me years, but I've finally written something I believe people will actually want to read and enjoy (and I think we both know it's not this blog).

Not that you don't already love my spellbinding prose about twin-turbo engines in Korean sports sedans. Or my memorable musings about the unparalleled amenities, Nappa leather and 22-way adjustable driver's seat in the top-of-the-line, flagship of the fleet. And I have no doubt you're waiting with bated breath—and who would blame you—for the next installment of a little gem I like to call Exceptional Lease Offers.

I'm just messin' with ya. I don't read 'em either.

What I'm talking about here is the story I've written about the world's greatest German Shepherd—the late, great Max—in the newly released, beautifully produced coffee-table book Gone Dogs.

A project by dog lovers extraordinaire Jim Mitchem and Laurie Smithwick, Gone Dogs is a heart-warming, heart-breaking and ultimately life-affirming collection of stories about the power of love through our relationships with dogs who are no longer with us.

A call went out to parents of all kinds of pups to submit stories of their dearly departed canines, and I was lucky enough to have the one I wrote about Max selected for the inaugural volume.

Since I am in advertising—I'm not proud—I'm going to be shameless about it and just ask for the order. What you need to do right now is go to Amazon and buy several copies for your dog-lovin' friends. And their dog-lovin' friends. In fact, I know it's only August, but why not beat the Christmas rush and stock up on a few copies for the holidays.

I also want to say that I can't thank Jim and Laurie enough for including my story. It means the world to me knowing people will get to see what a magnificent dog Max was, and how much I loved him.

Here's what I'm saying: order yourself a copy today. And when it comes, just sit, stay and enjoy every one of these beautiful, heartfelt stories.

Starting with mine.

Company policy

The two pictures on this post are from actual advertising agency websites. The first describes who doesn't work there. The second describes who they don't want working there.

It’s a philosophical question really. Exactly how many assholes have to be working in an industry before companies are forced to advertise the fact they’re not welcome as employees?

Hospital websites don’t have to tell you they don’t want jerks working there. Neither do insurance company sites. Home appraiser websites. Restaurant websites. Virtually every industry and business assumes you take it for granted they don't want to hire insufferable, egomaniacal, argumentative, contrary jerks and assholes.

Except one. Advertising. Why do you suppose that is? Think for a second….got it? Okay, don’t make me say it.

Alright, I’ll say it. It’s because there are a lot of jerks and assholes working in advertising. (There are also a lot of immensely talented, brilliant, creative, kind, giving people too, but that's not who we're talking about in this post)

Despite all their efforts to keep them out—including garlic, crosses, a no MAGA hat policy and regular pest control service—jerks and assholes somehow seem to find their way into agencies.

I have a suspicion you, dear reader, might believe that somehow I'm directing my ire towards one department in particular.

Not at all.

The fact of the matter is that agency jerks and assholes are equal opportunity players and are department agnostic: they show up everywhere.

All you can do is recognize them for what they are, call them out on it as often as possible, then ignore them and just keep moving forward.

They don’t ever make it easy, and they have this inexplicable, frustrating and unfair talent for failing up. But if experience with these unpleasant individuals has taught me anything, it's that the best course of action in dealing with them is to stay professional no matter what, and not sink to their level.

Because you know who else doesn’t like jerks and assholes? Karma.

2019 Edition: The Con is on

I don't usually repost pieces on here. But it's the Comic Con time of year again, and I was going to write a post about going. Again. But then I reread this little gem and realized it said exactly what I wanted to say. Again. We don't have to re-invent the wheel each time out people. Let's just take tonight's post at face value, and enjoy the writing for what it is - an excuse not to think of something new to write. Wait? Did I say that out loud?

Don't say you haven't been warned. For four and a half days this week, my son and I will be living amongst 'em (well, actually we'll be living at the Hilton and walking amongst 'em, but no one's under oath here): the Stormtroopers, Wolverines, Lara Crofts, Jokers, Iron Men, Darth Vaders, Zombies, Batmen, Supermen and other assorted, costumed inhabitants of Comic Con.

As you can see here and here, this isn't the first time I've written about the Con. And it won't be the last.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not saying it's the only subject I'll post about for the next few days. But if you happen to notice my writing in the Thursday through Sunday posts have a nerdist, geekesque, maybe-I-ought-to-get-a-life, gee-he-sounds-REALLY-tired quality to them, then I've done my job and you'll know we're having a fine time.

