The sweet spot

What with the ‘rona and all this year, everyone I know seems to have grown more than a little tired of not just learning to bake all the sourdough and banana bread the world can bear, but actually baking it. If I never see a group of squishy, brown bananas again—don’t get me started.

Needless to say, this frame of mind doesn’t bode well for all the baked goods you promised yourself and your pudgy little cousins you’d be making over the holidays.

So I'm thinking maybe the first gift you ought to give yourself is letting the exceptional Detroit Baker handle all your holiday baking needs.

Full disclosure: the Detroit Baker happens to be my good friend Claire. And, I say this objectively, everything about her is exceptional. She's talented, smart, funny, beautiful and an awesome individual. The world could definitely use more people like her.

But the good news is you can have someone just like her baking all the sweet treats for you and yours this holiday season.

Claire and I used to work together at an agency, and I used to enjoy all her baking for free. Whenever there was a birthday, work anniversary or special occasion, all of us looked forward to her bringing in some incredible, imaginative, original baked treats. They’d be in the coffee room, and throughout the day I’d just casually and (so I thought) inconspicuously keep sauntering in to have another bite.

I’m sure my co-workers would’ve loved some, but he who hesitates and all that.

I once told Claire about the fact that I'm allergic to chocolate. She looked startled and said, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Anyway, visit her site at DetroitBaker.com, and order some of the many sweet treats she has to offer. Or if you have something specific in mind, she'll make it one-of-a-kind custom just for you.

And while you’re there, do me a favor and remind her about my chocolate allergy, and let her know I'm still waiting for the oatmeal raisin cookies.

Tracks Of My Tears: The Sequel

A little over nine years ago, I did this post about a classic song I love: Tracks Of My Tears by Smokey Robinson. It was part of a series I'd do occasionally where I'd post different takes on the same song by various artists (I also did it for another favorite, Stand By Me).

The reason for that original TOMT post was fairly straighforward: I couldn't think of anything to write about and it was easy to slap up some videos.

But today the subject is TOMT.

There are only a few songs that are genuinely timeless. Songs like Stand By Me. Yesterday. And Tracks Of My Tears. Generation after generation, they continue to strike a chord (sorry) with listeners, and stir their souls in unique ways. Those experiences are both heightened and personalized even more depending which version you're listening to and how it hits you in the moment.

But the one thing they all have in common is they hit you every time.

TOMT is one of the most covered songs in history, a testimony to its endurance, power and emotion. So with tonight's post, I'm happy to add even more versions for you to enjoy and compare.

If you don't recognize the name Paul Stanley, you probably know the rock group he cofounded—KISS. Knowing that, the last thing I expected was a version of TOMT as beautiful as it is true to the original. Also grateful he decided to ditch the makeup for this performance.

Speaking of true to the original, this version by Boyz ll Men is as satiny smooth as it gets, with choreography that pays homage to the original Smokey Robinson & The Miracles live performances.

Lara Kincanon is a singer I've never heard of, but she does a more intimate acoustic version. And I'm not saying she's staring into my soul when she sings it, but I'm also not saying she isn't.

I know what you're thinking: if only we could give this classic a little blue-eyed soul. Have a seat, and try this one by Daryl Hall and Eric Hutchinson (after a little chat, the song starts at the 1:20 mark).

Last but not least is the Chris Blue version he sang when he auditioned for The Voice. Besides being a sweet and soulful take, it also happens to be my wife's favorite version. And apparently it made Alicia Keyes pretty happy too. So this version gives me marriage points and great music. How many songs can you say that about?

The Mooch

I'll just say it. I love the Mooch. But that wasn't always the case.

At first glance, Anthony Scaramucci would seem to be the perfect swamp creature, cut of the same $1000-a-yard cloth as the rest of the scumsuckers who were employed in Cadet Bone Spurs administration. He got his bona fides working for years at Goldman Sachs, who coincidentally issued my Apple credit card. I get 2-3% cash back on every purchase so I have mixed feelings. Plus I grew up with a kid named Steve Goldman. No relation.

I may be getting off track here.

Anyway, Anthony was, as the kids say, money. Just the kind of person the daughter-lovin' traitor-in-chief likes to surround himself with. So for eleven days, Scaramucci was breathing rarified government air at taxpayer's expense as White House Director of Communications.

For all eleven days, I pretty much hated him like I hated anyone who'd support and associate themselves with the unstable genius and his unhinged, self-serving, racist democracy-destroying policies. But the tide started to turn for me on his last day, when he was fired for leveling some choice, well-deserved obscenities at Trump's live-in Secretary of Nazi and human fleshlump Steve Bannon.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Like everyone who's made a quick departure, the Mooch started hitting the talk/news show circuit. Big ships turn slowly, but with each appearance, over time, I began to see his changing opinion about his former boss. It was like watching a flower bloom. It was just that beautiful.

At first, he left the White House but still supported the president.

Then he supported the president, but wished he'd listen to his more experienced advisors.

Let's just skip ahead: now he thinks Trump is a scum-sucking, insane, sex-offending, enemy of all that's good in the world, a gigantic loser and festering piece of shit that needs to go to a Shawshank-like hole cell as soon as humanly possible.

That's an opinion I can get behind. The Mooch has come around, and it's not because it's in vogue. You can tell by watching and listening to him he's seen the light and means what he says. I always try to catch him on Bill Maher or Stephen Colbert. I listen to his podcast. And I imagine with each appearance how pissed his old boss must be.

Plus the man's name is now a universal unit of measure, as in "I have to be out of this apartment in three Scaramucci's!"

So yes, despite the fact he was briefly employed by the worst president in history, his casual dress is Armani and his hair is slicker than an Exxon oil spill, I like the Mooch.

In fact, there's really only one thing that bothers me. Does anyone else see it, or is it just me?

The deep end

It’s always worse when it happens to someone you know.

As if 70 million fellow Americans who still think a nazi-lovin’, race-baitin’, woman-hatin’, name-callin’, orange face-paintin’, con-runnin’, daughter-lustin’, rumor-spreadin', handicapped-mockin’, TV-watchin’, conspiracy theory-spoutin’, covid-ignorin’, dictator-lovin’, baby-handed traitor should be the leader of the free world weren’t enough, come to find out one of them happens to be a friend of mine.

Someone I’ve worked with.

Someone I’ve worked for.

Someone I respect. Strike that. Respected.

I’ve known him almost nine years and in that time we’ve had meals together, fought for great work together and had My Dinner With Andre-esque conversations about things that matter. Although we didn’t get together often, when we did we’d enjoy each other’s company immensely.

One of the things I always liked about him was he never took anything at face value. He always made it a point to take the deep dive, looking into the rest of the story to find out where the truth lived. But going by his Facebook feed the last few months, the truth is just a distant memory. And his deep-diving, fact-finding days are long gone.

