In case you didn’t know, I’m not a sports guy. Never have been. I know what you’re thinking: “But Jeff, you have such a ripped, awesome physique I would’ve thought you’d been playing sports all your life.”
First of all, thank you for noticing. And second, no.
But for some reason, once a year, during the World Series, I become an armchair fan. Especially when it’s the Dodgers v. Yankees.
Suddenly, I’m an expert on when and when not to take a swing. Miraculously I can call the pitches better than the umpires. I’m even starting to be fluent in the players’ names.
Then again, “Mookie” is kind of hard to forget.
I don’t go as far as wearing the team jersey, but I do yell at the tv from the comfort of my reading chair.
The cruel tease of my career (laughing for using the word “career”) is that at every agency I ever worked at without exception, I was always the copywriter who got assigned the sports tie-ins for clients. It's safe to say the most research I ever did for anything was going to the glossary for whatever sport I was writing about so I could speak in the language of the realm.
I do however love movies about baseball. Major League, A League of Their Own, The Natural, Moneyball, Bull Durham, The Rookie and, of course, Field Of Dreams.
For seven games a year, if the series goes that long, I’m all in.
When it comes to this post, it's the bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. So instead of some snappy line or bad joke about covering the bases, I’ll leave you with my favorite speech ever about the sport, courtesy of the late, great James Earl Jones.
Now if I could just get the wife to bring me a Dodger dog.
As my friend and colleague Grace says, it comes for us all.
I was starting to feel invincible. And why not? I’m vaxxed to the max, with the exception of the very latest update. I’ve gone through four years and God knows how many variants of covid without getting it. I was beginning to think maybe I was one of those rare humans whose immune system just took it out before I even knew it was there. When I’ve been informed by friends who came down with it that I was unintentionally exposed, it never laid a glove on me.
It comes for us all.
Last week I was in Sunnyvale on business. Felt great the whole time I was there. When I flew back Thursday I was a little fatigued, but chalked it up to not sleeping well in hotel rooms. I tested Thursday afternoon, then again Friday morning. Both negative.
But Friday was a really bad day. I felt like Wile E. Coyote after the anvil hit him in the head. Saturday morning’s test, as you can see, was positive.
It comes for us all.
I forgot to mention that the wife has it right now as well. She thought she had a slight cold when I left for my trip, and during the trip tested positive. So maybe I picked it up from her and it was incubating while I was away.
Marriage, amIrite?
I can’t take Paxlovid because it conflicts in a big way with another med I’m on. So I’m taking Lagevrio, another anti-viral that doesn’t have the bad interaction, but is about fifty-percent less effective. I’ll take it. Something’s better than nothing.
Doctors tell me I still have to isolate from my wife because she may have a different strain, and her viral load may be higher.
By the way, Viral Load. Great band. Saw them at the Troubadour in ’98. (You’re welcome Rich).
Alright, going back to my daughter’s old bedroom where I’ve been isolating, and going to finish watching Season 3 of The Bear. Again.
Should you catch it, and I genuinely hope you don’t, just lay low. Fluids and rest, fluids and rest, fluids and rest. Also Robitussen and Advil. And don’t feel bad about it.
I am devastated and heartbroken. My friend and advertising icon Jeff Weakley passed away suddenly this weekend.
I don’t remember exactly where Jeff and I met, but it was over thirty years ago. We were both longtime freelance copywriters, and our paths crossed at many, many agencies during those years.
When I met him, my first thought was, “How does he get away wearing shorts and a t-shirt to a freelance gig?” I was always more conservative in my attire – at least at the beginning. If you’ve seen me in the last twenty years you know caring about what I wear to work was just a phase. And now that I work remote, it's not even a notion.
Jeff was an outstanding writer, and an even more outstanding human being. It was always the best surprise running into him at work, hearing his insights, and being on the receiving end of his wicked sharp wit.
Not to mention seeing the example he set, and trying to live up to it, for being the world’s best girl-dad.
Jeff also put the word “raconteur” into my vocabulary rotation. His earlier website and freelance biz was named Raconteur Advertising. The nav bar on the site was Jokes. Poems. Propaganda.
There wasn’t anything he couldn’t put his own personal, interesting spin on.
Jeff also wrote me the loveliest recommendation on LinkedIN. If you’re so inclined you can see it on my profile from Les Guessing, Jeff’s alter ego.
He was also one of those guys in advertising virtually everyone knew, and had more than a good word to say about.