For those who've never been - and really, like the Rolling Stones or Rick Perry trying to complete a sentence, it's something you need to see at least once in your life - please to enjoy this little taste of my next four days.

Welcome to my world.

I read the whole thing

I can't believe I was there for the whole thing. Well, not the whole thing. But a lot of it.

Let me back it up a bit. It's not often I'll start a book and read it cover to cover in one sitting. But I had a feeling that was going to happen with I Can't Believe I Lived The Whole Thing by my mentor, and the man who gave me my copywriting career, Howie Cohen.

As I've written before, you can blame it on him.

There are two reasons I got through the book faster than Brett Kavanaugh driving to a liquor store near closing time. First, if I can be honest, I wanted to see if my name was in it. Spoiler alert: it's not. Apparently I haven't had the impact on Howie's life that he's had on mine.

Whatever. We move on.

The other is I couldn't put it down.

As reads go, this is a great one. The true story of an advertising legend and Hall Of Famer—did I mention he gave me my start—Howie brings the mad men days of the business in New York to life in vivid, humorous and detailed fashion.

I didn't meet Howie until he moved to L.A. and I worked with him at Wells Rich Greene. I was witness to a lot of the stories he tells in the book. And the ones I wasn't I heard the first time straight from him. Like Mary Wells bringing him and partner Bob Pasqualina into her office, and in front of clients threatening to hang them out to dry for something impolitic they said in a New York Times interview. And I still use the line, "Please excuse the leather smell." when people get in my car.

It'll make sense when you read it.

Here's the thing: I've known Howie for two thirds of my life. His influence on my path cannot be overstated. I know a lot of people have worked with him, and they all like to claim him as their own. It's understandable, I do it too. But only because I'm entitled to because I knew him first.

His book captures the craziness, creativity, relationships, frustrations and rewards of the ad biz in a way only someone who has lived it at the top can. Whether you're in the business or not, it's a great story that'll have you laughing out loud and shaking your head there was actually a time like that.

Personally, I got to relive some of the best times of my professional life (stopping to laugh for using the word professional). As I was reading, I remembered stories Howie told me I hoped would be in the book, and they are. Moments I was there for—like another legend, Mary Wells, addressing the staff after the loss of the Jack In The Box account. And there are the personal battles Howie's fought and won that I never knew about. He reveals them with a disarming rawness and honesty.

Even though my name's not in the book, there are lots of other names that I know and have worked with. And while Howie and I have differing opinions on some of them, it's fun to read his take.

Howie's always had greatness about him, and he's as true to who he is as anyone I've ever known.

You can see it on every page.

Production is down

There are a couple of ways you can tell this blog hasn't exactly been one of my priorities this year.

First is the aching, lonely, abandoned feeling you've been experiencing deep in the pit of your stomach. The sense that something good is gone. That uneasy, anxiety-ridden, nagging feeling that asks, "Why can't he just give me my daily dose of humor, insight and wit I've relied on so dearly for the last ten years to get through my otherwise sad, mundane and ordinary day. Why?"

The other way to tell is the chart pictured here.

When I started blogging in 2009, you can see I just put up a couple of posts. I was getting my toes wet in the blogging waters of the interwebs. Then for the next five trips around the sun, I posted over 100 articles each year. Enthusiasm was high, people were commenting, I was confident I had something worth saying to fill up all those posts.

Of course, 2015 was the best year for this blog. Not for the quality ("quality", good one) of the posts, or the subject matter, but for the fact it was the year I beat out my close personal friend and fashion consultant Rich Siegel of Round Seventeen fame in my imaginary race to keep up with, and exceed, his prolific output of online articles.

Just pausing for a second to re-live the victory.

Ok, I'm back.

Apparently that was the year I peaked, because as you can see the following years took a precipitous drop in postings despite a slight upward tick last year. This year doesn't even average out to two postings a month. And I think I know why.

Besides being the least disciplined writer you know, every time I begin to write a post it becomes political in nature. No surprise given my complete revulsion and disdain for the unstable genius we have for liar-in-chief. But after a day of political posts on Facebook and the sewer that is now Twitter, it just seems difficult to add anything of meaning to the discussion that isn't already being covered a thousand different ways on other channels. And writing about anything else seems meaningless and a wasted effort, given the dire state of our country and our democracy.

I just light up a room don't I?

But writing is a muscle, and if you don't exercise it you lose it. And God knows I've lost enough muscle in my life. So I'm going to start thinking about maybe making the effort to perhaps begin posting a little more frequently if I think I have something worth talking about.

A grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief.

Admit it, you're feeling better already.

A glowing recommendation - again

A couple years ago, I stumbled onto a site advertising tours to Chernobyl and posted about it. I haven't thought about it much since, but with HBO airing their Chernobyl miniseries—the feel good television event of the season—now seems like the perfect time to revisit that post.

Of course, I can't actually recommend you sign up for the tour. But then, if the summer hotels and flights you wanted are booked, you have to go somewhere. AmIrite?

Anyway, read all about it and let me know if you make plans to go. Important money-saving tip: you'll only need a one-way ticket.

Summer's coming, and it's never too early to start planning that vacation.

Instead of dragging the kids to some boring, expected vacation destination with things to see and do, like Hawaii or New York, why not take them someplace they'll have memories of for a lifetime? Or a half-lifetime.

The Chornobyl Tour sounds like fun for the whole family. Just read all the glowing reviews.

Like me, I'll bet you have a lot of questions about it. I know what my first question would be, and I'm sure I know what yours is too. But—and this is the funny part—it's not the first question on the website's FAQs. That position belongs to this one about cost:

Even with the answer they give, they don't address the hidden costs. You know, things like replacement shoes, burn ointment, vomit bags—lots of vomit bags, toilet paper—lots of toilet paper, wigs and more. But I'm sure you find out about those soon enough. And as far as that top of mind question you were going to ask, don't worry, they do answer it somewhere around number 11 or 12.

Anyway, I think getting a taste of what the post-Apocalyptic landscape is like is a super idea, and especially timely now that the liar-in-chief is president and will probably nuke someplace just to distract us from the Russia story.

We'll be living in it before we know it.

Of course, Chornobyl is in Russia. So the good news is if we can wait just a bit, we'll be able to make reservations for the Precedential Suite in the new Chornobyl Trump Tower.

Don't worry about finding it. The sign is lit up around the clock.

Emergency equipment

Parenting is much more an art form than a science. It's open to different styles, various interpretations and has different value depending on who's doing it.

But I think I'm safe in saying the one thing all parenting has in common is it's gonna cost ya.

Both of my kids have gone to out-of-state colleges, one in Texas and one in Iowa. Don't ask. Anyway the one in Texas transferred back here after his freshman year, but he still has a little gift I gave him when he first moved out.

The emergency credit card. They both have one.

It's the peace of mind card, the one that let's them take a cab home when they find themselves outside a club in the senseless murder district at midnight. The one that says use me at urgent care to stop the bleeding, or get antibiotics for the sinus infection. It's the airline ticket if they have to come home in a hurry.

Yes it's the credit card I gave them to be used in emergencies, but I now realize the other thing I should've given them is a long lecture on exactly what constitutes an emergency.

Buying posters from artists you like, new shoes, that cute sweater—you know the one, sushi because it's the best sushi place in Iowa (how many can there be?) are all examples of non-emergencies.

Yet every once in awhile, I put on my little green visor, open up the inter webs and go through the "emergency" charges my darling offspring have made. And almost every time, one or two of them will spring out at me like a Jack In The Box, or a coiled rattler.

That sound you hear is my wallet screaming.

I don't want to make it seem like they're on wild spending sprees with my money. They're not. For the most part, they let me know when they're buying something on the card, or they ask if they can.

But as any parent will tell you, it doesn't matter how old your kids get—they're always testing you and seeing how far they can push it.

And sometimes that means re-zoning the borders of Emergencytown right up against Retailville.

Downton Jeffy

I’ll be the first to admit every once in awhile I’m late to the high tea party.

A few years ago, I remember walking through my living room as my wife and daughter, both of whom I recognized immediately, were watching Downton Abbey. They invited me to join them, but I had better things to do than sit through what I assumed was a boring British period piece where I couldn’t understand half the things they were saying.

Whose language is it anyway?

Besides, if it didn’t involve cooking meth, a rock and roll singer from New Jersey, a mob family or playing craps I wasn’t that interested. Yes I drive a very narrow lane. Shut up.

Fast forward. The wife and I are in a theater, and we see a trailer for Downton Abbey: The Motion Picture coming out this September. It revealed nothing, other than an interest on her part to re-watch the entire TV series in preparation for seeing the film. She invited me to watch it with her, and, never being one to miss an opportunity to score some marriage points, I agreed.