The only diving he’s doing now is off the deep end into the cold, cruel, dirty water on the edge of town in Trumpland. I don’t’ even recognize him.

His FB feed is filled with conspiracy theories about the virus (It’s a hoax! The death rate is less than the flu!) and memes about how awful Democrats are, that of course are blatant projections of all the corruption and criminal activity going on in the GOP from the top down. There's no shortage of ramblings about how they're taking away our freedom asking us to wear masks, and a lot of "Mommy I don't wanna! I don't wanna!". And of course, the obligatory "alternative facts" charts showing the crisis isn't as bad as it's being made out to be.

Most surprising are the undisguised racial slur memes against the Vice-President elect. It would all be worth serious discussion if the posts, as crass and ugly as some of them are, were from reliable sources. The ones I've seen are from Breibart, Fox state news, OAN and other extreme right outlets. Apparently serious discussion isn't what he's looking for.

I'll be the first to admit I post quotes, memes and articles that are anti-Trump and anti-Republican. But they're based in fact, sourced reliably, factually accurate and often quite hystically funny, even when they're snarky—which they often are. You're welcome.

He's also posted responses to the many comments he gets about how off base and crazy he is, and his replies usually boil down to "..if we're really friends we can disagree like adults." Well, maybe on some subjects, but not when things like racism and cruelty aren't dealbreakers for him.

So I'm grieving. I'm sad for who he's become, and the friend I've lost. I've never engaged with him on Facebook because he's clearly too far dug in. And by dug in I mean gone. Besides, I've never liked FB fights.

I'll always be a friend to the person he was. I just can't be one to the person he is.

Post haste

Because I yam who I yam (Popeye joke and Thanksgiving joke in the same line - BAM!), I spent more than a little time playing around with—I mean thoughtfully crafting—different catchy names for this post: Stamp Of Approval. Pushing The Envelope. Going Postal. The Postman Cometh. Special Delivery. But then I decided that, like so many things, I should just trust my Jedi instincts and probably go with the first one I thought of. You're welcome.

We're all aware that one of the ways Cadet Bone Spurs tried to rig the election in his orange-faced favor—along with his billionaire friend and hired thug Postmaster General Louis DeJoy (who will soon be DeGone)—was to cripple the capacity of the postal service to deliver mail-in ballots on time by removing mailboxes and letter-sorting machines.

Like everything else he comes up with in that puny brain and touches with those tiny hands, it failed miserably.

But damage has been done. Morale is lower than ever. Postal employees, already overworked and risking their lives during a pandemic, are working even harder and later. The USPS is now over 9 billion dollars in debt and rising fast. Besides thanking our mailman/woman everyday, there isn't much I can do about the first two. But I am doing something about the third.

I went online last week and decided to buy a bazillion sheets of Forever stamps. There's a much bigger selection on the site than at the post office, so I stocked up: plenty of jolly old St. Nick stamps for the mountain of Christmas cards we'll hopefully be sending out. Some smaller denominations to make up the difference between former postage rates and current ones. And a whole lot just for the fun of it.

All to the tune of about $400.

If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now I don't know what else I can do except bring you to my therapy sessions with me, you know I'm a dog person.

Especially if the dog is a German Shepherd.

So it comes as no surprise to anyone that when I saw the sheet of dog stamps that included my favorite breed, I had to fetch them (sorry). What I meant to say was pony up for them. Does that make these stamps a dog and pony show? Discuss.

Of course, I alway like to go for the funny. So any chance I get I try to add a little humor to my envelopes and bring some well-needed joy (what can I say, I'm a giver) whenever possible. I don't waste them paying bills or answering mail surveys or any mailing I'm sure will be opened by machine. But on those occasions when I know my correspondence will be opened and read by a friend or at least delivered by a human, the Sesame Street stamps above and these wascally wabbit Bugs Bunny stamps fit the bill.

The Count is my favorite character on the Street, but sadly there isn't even vone! sheet of stamps dedicated solely to him. So I got the ones with all the characters. I figured what the hell, at least I don't have to hear Elmo laugh.

And since I grew up on Warner Bros. cartoons—my favorites were the Rabbitt season!/Duck season! battles between Bugs and Daffy Duck, I'd have to be looney tunes not to have bought them. See what I did there?

For my more serious scribblings, and because I love almost everything having to do with space travel, I also ordered the insipiring First Moon Landing stamps. And when serious words cross over to somber, the envelopes get the JFK-in-thoughtful-repose treatment.

I don't collect stamps, but I do enjoy them. Always have. In fact I've written about them on here before.

Anyway, I'd like to encourage you, all nine readers, to remember the joy and surprise of getting a letter from a friend or loved one. A postcard from a foreign land (for the last eight months that'd be anyplace outside your house). Put yourself on an email diet, and start writing actual letters again. They'll be more meaningful, plus you'll have time to think about what you're writing before you hit send. And by hitting send I mean dropping it in the mailbox. If your mailbox wasn't removed by DeJoy.

While you're at it be sure to buy lots of stamps at USPS.com to support the postal service. After all, they're the fine people (not on both sides) who played a huge, instrumental part in saving democracy and delivering the millions of ballots that made sure the Traitor-In-Chief didn't get a second term.

And in my book, that alone makes them a first-class operation.

Elephant in the room

This will come as a shock, but even in the halcyon days before Covid, going to the dentist was never on my short list of favorite things. It ranked slightly above getting a colonoscopy and just below hearing the Facts Of Life theme song.

But ask anyone who knows me, and right after they stop laughing they’ll tell you I’m nothing if not an overachiever. And because I am, unlike mere mortals I need to have my teeth cleaned three times a year instead of the usual two.

One of those appointments came up back in May. My dentist’s office called to ask if I was going to be comfortable coming in, and I assumed she was asking because of Covid and not my usual bad attitude towards having a strangers hands messing around in my mouth.

I told her, for both reasons, I was not.

So we postponed the appointment a few months, even though I knew full well because I was missing it the next cleaning was going to involve x-rays, extra scraping, maybe a transfusion and definitely smelling salts.

When it came time to face the music last month, I was still apprehensive because of Covid, but I also didn’t want my teeth to wind up looking like Austin Powers’.

As I arrived I was relieved to see my dentist was following strict Covid protocols. I couldn’t just walk in, I had to call from outside and let him know I was there.

Once inside, I had to answer a short questionnaire, using a clean pen, and then had my temperature taken. I was walked back to the hygienist’s area and directed to the chair. That’s when I saw it: the elephant in the room.

The rather unattractive piece of technology you see up top here is referred to as The Elephant. It’s an industrial grade air filter that sucks the air down the tube before any particles of anything have a chance to go anywhere—like into your nose or mouth.

They placed it literally a quarter inch from my mouth. It was extremely loud but strangely reassuring (just like my high school girlfriend).