Jeff was only sixty-four years old. He was just getting warmed up.
I'll miss hanging, laughing and working with him. And I can’t help thinking how much better this post would’ve been if he’d written it.
God bless you Jeff. Thank you for having me in your circle and making my life richer. Rest in peace.
Case in point: a week ago, thanks to the record-setting stock market (Bidenomics bitch!), I was able to sell some shares and treat myself to my first brand new car in seventeen years. German car, expensive to maintain, expensive to repair, ridiculously expensive to own.
What the hell. I'm not taking it with me. And as the wife said, "Life is short. Buy the car."
The point is in purchasing my new wheels, I have to let go of my old ones, a fourteen-year old Lexus ES350 with over 155,000 miles on it. While I was initially thrilled at jettisoning the Lexus, I started thinking about all the times of my life that car has been a part of.
Driving the kids to school.
To rehearsals.
To game practice.
Nights out with the wife.
Emergency trips to urgent care or the ER. Fortunately not many of those.
I'm not gonna lie: thinking about the outgoing car in that light got me more than a little misty. It shouldn't come as a surprise. If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now then I just don't know where we go from here, you know I'm a sap.
I cry at Hallmark commercials. I never had a chance.
Because I have a new car, and a new windshield, I also have to say goodbye to something else I've been holding onto for the last two cars I've owned. My Chiat/Day parking sticker.
I always loved the Chiat sticker. The pirate culture it represented. The skull and crossbones shadow it made at high noon on the dash. The bragging rights it gave me. And the fact I could visit Chiat weeks after I was done freelancing there, park unnoticed amongst them, and sneak upstairs for one of their great breakfast burritos from the in-house restaurant.
I'm not proud. But on a stack of bibles, it was a pretty fuckin' great burrito.
When I was still working at agencies, before finding the most awesome client side job ever, that little blue sticker was also proof positive, tangible evidence, something I could point to whenever I'd play the Chiat card.
Which almost everyone who works or worked there does at one time or another.
The sticker's faded now, and years of sunlight exposure have given it a little curling around the edges. And just like the velcro strips that hold my FasTrak transponder, or the Magic Castle member parking discount sticker, the time has come to lower the pirate flag, and let go of the Chiat sticker.
All to say that if you want to sneak in for a breakfast burrito, we're going to have to take your car.
I like to think of myself as a rather cultured individual. I have an annual pass to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). I’m a member of the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures. I’m on a waitlist to see the infinity mirror room at The Broad. I’ve enjoyed my many visits to the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA). And I make it a point to visit the Whitney whenever I’m in New York to take in the brilliant isolation, loneliness and realism of urban life that only Edward Hopper can convey.
I don’t know why I relate to Hopper so much, but the feeling of hopelessness and futility in his characters hits home with me. I have issues. Another post.
Anyway, despite the fact I’m just lousy with class, I have to admit I’ve never visited what could arguably be called the most interesting museum of all: the Poozeum in Williams, Arizona.
Or as their webpage says, “The Gateway to the Grand Canyon!” Whatever.
The Poozeum collection is made up of thousands of fossilized dinosaur droppings, including, as the website says, “ the wateringly huge ‘Barnum’.”
Interesting adjective.
You can even snap a selfie with a replica of a 4-foot wide titanosaur poop.
Honestly if I wanted a picture with a giant piece of shit I’d just go to a Trump rally.
Look, people can spend their money any way they want. And if a room full of dino droppings is their idea of seeing the sights, then have at it.
So enjoy your visit to the Poozeum. And if you happen to stop by the gift shop to pick up a little something for me, I’m fine with a tee shirt or poster.
I bought a new car over the weekend. I'll keep you in suspense until I actually take delivery, at which point I'm sure there'll be a post about it. But it got me thinking about a couple of things.
One is that no matter how faux friendly the salesman is with their mimicing technique-"You have a German Shepherd? I grew up with German Shepherds." "You used to live next to the beach? I live a block from the water." "So you like Breaking Bad? Best show ever!"—the car buying experience is awful.
Again, details for another post.
The other thing it reminded me of was all the cars I've owned.
Like the 1965 Plymouth Fury. It was my first car and it was an eight-cylinder beast. It ran great when it ran, which was usually about ten minutes at a time before something broke on it and had to be fixed. My parents bought the car for $500 from my cousin Mark, who I don't think I ever saw again after that. Wonder why?