Here’s the thing: I am so hooked. I love this show in a way I have loved very few shows. It’s totally character driven, and the lives of the Crawley family are as interesting and intriguing as said meth kingpins or mob bosses.

There's no shortage of palace intrigue at the Abbey. Murder, rape, World Wars, the Titanic sinking, relatives dying, bastard children, backstabbing, romance, betrayal, sexual identity crisis, illicit affairs, women's liberation and the changing times just after the turn of the century are all a part of it.

Then there’s the brilliant, subtle, nuanced, hitting-every-note acting. A British cast for the most part (with one notable exception being a pivotal character played by Shirley MacClaine), each character has an opportunity to shine with a storyline devoted to them. My personal favorite standout is Dame Maggie Smith, a distinguished and accomplished actor, who if you don't know her large body of work which covers over 70 years, you'll at least remember her as Professor Minerva McGonagall from the Harry Potter series. She conveys more with a look than most actors do with a soliloquy.

The show itself is like watching a feature film every episode. Rich, beautiful cinematography, stunning scenery, magnificent production design and a wardrobe budget costume designers wait their entire career for.

The writing is, as they say, spot on. Beyond cleverly written, each character (and there are a lot of them) is completely drawn.

As of this writing I’ve just finished up season four, which ended on a sweet note with a heartfelt Christmas episode. I cried like a baby. My macho self-esteem is not threatened.

If you have the time, Downton Abbey is well worth the binge. As Violet Crawley (Maggie Smith) says, "It seems a pity to miss such a good pudding."

Quite right.

The creative review

Here's what doesn't happen in the insurance business. A group of senior management people don't get together in a room with the underwriters every time they write a policy to evaluate how well they've done it.

"I don't know, it just seems to me you could've referenced a more recent actuarial table." "With regards to the deductible, does that line up with the property value in terms of reimbursement?" It doesn't happen in insurance, or most industries. Oh sure, someone takes a quick look before it goes out, but it doesn't have to go through committee.

Because, as any third-grader could tell you, that would be bullshit and a monumental waste of time and resources.

But in advertising, you can't underestimate people's need to be part of the process. And because creative work is the product, it's the one dance everyone likes being invited to.

If you're not familiar with creative reviews, it's where anywhere from one person to several people working on the account, near the account, in the same hallway as the account or in the building next door to the account get together and "review" the work to make sure it's on strategy, saying and doing what it's supposed to. At least that's the theory.

Now a few different things can happen in creative reviews. The work can just go through swimmingly, earning nodding heads, praise, kudos and unanimous agreement from everyone. This rarely happens.

Another way it could go is the creative director will see something strategically off point and, so as not to embarrass the creative team, gently offer up meaningful, constructive suggestions how to course correct to make the work more relevant and effective. This too is a rare occurrence.

Usually, especially if deadlines are tight (they always are) or clients are demanding (they always are), or the creative director has had their own work shot down by the client more times than Glenn Close's dreams of winning an Oscar, it's a complete and total shit show.

There are certain creative directors—although God knows, and let me make this as clear as I can, none that I work with—who just love to hear themselves talk. They laugh heartily at their own jokes, and are constantly taking trips down memory lane reliving their glory days which may or may not have ever actually happened. You can almost set a clock to it—that's right about the time they not so much critique your work as explain exactly how they'd do it. Then they ask you to take another shot at it.

Which, as anyone who's been on the receiving end of that comment will tell you is code for go back to your office—or assigned open office seating space—and do up what they just told you.

Here's the thing: I'm not Hemingway (if you follow this blog even a little you already know that). And while I'm also not a junior reporting for his first day of work, I get the process. Someone with a bigger title and pay grade has to look at the work to make sure it's hitting the marks it's supposed to. But when it's, oh, just for argument's sake let's say an overrated, egotistical, abusive, job-jumping, work-stealing, credit-grabbing, kickback-taking alcoholic who's shut down every agency they've ever worked at and wouldn't know a good idea if they fu..er...tripped over it (family blog)—again, not that I work with anyone like that—then it becomes somewhat frustrating.

On the other hand, it does make for good blog material.

Sounds familiar

Almost six years ago, I wrote the post you see here. I know what you're thinking: "He's been pumping out this crap for six years?!"

One man's crap is another man's shinola, or something like that.

The point is I don't like to recycle my posts, but six years later this one is still as relevant as ever.