My hygienist was wearing two masks, gloves and a face shield. She also pointed out that of the two of us, she was the one more in danger of being exposed to something since my yap was wide open the whole time.

Anyway, the Elephant did a swell job, and I left the office without catching anything except a case of pearly whites. My next daring deed will be masking up and returning to my acupuncturist.

For a long list of reasons, I’m hoping there are no needles called The Elephant in his office.

He has my vote

Like many of you, and by many I mean the nine people that read this blog on a semi-regular basis, and by semi-regular basis I mean you forgot to empty the cache and it came up again accidentally, I thought this day would never get here.

Election day. It's the one we've been waiting four extremely unpleasant years for.

But it's here now, and it's our last chance to replace the racist, lying, misogynistic, name-calling, Big Mac-grazing, nazi-loving, pussy-grabbing, Covid-spreading, division-stoking, dictator-fawning, deficit-raising, veteran-hating, democracy-killing, adderall-fueled, festering piece of shit occupying the White House with someone who deserves to be there.

Someone with a moral compass and an innate sense of right and wrong.

Someone with intelligence that rises to the job and being leader of the free world.

Someone who in times of severe hardship and sacrifice—say a war or a pandemic—we can trust will have our best interests at heart and will act accordingly.

Someone who won't be laughed at every time they're on the world stage.

Someone who will surround themself with a cabinet of intelligent, non-yes men and women (no-men?) instead of swamp-residing, just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock grifters looking to line their pockets on the taxpayer's dime.

Someone whose kids don't kill wild, endangered species for sport and aren't second-generation festering pieces of shit.

Someone we can respect.

That's why I'd like more than anything to cast my vote for Josiah Bartlet. I'd like to, but I can't.

On the off chance you don't know, Barlet is the fictional president played by Martin Sheen on The West Wing, which it so happens the wife and I have been bingeing for a while now (we're on season 4, episode 17). He possesses all the above mentioned positive qualities, as well as a wicked sense of humor, laser-focus and a keen analytical mind. It sounds great, amIrite?

And while I'm sad I can't vote for Josiah Bartlet, I'm happy I've already cast my vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.

During primary season, Biden wasn't my first choice, he was my fifth. I imagine that's true for a lot of people. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. Or Warren/Buttigieg. Or Sanders/Buttigieg. Or Buttigieg/Yang. But Biden brings with him the experience, the leadership, the compassion and the decency we've lost as a country. It will take decades to undo the damage the unstable genius has done, but Biden has a roadmap to get there.

Plus instead of a simpering suck-up who looks at him with moony-moon eyes and a schoolgirl crush, in Kamala Harris Biden has a Vice President more than qualified for the job, a trusted advisor and someone who won't be afraid to speak up when she disagrees with policy.

So today I'm going to try as hard as I can to stay away from all the election news—it'll go on for days and months, I'm sure I'll hear about it. Instead I'll be spending my spare time watching more episodes of The West Wing. Because while Aaron Sorkin's stellar, rapid-fire dialogue and precision writing gives me a benchmark to aspire to (you know I can hear you laughing, right?), in each and every episode, and on this day especially, it also gives me something else I've missed terribly and need desperately.

Hope.

Well well it's Adele

Some days, this whole "work from home" thang is extremely productive for me. From the minute I hit the keyboard in the morning until I close up shop at night, my fingers are flying fast and furious writing spellbinding, innovative, entertaining and motivating copy that sells the spectacular printers, scanners and projectors made by the global technology company I work for.

Afterwards, at the end of the day as the sun takes its bow and gives way to the coming night, a feeling of great satisfaction and accomplishment washes over me, and a smile slowly dials its way up to full brightness as I bask in the glow of a job very well done.

That's some days. Today wasn't one of them.

Instead, today was the other kind—the one where, despite my best efforts, my mind has a mind of its own and decides to be a few miles south of focused as we spiral down a YouTube rabbit hole for hours on end and see where it takes us.

Those days hit every creative person I know. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that when it happens, the best thing to do is just buckle up and go along for the ride.

For some reason, probably because she hosted Saturday Night Live last week, Adele was on my mind. There was a sketch on the show spoofing The Bachelor, and at the end of it Adele starts singing while she walks off the stage and into the audience. It was a great, unexpected moment—especially for the audience.

I'd never describe myself as an Adele fan, but every time I hear her sing I'm dumbstruck at how stunningly beautiful her voice is. And even moreso by how effortless she is in her performance. She doesn't need to go through wild gyrations, have two dozen backup dancers, recorded backup vocals or a blinding laser light show. All she needs to do is stand there, share her gift and belt out her songs in that voice I can't seem to get enough of.

Okay, so maybe I am an Adele fan.

The song in the video up top, When We Were Young, is one of my favorites and a great example of the kind of performance I'm talking about.

I'd also forgotten about it, but today in my YouTube travels I was reminded Adele is also a bawdy Englishwoman with a cheeky sense of humor. I rediscovered a video I'd seen a few years ago of her auditioning at an Adele impersonator contest in disguise. It's funny, poignant and generous of her as the women she's auditioning with are obviously die-hard fans and slowly realize who one of their competitors is.

But then again, once you hear that voice—Hello—it's hard not to.

Encore post: This is what advertising is like

A lot of people have asked me what advertising is like. And it's hard to put into words, especially when you're trying to explain it to working professionals who have to dress like adults, keep regular hours and actually show something for their efforts at the end of the day.

I wrote this little gem almost eight years ago as a way to try to explain what working in the ad biz is like. It captures it fairly well.

So keep your hands and arms inside the basket, buckle your seat belt and enjoy the ride.

So many metaphors, so little time.

Not too long ago, 20 people boarded the Windseeker ride at California's other amusement park, Knott's Berry Farm. It takes riders up 300 feet, spins them around, takes their breath away and then lowers them safely back to the ground. All in about three minutes start to finish.

I have a big appreciation for things that take 3 minutes start to finish.

Anyway, that particular day was a little different than every other day because the riders got stuck at the top for over three hours until ride mechanics rescued them.

This is exactly what advertising is like.

At first you're whisked away to dizzying heights, and what with big production budgets, location shoots, vendor lunches, comp subscriptions and days at a time out of the office, the view is spectacular. In fact, you can't see another job you'd want for miles and miles.

You start to think it'll be like that every time, but then one day you get stuck. Fighting for the work. Fighting for the budgets to execute the work you've been fighting for. Fighting the client to get them down to one thought instead of ten in a :30 second spot.

The bad news is no one's coming to rescue you. You have to do that yourself.

It often involves getting off one ride and hopping on another. And another. And another.

It's an odd way to manage a career (pause for laughs for using the word "career"), yet it's just standard operating procedure.

Besides, when it comes to amusement, you can't beat it.

Encore post: Stuck in the middle

Some of the posts on here have a rather short shelf life. But some seem to gather more and more relevance and meaning as time goes on. And in light of last night's not-so-great debate, it seemed like the perfect time to repost this little gem.

The traitor-in-chief deserves this more than ever. And my only regret is I don't have time to find more pictures of people giving him the "You're #1!" salute.

Let's show Cadet Bone Spurs how we really feel. Join me won't you in raising your hands high, and your fingers higher.

It's impressive to see the line of black, armor-shielded Chevy Suburbans (Made in America!) pull up to an event. Even if the person getting out is the so-called president and de facto racist, homophobe, misogynist, sexual predator, pathological liar, traitor and spokesperson for the white nationalist movement. And Satan.

Nonetheless, it is important that we, as Americans who love this country dearly, make sure he's greeted at each and every appearance in a way reflective and deserving of the class, elegance, judgment and maturity he brings to the most powerful office in the world. It's in that spirit I offer several examples of people giving what can only be called the most appropriate salutation for the man he is. If in fact he is a man. I hear things.

Anyway, you don't even have to see him in person to show him the exact kind of respect he deserves. I give him this greeting every time I see his fat, orange face and whatever the fuck that is on his head on TV, magazine covers or in my nightmares.

Hold 'em firm and hold 'em high. This one's for you Donald.

Gathering of spirits

I was in an odd mood today. It wasn't because I didn’t feel like working (and if you know me at all you know there's nothing odd about that.) I was thinking about loss. Not superficial loss like money at the craps tables, car keys or the other sock. All things I’ve experienced numerous times—especially that craps tables part.

I was thinking about all the people I’ve loved and lost in my life. The ones who’ve departed too soon on the way to their next stop, be it a seat at the table, the waiting room or someplace they’ll need short sleeves and hand fans.

Can't you just feel what a fun post this is going to be?

I’ve written about this subject before in a five-year old post called The Grandstands of Heaven. And while it’s not a mood that strikes me often, it’s profound and powerful when it does. I’m past trying to figure out why it hits me now and then, but today I believe I got a signal that these were exactly the thoughts and people I needed to be thinking about.

It came to me in the form of a song called The Gathering of Spirits by Carrie Newcomer.

I was perusing Spotify today while (instead of) working, and almost instantly this beautiful, rich, optimistic song about the dearly departed came up on my list. It may be sappy to you, but it slayed me. I sat at my beautiful wooden desk in my comfy home office and just wept. I couldn't tell if they were tears of joy or sadness, but either way they were flowing. To me the song is so powerful, so poignant, it would’ve done that regardless of my mood.

Anyway, enough talking. Head back to the top of the post, have a listen and see if you aren't moved by it.

There’s a gathering of spirits
There’s a festival of friends
And we’ll take up where we left off
When we all meet again

Camera ready

Now that we're seven months into the new Zoomconomy™, there are more things to think about than ever before.

Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Wipe down the deliveries. Remember to social distance (I work in ad agencies - I've been doing that for years). But now, there's one more thing to pile on the to-do list in the new world order.

Dressing my room for Zoom.

Like most people I know, I'll be working remotely from home for the foreseeable future. So I planted a flag and claimed a small yet comfortable space to set up shop in my bedroom. The wife bought me a nice wooden table desk that fits just swell under the bedroom window, and looks out onto the lawn and flowers in our front yard.

As far as views go, I file it under things could be worse.

Sitting on the desk is my company monitor and laptop, as well as my personal laptop. With all those screens it looks like Mission Control, except I have trouble launching Photoshop much less rockets. There's also a desk lamp, along with several Hydro Flasks (hydrate people, can't stress it enough).

The problem is when I'm on a Zoom call, you can see most of my bedroom, including the not-as-firm-as-it-used-to-be-oh-my-aching-back California King bed behind me. So now, in addition to everything else to worry about, I have to get up early to make the bed and dress the room for showtime—the many Zoom calls I'll be on during the day.

I suppose I could take the easy way out and use a virtual background. The one with the wind blowing the palm trees is nice. So is the Golden Gate bridge. I've even added the hallway from The Shining and the lunar surface as options. But it's always a little distracting when several people on the call are using the same background. And if we're all in the same place, why do we have to have a Zoom call in the first place, amIrite?

Also, Zoom hasn't quite mastered the fine art of green screen. Using virtual backgrounds makes various parts of my face, fabulous head of hair and ripped (fat) body disappear while I move around during the calls. Mostly to drink from one of the Hydro Flasks.

So here's the new early morning routine: make the bed. Arrange the mountain of pillows the wife stores on the bed. Put the Thunder Road street sign my daughter gave me on top of the lamp next to my headboard, because, you know, Bruce. And make sure all the books on my night stand are facing spine out towards the camera, so everyone can see all my anti-Trump reading material.

If I was working in the office I wouldn't be able to make any political statements. But this is my house, so Fuck Trump.

The worst part of this work from home deal is getting up early. I've been called a lot of things, but morning person isn't one of them. Currently my iPhone alarm has Uptown Funk set to eleven to jolt me up in time for the daily show. But given the situation, I'm thinking of changing it to something more subtle, yet appropriate.

Like a stage manager screaming "Five minutes! Places people!"

The client side

It’s a little bit the grass is greener, a little bit you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

Last September, when ten incredibly talented individuals and me (I know that reads like I'm not incredibly talented, but work with me) were unceremoniously and, dare I say, unjustifiably laid off from an agency, I had a decision to make.

Was I going to go back to the known routine of agency life? Or would I make a concerted effort to go client side? I know. The suspense is killing me too.

On one hand, it would mean going back to the all-hands-on-deck weekend fire drills, the bad pizza, the uninspired pep talks, people who think we’re curing cancer, anti-social creative directors with bad hair and worse taste in music, hoping against hope to save accounts that are out the door, and watching great work die a thousand deaths before it ever sees the light of day.

But it'd also mean working with friends I’ve known forever, some of the most creative people in the world who challenge me to up my game every day, not having to be there straight up at 9AM, longer than an hour lunches where food, ideas and occasionally drinks flow fast and furious, dressing like a fifteen-year old, the satisfaction of cracking the code on an assignment and the adrenaline rush of selling the work and seeing it produced.

Since it was coming up on the holidays, I decided to take awhile off to think about it.

When January rolled around, I thought maybe I might like to give client side a whirl. I'd had a taste of it when I freelanced at the Game Show Network for about five months—it was awesome. I loved every minute of it with the exception of having to sit through endless hours of Family Feud reruns.

”Survey says…..not this again!”

Come to find out from an agency producer I’d worked with who was now at a tech company (which happened to be about five minutes from my house) there was a position open I might be right for.

I wasn’t ready to give up bingeing Breaking Bad again yet, but I figured it’d been a long time since I’d had to interview anywhere and at the very least it’d be good practice.