How do I know? Because in my day job writing about a luxury automotive brand, I find myself using the same exact words I speak about in the post. I'm not proud.

I guess what I'm saying is even though this is a pre-owned article, it's been through a 140-word inspection and reads just like new. Take it out for a test read, and experience it for yourself.

Like a lot of writers living in Southern California, I’ve worked on many car accounts. From top end $90,000 luxury vehicles to $14,000 coffee-grinders, I’ve written it all.

Commercials, collateral, radio spots, print ads, online banners, interactive content, Twitter posts, Facebook posts, outdoor, customer kits, dealer kits, CPO kits, sale kits, employee bonus kits, warranty kits.

Oddly enough, no matter the price or quality of the car, they all have something in common. The words used to describe them.

Pick a car, any car. I bet it’s exhilarating. It’s probably also a leader in innovation. No doubt it’s been engineered to maximize your driving experience, and designed to turn heads as well as corners.

Let’s not forget the fact it’s also loaded with state-of-the-art technology, as well as class-leading aerodynamics whose job it is to keep you connected to the road. How else could you get a car that makes setting the standard, standard.

But there's no point to any of it unless you're around to enjoy it. That's why the car you're thinking about is loaded with the latest active and passive safety features.

The cars come with airbags. The agencies come with windbags.

Differentiating parity products - different brands with the exact same features - has always been a problem in advertising. Often the only thing that does it is the quality of the creative idea, the consistency of the execution and the personality it establishes for the brand.

I bet you know what BMW builds. But I'm fairly sure you aren't nearly as familiar with the tagline Toyota - which builds awesome cars for all income levels - just spent millions to introduce.

Unless there's a real product difference, almost every category from athletic shoes to cars to fast food use the same words to describe their product. Which makes it even harder to tell them apart.

Sort of like ad agencies.

My track record

I think after the last couple years we’ve had it's about time we all had some good news for a change. AmIrite? So here it is: I’ve lost around 15 lbs. in the last few weeks.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “But Jeff, you looked so fabulous to start with - a perfect physical specimen really - you didn’t need to lose any weight.” First of all, thank you for noticing.

Second, let’s remember I wear a lot of black and black is your friend.

And finally, despite how right I’d like to think you are, it’s a numbers game and I know the numbers.

What's the secret to my success? How have I done it? Well, besides cutting down on the food I jam in my piehole at all hours of the day and night, it hasn’t been too difficult. I’ve been using an app called My Fitness Pal to track everything I eat.

Doctors, the people who play them on television and the ones in real life, keep saying 2000 calories is the average for a grown man. So I've arbitrarily set the calories I can take in at 1920 a day. It was a fine year, and it's an even number. Next, I track what I eat religiously. I’m now on the 75th day of my tracking streak. Some days I go over the calorie limit, but it’s just one of the limits I go over on a regular basis.

”No officer, I didn’t see the sign.”

As far as those calories I get to have, I try to make them healthy ones, even if in the loosest sense of the word. Although it’s fine if they’re not entirely healthy as long as they fall in the count.

At least that's what I tell myself. And if we can't fool ourselves...

My Fitness Pal is owned by Under Armor, and has its own online community. Which means my weight fluxuations are probably all over the internet, in the cloud, available to Ukrainian hackers, coding classes and, as I like to think of myself, real athletes.

Anyway, wish me luck and continued success. If it all goes well, you’ll be seeing a lot less of me soon.

And while I'm not able to tell you exactly how many calories are in a black and white cookie from the deli, yet, I can tell you an In-N-Out Double Double protein-style is 520 calories.

Don’t ask how I know.

One from the heart

If you’ve been following this blog for any reasonable amount of time—and really, if you have you need to get outside more—then you already know I have what we could accurately call a slightly compulsive side to my otherwise sparkling personality.

Whether it’s food, movies, jokes, the crap tables or in this case, music, I’ll latch onto something then run it mercilessly into the ground, usually driving everyone around me crazy along the way.

I think by now you know a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey is one of my life long obsessions. I don’t even want to think about the money, time, travel and effort that’s gone into following him around the country for years. I’m not complaining: it goes without saying, even though I’m going to say it, that I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Especially the trips where I got double airline miles.

Well, the bad news for those around me on the friends and family plan is I believe I may have found another artist I can see myself getting that obsessed about. His name is Paul Thorn.

Gravel voiced, bluesy, honest, beautifully written songs that speak directly to and from the heart, he’s the real deal. In a world of singer/songwriters who should be wildly famous and popular, Paul Thorn is right up there at the top of the list.