The process was a long one. First there was a phone interview. Then another phone interview. Then a third. Once my new phone pals had been won over by my undeniable charm, razor-sharp wit and overabundant humility, it was time for the in-person interviews.

I met with four people—the person I'd report to, her boss and her boss's boss. I also interviewed with someone who worked with my potential boss and who loved a certain musician that I do (even though I used the word "boss" four times in this paragraph it's not the one you're thinking).

Next was a background check. I gave them two of my former colleagues for references, and they both gave me glowing reviews (P.S. the checks are on the way). I got a copy of the report, and was surprised and a bit unnerved to see how in depth it was beyond the interviews. It contained things I didn't remember, but at least no one asked about those two guys in Jersey. That would've been a dealbreaker.

It was almost a two-month process, but finally I got the gig. It was that intoxicating feeling of excitement and dred. I was really, really, really enjoying my time off, and now it had an expiration date.

I mentioned the company is close to home. But thanks to COVID, my five-minute commute is now a thirty-second one. I haven't worked in the office since I started, and I've never met most of the people I work with in-person. Although they all look good and clean up nice on Zoom.

I'm still adjusting to corporate culture. It's a tech company, but not in the loose way you might picture people working at Google or Apple. When my company used to have "jeans Fridays" it was a big deal. Of course now that everyone's working from home it'd be a big deal if they had "pants Fridays."

Many people have been there fifteen years or more. It's a company people like and want to stay at.

Unlike the freewheeling, improvised, do it on-the-fly nature of agencies, in my new corporate side of the world turns out there's a process, manual or paperwork for everything. Sorry, I meant everything.

All in all, I have to say it's been going pretty well. In the short time I've been there, I've already written and produced four spots starring an internationally famous sports figure. I'd tell you who, but I've said too much already.

As far as I've been able to cipher, the people I work with are lovely. They're hard-working, supportive, encouraging, understanding and appreciative of the work I do.

You know, just like in agencies. (Stops for a minute until the laughter dies down).

Anyway, I'm four months into it and learning a whole new way of operating in a new world. Each day I'm enjoying it more and more.

And I'm not just saying that cause I get the employee discount on all the cool stuff.

The coasters

I'm a riddle. Wrapped in an enigma. Sometimes I'm difficult to please, but that's usually only in my waking hours. Other times, the simplest things bring me an unreasonable amount of pure, unadulterated joy.

Or maybe I've been locked up in my house too long.

Anyway, one thing that dials up the happiness factor to 11 for me is the perfect coaster. If you have water rings staining all your wooden tabletops, you're probably not familiar with them. That or you're single.

Coasters protect the furniture. You put them under your drink, and they prevent moisture from leaving an imprint on the wood.

Even before face masks and hand sanitizer, coasters had already become a household fashion accessory. You could get them with scenic pictures. Reproduced works of art. Rock stars. You could order them customized with logos, sayings, quotes and in any size, shape, color or material you wanted.

Over the years, and by no means intentionally, I've collected my share of coasters, mostly from people who didn't want to spend more on a real gift. I have more sets of 6 coasters than I'll ever have glasses to put on them. The funny thing is, like my children, I definitely have a favorite.

Also like my children, it probably isn't the one you expected.

As you take a gander at a sampling of my collection above, I can read your mind. It's not hard. First, you're thinking doesn't he have anything better to post about. And the answer is if I did, would you be reading this?

Second, because of who I am and what you know about me from following this blog so long—and if I haven't said thank you lately, thank you—I'm guessing you're guessing my favorite coaster would be the square-with-round-corners one with the picture of Bruce Springsteen circa the Born In The USA album.

I didn't want you to hear it this way, but you're wrong. Actually, it's this one.

This cork coaster was given to me by my friend Johnny when we worked together and shared an office at an agency in Huntington Beach. It was a creative shop—you could tell because they named the conference rooms after different beaches. I don't know how Goodby sleeps at night knowing there's that kind of creative horsepower competing against them.

I may have digressed.

The beauty of this coaster is it's not beautiful. It's quintessentially exactly what a coaster should be. Form following function, with the lip around the edge preventing any excess moisture from spilling over. And because of the material, it doesn't slide around on a slick desktop, which means no accidental spills (unless I'm really trying).

When I, along with ten other people, were laid off from the agency at the beach with the conference room names they must've given at least thirty seconds of thought to, the first thing I packed up wasn't the ads I'd done, my laptop or my coffee mug. Literally the first thing was this coaster. Sure there was that whole form follows function thing, but I think it also reminds me of the great times I had working with Johnny as well as my other two office roommates, Nicole and my art director partner Imke.

At any rate, it's a little thing I suppose wouldn't mean much to most people. But it brings me great joy every time I use it.

I can only imagine how happy I'd be if Johnny would finally pony up for the other five.

Have a blast off

If you've been following this blog for any length of time, and if you have perhaps you should use the Google to find better ways to kill time during the pandemic, you probably already know I have a somewhat compulsive side to my otherwise sparkling personality.

Breaking Bad. Bruce Springsteen. Sourdough bread. Las Vegas (in the before times).

One other quasi-obsession I have that I don't blog about much is space movies. Specifically ones about the golden age of the space race: the Gemini, Mercury and Apollo programs. There's been a lot of great movies about them: Apollo 13. First Man. The Right Stuff.

Going to change the subject for a sec, but I'll thread the needle on the back end. Here's the thing: we have way too many streaming services. The house is lousy with them: Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime. Disney +. So when Apple TV+ rode into town, I wasn't itchin' to sign up and pay yet another monthly fee.

But as they say in the ad biz, nothing beats free. And come to find out that's exactly what Apple TV+ is. Seems they have a promotion going on for a free year's subscription within 90 days of purchasing any Apple device. Like, say, the wife's new MacBook Air.

Truth be told, the original shows on Apple TV+ haven't been getting what you'd call rave reviews. But the one that, predictably, caught my attention was For All Mankind.

Space? Astronauts? 10 hours? Apollo program? I'm in.

So for the past couple of days I've been bingeing it. I know, I'm as shocked as you are. And I"m here to tell ya it's really, seriously great. The premise is simple: what if the Russians had beat us to the moon, and the space race never stopped? It's alternative history fiction built around the space program.

And for all my show biz pals at the studios, listen up. It's also made me decide that, more than anything, I want to have a bit part in a space movie.

I want to be one of the engineers wearing a short sleeve, white shirt, skinny tie and thick frame glasses sitting at one of the rows of those bulky, green, Mission Control computers.

And I'm not looking for a showy, star turn. In fact the only thing I want to say is one line. During the obligatory pre-launch checklist scene, when it's my turn I want to bark out: "It's a go."