How did I find out about him? Funny you should ask. I was surfing YouTube for a funky Donny Fritts video, as one does. The video I found was a song called Temporarily Forever Mine. I loved the idea of the title, and it was a beautiful song. I noticed it’d been written by some guy named Paul Thorn.

For the next four hours, I went down a YouTube rabbit hole watching his videos over and over (compulsive, remember?). I was hooked.

I went to his website, paulthorn.com, to see where he was touring. Come to find out the only Southern California show he was doing on his current tour was at a club called Belly Up in Solana Beach, near San Diego. On a Monday night. Not the best night or the closest venue, but it didn’t matter. I was going to see him and nothing could stop me - except for the torrential rainstorm that decided to hit the night he was playing. I couldn’t leave work early enough, and even if I could have traffic was impossible.

So, disappointed though I was, I checked his site again to see if there were any other cities I could catch up with him. Turns out, while I was sleeping, he added a Newport Beach show just two nights later.

Long story long, I scored two tickets to the sold out show. The wife couldn't join me, so I invited my friend Eric - a fine musician in his own right - and we went and saw him. It was spectacular. He performed an earlier album of his in its entirety, as well as several other songs of his. And one Jackson 5 song, which made me love him more.

You'll notice I haven't done any Jason Statham jokes. First, I'm pretty sure he's heard them all. And second, he was a professional boxer who at one time went six rounds with Roberto Duran, so I don't want to upset him.

Anyway, here are a few videos to give you a little flavor of what I'm talking about. I hope you like him as much as I do.

And should you decide you want to see him live, just say when. I’m in.

The Super Bowl revisited

I had two thoughts about a blogpost on Super Bowl Sunday.

First was sit down and create an entirely new post that would have humor, pathos, and speak to sportsmanship and the game as a metaphor for life.

Second, I thought I could just recycle a post I'd already written and crack open a cold one.

Guess which one I chose?

I've written a few times about the Super Bowl, here and here for example. But there's another post I had about it, one that expresses a universality we can all relate to. That speaks to an experience we've all had and continue to have on a daily basis.

And most importantly, again, means I don't have to come up with a new one.

So have a seat and take a read. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll wonder where I came up with the phrase "toilet envy."

Please to enjoy.

Own a home, and you'll find yourself shopping for things you never shopped for before.

Like a new toilet.

Now, I've never been a toilet connoisseur. More of a journeyman really, just using whichever one happened to be available at the moment. You know, "the moment."

But my house has three bathrooms and four people, so the law of averages had to catch up eventually. Since the toilet in our master bathroom has decided to take a leak of it's own all over the floor every time it's flushed, it was time to aquaint myself with the plumbing section at Lowe's.

After some serious research, including what I'll call "faux test drives", this is the one that bowled me over. Yeah, I said it.

It's the Kohler Memoirs Comfort Height Toilet with Stately Design.

And why shouldn't a toilet be stately?

Now that I'm forced to actually give thought to it, turns out there are some things I don't like about the toilet I have, and some features I want in a new one.

For starters, I want one that feels like a La-Z-Boy recliner. Something comfortable. Something I can spend a lot of time on. After all, it's not just a toilet. It's also a reading chair.

One of the many reviews I've read said, "Looks good and flushes well." If only we could all say that about ourselves.

I also like the comfort height. I'm not potty training anymore, I've got it down pretty good. So I don't want to feel like I'm sitting on a trainer. And sometimes, those few seconds you save not having to situate yourself so far down make the difference between, well, they make the difference.

The only thing I don't like about this big, tall, comfortable crapper is the price. It's anywhere between $750. and $1000. depending where I buy it. Not including what it'll cost me to have it installed.

I feel a bit embarrassed about being so excited about this purchase. However that embarrassment is trumped by the cases of toilet envy I know I'll be creating once everyone who visits our house spends a little quality time with the new Kohler.

Toilet envy. Yeah, I said it.

Going bananas

I broke a girl's heart today. Actually, more like shattered her world. I didn't take any pride in it. But it's not the first time it's happened and it probably won't be the last.

The why isn't the important part. It's the how. I told her how many calories are in a banana.

It's not something I planned, but somehow the truth always comes out. Especially when you're having casual office talk—as one does—about edible fruit that grows in bunches produced by several kinds of large herbaceous flowering plants in the genus Musa.