Start to finish, like the best series, it's a rollercoaster ride with unexpected twists and turns, surprising revisionist history and characters you can't help care about. It's making you cry and cheer one minute, gutting you the next.

So I'll be counting down until next season launches, and I'm sure I'll happily binge it a few more times before then.

My advice to you? Don't screw the pooch by missing it. Watch and enjoy.

Godspeed.

Encore post: Bowled over

I'm sure you've heard by now this year's season at the Hollywood Bowl has been cancelled due to COVID-19. Not the band, the virus.

Four years ago I wrote this piece about the bowl. Having grown up in Los Angeles, it holds a special place in my heart for a few of the reasons you'll read about here. It makes me sad I won't be going there until at least next year.

But they made the right decision. Because when I go, the only thing I want to worry about is how good the seats are, not how fast the ambulance can get up the hill.

Anyway, I suggest you read this out on your porch or backyard patio, under the night sky just to set the mood.

Shhhh! The lights are going down, and the post is about to start. Please to enjoy.

I've played the Hollywood Bowl.

Ok, not exactly played. I've walked across the stage in front of an audience. My high school graduation was held at the Hollywood Bowl, and it might've been the most awesome part of high school except for the time I talked my Consumer Law and Economics teacher Mr. Blackman into thinking he'd lost my final term paper (if my kids are reading this, don't even think about it). He gave me an A, but I still feel bad about it.

Having grown up an L.A. kid, I've seen plenty of concerts at the Bowl, so many I can't remember them all.

I saw The Eagles take it easy. If you could read my mind you'd know I also saw Gordon Lightfoot. When school was out for summer I saw Alice Cooper.

I've seen Bruce Springsteen and Jackson Browne perform together (I know, I'm as shocked as you are) for Survival Sunday 4, an anti-nuke benefit concert.

It's getting to the point I remember Crosby Stills and Nash belting out Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. I can absolutely confirm the Go-Go's got the beat. I saw Laurie Andersen do whatever the hell it was she was doing. I've seen Steve Martin getting wild and crazy with Edie Brickell while fireworks were going off in the sky.

There have been many, many more, but you get my drift.

Not all my memories are happy ones. There was the night my pal David Weitz and I were driving in my 1965 Plymouth Fury. Highland Avenue was jammed because of the show at the Bowl, so we turned up into the surrounding hills to see if we could find a shortcut around it. Out of nowhere, a police car appeared behind us, lights flashing. The officers told us through the speakers to get out of the car slowly with our hands up. We were young, but we weren't stupid. We knew this was serious.

Once we were out of the car, hands up, they got out of their car with guns drawn and pointed right at us. They told me to open the trunk, which I did slowly and with my hands in sight at all times. They didn't find whatever they were looking for, and after checking our I.D.'s, they let us go. Apparently we fit the description of two guys who'd been robbing the hillside homes recently. I figured the description was brutally handsome and incredibly funny.

Anyway, the reason my mind's on the Bowl is because a week from tonight, I'll be there again, not on stage, but watching the first J.J. Abrams' Star Trek with the Los Angeles Philharmonic playing the score alongside the movie. It should be a great night.

If you've never been there, or it's been awhile, you owe it to yourself to go. It truly is one of the greatest venues, in one of the most beautiful settings, you'll ever see a show at.

Even if you don't get a diploma at the end of it.

Encore: Calling in well

Five years ago I wrote this post about calling in well. Having just reread it, I think in some ways it's a timely article because of what's going on in the world right now.

Maybe, maybe not.

The point is I wanted to put up a post and I didn't want to have to write one.

Is that so wrong? Don't answer that.

Anyone can call in sick. When you’re fighting muscle aches, nausea, diarrhea and a 101-degree fever it’s a no brainer.

Of course, we’ve all been around those people who drag their sorry selves in no matter what, looking like they just finished auditioning for Contagion II. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps an overdeveloped sense of importance, a crippling fear of being fired if they miss a day, or just to get even with everyone they work with who don’t give them the recognition they deserve, they feel it’s their civic duty to keep working until they drop.

But if you ask anyone who’s ever worked with me, after they stop denying it, they’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that’s never been my problem.

Sniffles? Home for three days. That’s the spirit.

I used to work with this guy at an agency who would occasionally call in well to work. He’d wake up in the morning feeling great, optimistic, ready to take on the world. On those days, he’d call the agency, get someone on the line and say, “I won’t be in today. I feel too damn good to come to work.”

I’m all in favor of the concept.

Some shops give you a couple mental days or personal days off a year. I suppose they think you should use those if you’re going to call in well. I think it’s a matter of expanding the definition of sick. As in, it would make me sick to go into work feeling this good.

Which brings me to another point (assuming I had one in the first place): maybe it’s time to reconsider the name “sick days.” If people are going to start calling in well – as they should – the days allotted should reflect that policy.

Maybe a combination of sick and well, a term that would define and describe the days for exactly what they are. Let’s call them Swell Days™.

Although technically, that could be any day you’re not in the office.

With friends like these

Say what you will about advertising…no, really, say what you will. I’ll wait here. Okay, now that you’ve got it out of your system we’ll begin.

Advertising has lots of currencies depending on what time of day it is. Sometimes the currency is liquor. Occasionally it’s pizza. Once in awhile it’s the camaraderie that can only come from sitting in a dark, cold edit bay for 57 hours straight.

But the most valuable, most consistent currency in the biz is, always has been and always will be relationships.

There’s an old idiom (Who’re you calling an idiom? – BAM!) that tells you to be nice to people on the way up cause you’ll see the same ones on the way down.

Funny story. The other day I ran into someone where I’m working who I worked with at another agency. I haven’t seen this person in about three years, but he recognized me and greeted me like we were long lost war buddies, shaking my hand like it was an Arkansas water pump and asking how I was. He could not have been happier to see me.

I actually felt sorry for him, because - even though I'm not a doctor - I could tell immediately he was suffering from an serious case of amnesia. At that other agency, he was a creative director and I was a freelance copywriter. Many times I had occasion to present work to him, only to have it shot down in what I would consider an unnecessarily arrogant and rude manner.

Clearly, his amnesia has made him forget that when we worked together, he treated me like, oh, what’s the word…oh yes. Shit.

My guess, and I'm going out on a limb here, is that his newfound fondness for me is because he was unceremoniously fired from that other agency, and has been forced to take a sudden deep dive into the freelance pool. Waters which I've been swimming in for a long time.

But, and here's an example of how much I've grown and how mature I can be if I really try, I want to give him the same benefit of the doubt I hope anyone would give me. He may be a different person now than when we worked together. Perhaps he's grown as an individual and creative person. He might be more confident in his talents, and therefore has no reason to treat people the way he treated me in the past.

So I'm going to step up, put my big boy pants on, be the bigger man and let bygones be bygones.

I know you're waiting for the zinger put down at the end here. But not today. Today I'm about forgiveness and generosity to someone who treated me badly in the past.

Which is why I'm not telling him my day rate. It would only upset him.

Goodbye Brian Dennehy

I've mentioned before I was a theater arts major. You may have see my work in one of the early Sprint commercials. The director was Robert Lieberman, who used to be married to Mary Lou Henner. To this day, I believe I got the part because, at the time, I looked freakishly like him - so much so that everyone on the shoot thought I was his brother. It's always been a who you know town—or in my case, who you look like.

Even so, it wasn't enough to keep me from being cut from the spot before it aired. What was particularly depressing was I knew the editor who was cutting the spot, and she did everything she could to keep me in it, but no luck.

Showbiz. AmIrite?

Anyway, during those days I used to like to meet friends at The Palm for drinks. One time I arrived early, so I took a seat at the bar and ordered a screwdriver while I was waiting. Next to me, chatting with the bartender, was this big, loud, very funny guy who I heard but wasn't paying much attention to until he told a joke I couldn't help but overhear and laugh at.

He turned to me and said, "You liked that one?" It was Brian Dennehy.

Even before that encounter I was a fan of his. He was what I like to call a money-in-the-bank actor. Meaning you could never go wrong casting him in anything.

The wife and I had the extraordinary pleasure of seeing his towering performance as Willie Loman in Arthur Miller's Death Of A Salesman. I don't remember how many years ago it was, but the performance still haunts me. He won a Tony for it. He should have won all of them.

Brian Dennehy died a few days ago, and it didn't get nearly the press it would have if not for the virus that's taking up the news cycle 24/7. But if you've ever seen him in Cocoon, First Blood, Tommy Boy, Presumed Innocent or many others, you already know how big a talent has been lost.

Thank you for sharing your talent, and for the conversation at the bar. I'll never forget either.

Rest in peace.

Back to bed. Again.

Sometime about three years ago, I posted this piece about my disdain for morning and almost everything related to it. I thought it might be a good time to revisit it because now, in this strange time, I can sleep in as late as I like and I'm able.

I have great admiration for all those working from home and maintaining their morning routines of early to rise, then getting dressed and ready for work so they look sharp and alert for their morning Zoom conference call.

I know we're all in this together, and I want you know I stand with you.

On everything but this part.

I am many things. Funny. Good looking. Talented. Creative. Compassionate. Encouraging. Well read. Kind to children. Nice to the waitstaff. A catch as a husband. Someone who loves doing laundry. And loading a dishwasher. A good friend. A trusted confidante. An excellent driver. A great kisser. And definitely humble.

However one thing I am not now, nor have I ever been, is a morning person.

Mornings are just a cruel tease. Being a late night person, I rarely get to sleep before midnight or one in the morning. I say sleep in the loosest sense of the word. It's been years, literally, since I've slept eight hours straight through. I get up to pee. Or I startle awake from a dream. Sometimes I'm just restless and watch some TV at three in the morning to take the edge off (because nothing takes the edge off like skin care and exercise equipment infomercials). Occasionally my eighty-five pound German Shepherd launches himself up on the bed in the middle of the night.

That gets the old ticker going.

Oddly enough, one thing that never, and I do mean never, keeps me awake is work. I think it comes from so many years as a freelancer. But the second both feet are out of the office, I don't think about anything related to work until I have to be back the next morning.

And we know how I feel about mornings.

The point of all this, and there is one, is that right around the time the faintest sliver of sunlight starts to hit the pitch black night sky is the exact moment I actually manage to get myself back to the deep, still sleep I've been craving all night. It finally arrives just in time for sunrise. Ironically when I'm finally completely out, it's time to wake up.

There's no gradual, gentle, coming-up-from-the-bottom-of-the-pool kind of awakening for me. Because I know how deep asleep I am in the morning, the alarm has to be more than a light bell, chirping birds or a digital alarm. No, my iPhone alarm is Uptown Funk. It comes on loud, and it's a straight up jolt out of bed. In fact, I have to kiss myself I'm so pretty (see what I did there?).

So if you see me at work in the morning around nine, dragging myself around, looking somewhat foggy and I don't return your smile or your hello, don't ask how you're doing or what you're working on, please don't take it personally. I promise I will.

Sometime around eleven.

Roll 'em Roll 'em Roll 'em - again

Here's the thing. In the never ending journey to be productive during the lockdown, I decided to start rolling all the spare change I have cluttering up my dresser top, jean pockets and random dishes around the house.

Then I thought it might be a fun blogpost. That's when I remembered it was a fun blogpost because I wrote about this very subject about five years ago.

And of course, being big on not reinventing the wheel and wanting to get back to bingeing Breaking Bad (again), instead of writing a whole new post I thought you'd enjoy reliving the joy, humor and insight of this one. I know I will.

It's the blogpost that keeps on giving. Don't be surprised if you see it again when we're in month six of self-quarantining. Please to enjoy.

They're everywhere. In jars on the bookshelf, glass bowls on the dresser, the bottom of drawers and jean pockets.

Pennies. The Fredo of the coin world.

I've always been a big proponent of change (SWIDT?). Especially since I drive a car that has a special compartment for it. Armed with quarters, nickels and dimes, I fear no parking meter.

The problem is the thing I use change for the most I can't use pennies for. I know there's a movement to do away with the penny. But I'm not for it.

After all, what will we leave for the next person in that little plastic dish at the car wash and liquor store if we banish the penny? It's a cheap way of feeling like you're doing something good for someone else without actually doing anything good for them.

I know it costs more to make a penny than the penny's worth, but I don't believe that's the issue.I believe it's an organizational problem. So I decided to be an example for my family and the nation by doing something about it.

Today I took all my pennies and dumped them on the bed. Then, counting in two's fifty-cents at a time, I rolled them into bank coin sleeves.

I wound up with $3.50. That's 350 pennies. See how easy math is with pennies?

I even found a relatively rare 1956 D penny in the pile. Depending on which eBay listing you believe, it's worth either $1.60 or $498. I choose to believe the second one.

I'd be curious to know how many people think the same way as I do about pennies.

And I'll bet you know exactly how much I'll pay for your thoughts on it.

Maskmaker Maskmaker

So I don't know about you, but since the COVID-19 pandemic has been hitting its stride, I've been alternating between devouring every bit of news about it that I can, and going days without letting myself hear a word. The second choice is the more relaxing one.

Anyway, today's been a news on day. And as a result, I've been spending a lot of time watching YouTube videos on how to make a mask—excuse me, face covering—at home without having to actually sew one.

Not that I couldn't. A couple years ago I took a sewing class with my friend Cassie, and while I never completed the apron we were making, I did learn enough to stitch up the sides of a mask. It's just that I don't want to, because I'm all about easy. I'd much prefer to have someone make one for me.