Did you know the banana is actually botanically a berry? You're welcome.

Anyway here's the thing: I've started logging all the food I shove into my piehole on an app called My Fitness Pal. The reasons are varied, everything from being tired of my doctors telling me to lose some weight (I get that a lot) to the three pairs of pants I can barely squeeze into looking at me, smiling, and saying, "Tight enough for you fat boy?"

One of the things this app does is break down the nutritional make up of the items on my daily menu. And because I happen to like a little Potassium In My Diet—capped because it was also the title of my first album—bananas are a morning staple.

When I entered it in the app, come to find out a medium sized banana is a 110 calories. I told this to my friend Nicole. Apparently, I've altered her world forever. And not in a good way.

Her thinking, and I have to say I agree, is that if there were any justice in the world bananas would only be around 60 or 70 calories. It's unimaginable they can cross over the century calorie mark. Yet the facts are what they are.

And if we start denying facts, it's a slippery slope (see what I did there?).

Anyway, on the bright side, there are many other ways to consume bananas that are a lot worse for you, calorically speaking. While you're looking at pictures of the high-calorie banana items below, I'll be in the kitchen drinking my eighth glass of water and choking down my third and last Ak Mak cracker for the day.

And swearing like a drunk longshoreman.

It Reins in Southern California

There are many things I look forward to each day. Seeing my family, working with people I like (you know who you are), driving along the coast as my commute. And of course, the five seconds before Jeopardy comes on the air.

That's when Eyewitness News airs the nightly Dallas Reins promo.

For those in the dark with low cloud cover, Dallas Reins is the channel 7 Los Angeles Eyewitness News meteorologist. He's been on the air here forever, and is as much an L.A. landmark as the Hollywood sign, Bowl or Boulevard.

The overly dramatic presentation Reins is known for consists of three essential elements: flat hand. Point. Fist. All wrapped up with a gravelly voice telling us to tune in.

I find it wildly entertaining. I believe he has honed the presentation for years, and like the pro he is, makes it look effortless.

The best entertainers and meteorologists do.

2019. Day 8.

Like most people I know, I couldn't wait for 2018 to be over. For reasons we're all too well aware of it had been an extremely stressful year. But as we turn the page into 2019, I'm feeling something I haven't felt since the Kenyan was president: hope.

The democratic house has already started their job. The first thing they did was pass a bill to reopen the government, a bill which Senate Majority Leader and chin mogul Mitch McConnell will not allow to get to the senate floor. Democrats will also be subpoena-ing everyone in the shithole president's world to expose his already on display House 'O Corruption.

Then, superhero Robert Mueller will most likely have some late Christmas presents in the form of evidence, indictments and maybe even the final report on Russia.

The unstable genius continues to be isolated in the White House, and the world watches and laughs while he implodes. His government shutdown is backfiring faster than a '38 Ford, and his constant badmouthing of the generals of the U.S. Armed Forces make me confident they won't let him launch a missile during a temper tantrum.

Tonight the networks, in a serious lapse of judgement, are giving the Liar In Chief airtime to make his case for his bullshit wall directly to the American People. I have it on good authority it'll be the best prime time comedy tonight. Funny to everyone, except the 800,000 federal employees and their families who are being financially and emotionally ruined because of his juvenile, ignorant, narcissistic temper tantrum.

Then towards the end of the month we have his State of the Union speech to look forward to. He's constitutionally required to give one each year. I have a feeling it'll go a little something like this:

TRUMP: The state of our union is strong, very strong. So strong you wouldn't believe it, but trust me, it's really strong.

AUDIENCE: (Hysterical laughter and spit takes for the next 30 minutes)

For whatever reason, and maybe it's my blood pressure medicine, I feel there's a actually a chance that this bottomless pit of neo-Nazi, racist, misogynist, homophobic, traitorous, lying, cheating ugliness he's unleashed in the country might gradually be shamed into crawling back under its rock.

I'm hopeful even his base—and really, was there ever a better word to describe his supporters—who apparently like strong white men, must be getting tired of their whining, tiny-handed, porn-star banging, pussy-grabbing crybaby yelling wolf and fake news all the time. Especially now that they've seen exactly how little their paychecks went up, if at all, post-Republican tax reform.

So as far as I'm concerned, 2019 is a clean slate to turn this ship around. Okay, mixed metaphors, but you see where I'm going here. Let's get after it 2019.

To quote Hamilton, history has it's eyes on you.