So that's the origin story of this reworked version of Matchmaker from Fiddler On The Roof.

In case you're not familiar with the song, here's the video. And once you can't get it out of your head, you'll be ready to sing the new lyrics to it below.

Meanwhile, I'll be looking to repurpose my Elvis bandana into a rockin' mask.

Maskmaker maskmaker make me a mask

Find one for me, that is your task

Maskmaker maskmaker start sewing for me

And make me the perfect mask

Maskmaker maskmaker I’ll bring the cloth

You do your work, I’ll drink some broth

Make me a mask for I’m longing to be

The envy of all I see

For papa, make it safe and effective

For mama, make it pretty and tight

For me well, I wouldn’t holler

In fact I would wear it all day and night

Maskmaker maskmaker make me a mask

Find one for me, that is your task

Day after day I don’t go out alone

So make me a mask all my own

Closing time

My heart is broken. As a result of the virus and the new world order, one of my favorite restaurants in the world is closing. I first wrote this post about five years ago to the day. And if anything, I love this place even more now than I did then. And as you'll see, I loved it a lot then.

I feel terrible for the entire Walt's Wharf family—chefs, waitstaff, hosts, bartenders. There was never one minute where I didn't feel welcomed and wanted.

It's become a perfect storm for the seafood restaurant (and many others). Because of this bitch virus, the governor's stay-at-home directive and the very real uncertainty of how long they'd have to stay closed, the business simply wasn't sustainable. So after 50 years, 50 years!, they've been forced to shut their doors for good.

I can't remember all the lunch meetings, family dinners and special occasions that were celebrated there. But I'll never forget the meals and the hospitality. I just wish I'd know the last meal I had there was going to be the last meal I had there.

In my dream life, some rich benefactor comes in and saves Walt's Wharf and it just keeps on going. But dreams are just that.

As a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey I'm fond of says in one of his songs, "Is a dream a lie that don't come true, or is it something worse?"

In this case, it is.

Thanks for everything Walt's Wharf. Dining out definitely won't be the same without you.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Then, sometimes, you want to go where no one knows your name but you want to go there anyway.

I like to think of myself as someone who likes to mix it up every now and again. Who maintains an air of unpredictability. An edge of danger. I keep spontenaity alive.

I also like to think of myself as six-foot three, one eighty, blond and ripped. But that's not happening either.

Come to find out I'm actually a creature of habit. Today we met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite places, Walt's Wharf in Seal Beach. It's been there forever, and it's always great. At least what I always order is. Because despite a wide variety of fresh seafood, and a wine selection second to none, I have the exact same meal every time I eat there.

Cup of clam chowder with Tabasco. Small Walt's salad with a salmon filet on top. Iced tea. I wanted you to know in case you're buying.

It's a sure thing every time. The problem is I feel like I should try something else. Logic would tell me if my usual choice is so good, other items must be just as good if not better. On the heels of that, I think this meal makes me happy and what am I so worried about.

Besides, since when did I start living my life according to logic? Not a Vulcan, hello.

I'm not going to say feeling bad for having the same great meal at a nice seafood restaurant is a first world problem, but, you know, draw your own conclusions.

Here's what I'm trying to say. If you want to meet me for lunch at Walt's, and you happen to be in a hurry, don't worry. I know what I'm having.

A show of hands

It's not easy being beautiful during a plague. I mean sure, I make it look easy, but it's really not. Basically I've had to cut down my beauty regimen to just one essential element. And you're looking at it.

I've mentioned here before that I've always washed my hands like I was Howard Hughes. But in the last crazy, unnerving, scary, germ-infested, toilet paper and Clorox wipes hoarding weeks, I'd say I've at a minimum doubled my already ridiculous hand-washing routine.

After touching every doorknob.

Handling every piece of mail.

Taking off a pair of my disposable pink latex gloves (just because it's a plague doesn't mean I can't make a fashion statement).

When I'm done handling dirty dishes.

After I pet the dogs.

And that's just for starters.

As you'd imagine, all that increased volume of hot city water leave my hands more than a little raw. That's why I turn to Bamboo Bergamot from Dani Naturals.

I stumbled on to this fabulous hydrating lotion when I was out to breakfast at the Coffee Cup Cafe with the wife and kids.

The wait, as always, was ridiculously long. So, as always, we wandered into Twig & Willow, the sweet little boutique store next door while we waited. My daughter likes going in there because she's sure she'll walk out with something to wear in the way of clothing or jewelry, thanks to her old man. What can I say? I'm a pushover for my girly.

Anyway, on one of the shelves was a plethora of hand and body lotions with a tester bottle for each of one.

I've found that in shopping, as in life, it's always good to sniff before you buy.

I took a whiff of the Bamboo Bergamot and I was hooked. Its scent was actually reminiscent of the shampoo I used to steal, er, use at the Hotel Del Coronado before it sold and they changed suppliers. It used to be this great fresh, ocean scent. After the sale it was some kind of citrus whammy jammy. Seaside hotel, hello?! Don't get me started.

The good news is unlike toilet paper, disinfectant sprays and wipes, bottles of Bamboo Bergamot are in plentiful supply online. I highly recommend it for keeping your hands and skin silky smooth, hydrated and on the right side of the law, aromatically speaking.

I know there are more pressing issues in the new world order right now. But let's remember the time will come again when we'll get back to being close enough to smell each other.

My advice? Apply liberally.

Branching out

What you're looking at here is a stunning tree called a Forest Pansy. Its different color leaves throughout the year make it as unpredictable as it is beautiful.

You might be able to tell from the skateboards, barbecue and dog poop scooper against the fence that this particular picture didn't come from Homes & Gardens. Nope, in fact this is my very own back yard.

I've always loved the Forest Pansy tree. And on day 2 of hunkering down and self-isolating, I thought I'd wander out back and have a look at this tree since it always makes me happy. I can't help but notice the colorful heart-shaped blooming buds (Note to Rich Siegel: Heart Shaped Blooming Buds, Roxy '07), the shape of the crown, the slight bend in the trunk where it leans towards the sun.

Apparently what I failed to notice is this branch sticking out like the Night King's spear over the walkway.

I finally saw it when I turned around from the other side and walked right into it. Fortunately I wear spectacles (OSHA would be so proud) so it didn't take my eye out.

What it did do was gash my gigantic forehead (ad space available - great rates!). I hardly gave a thought to the fact this open bleeding wound on my forehead was like a big welcome sign for the coronavirus. I can only hope the tree isn't contagious.

I'm not sure, but I don't think this blatant Forest Pansy attack will leave a scar. Growing up on the mean streets of West L.A.—north of Wilshire—I already have enough of them.

So while we ride out the coronavirus storm sequestered in the house, I'll still look at the tree and admire its beauty and calming spirit.

Except maybe I'll do it through the window.