By the way, the Fury was my first and last American car. Sorry Detroit, you had your chance.
Then there were the VWs. First was a 1971 Orange Super Beetle. I can still hear the gas sloshing around over my lap when I came to a stop since the gas tank was in front. That car got wiped out in a bad accident which left me with a little souvenir you can read about here.
Anyway I swore I'd never own a VW again, much less an orange one. That was right up until my 1973 Karmann Ghia called to me from the showroom floor. I loved that car, but what I didn't know is that it had originally come from the east coast. I found that out when the rocker panels started disintegrating. Rust never sleeps.
Just as a side note, when I met the wife she was driving a 1972 orange VW convertible, fully restored. Coincidence? I think not.
With my 1980 Celica, 1986 Supra, 1999 Land Cruiser and 2010 Lexus ES350, Toyota was well reprensented in my garage over the years.
Of course I speak metaphorically. There hasn't been room for a gnat's ass in my garage since the wedding. I'm not naming names.
There was the 1986 Mercedes E190 we bought from the wife's grandma in 1994. It was eight years old and had 12,000 grandma miles on it. There was a four and a six-cylinder model, and grandma had the four. It was like driving a brick, but the car didn't have the power to get out of its own way. Neither did grandma.
Then there was the 1995 Volvo 960 Wagon, which despite being the longest car I ever owned, could turn on a dime in the middle of the street. Volvo made its chops selling safety. They should've been selling turning radius.
My second experience with a Swedish car brand was the Saab 90 I bought off my friend Rob. It was a stick shift, and was technically my son's first car. But I was the one who wound up driving it the most, zipping around town and reliving my VW days when I learned to drive a stick. You know, real driving.
My 2000 Audi A6 was great right until it caught fire, which actually was a more pleasant experience than having the oil changed at the Audi dealer (there may be a hint there as to my new car).
Now you're up to date on my wheels. Or you will be when I post about the newest addition soon. And if you're keeping score on colors, it's one blue, two orange, two silver and six black.
They say the car you drive says a lot about you. Mine say, "Oh yeah, I'll have one of those."
In the ad biz, there’s a constant drive and desire to be different. To position brands in a unique way with a distinct voice that can only belong to them—even if it’s a parity brand and there’s a million others like it on the market. Been down the bottled water aisle lately?
Ironically, that same drive for differentiation seems to quickly fall by the wayside when it comes to quotes about landing the job.
A recent perusal of AgencySpy.com, which I almost never look at anymore now that I’m gainfully and gratefully employed client side, shows a striking similarity in suck up sentiment that almost makes me think they were all written by ChatGPT.
Except I think ChatGPT has more self respect and doesn’t know how to make that sucking sound. Yet.
Here’s what I’m talking about—and by the way, the agency and employee names have been, using a DOJ term, redacted to not embarrass them any more than they’ve already embarrassed themselves.
“We create meaningful change for everyday brands that reach well beyond 30-second spots,” said XXXXX in a statement. “So, we’re making sure we bring the same level of emotional engagement and entertainment to a digital or instore campaign that we do to TV. I’m proud of our ability to keep the full spectrum of communications in mind with everything we create.” - ECD
Meaningful change. Emotional engagement. Full spectrum of communications. If there’s an awards category for “Buzzwords we think the client wants to hear” this one’s definitely a contender.
“Finding the sweet spot between what audiences and brands want is the key to modern growth planning,” said XXXXX in a statement. “I’m excited to build even more of that muscle out at XXXXXXXXXXXXXX to help our clients grow.” – Global Chief Audience Architect
I don’t even know where to start with this one. Is it the bullshit title of Global Chief Audience Architect that wreaks of calling the janitor a “Sanitation Engineer” or do I begin with “Finding the sweet spot between what audiences and brands want…” Here’s a flash for you Chuckles: audiences want advertising that’s entertaining, doesn’t pound them over the head and is worth thirty seconds of their time. What they don’t want is a screen takeover when they’re car shopping online. But it is nice you want to help your clients grow. Kinda the price of entry, amIrite?
“I am thrilled to join XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX and to work on XXXXXXXXX, one of the greatest brands in the world. The level of creativity in the XXXXXXX brand across so many global markets, and the way in which XXXXXXX drives culture, make this a dream opportunity for me,” – Global Chief Creative Officer
Well, I have to hand it to him. He got the clients name in the quote three times.¬ Of course, since it’s a car company he’s talking about, I’m guessing a lot of intention went into the term “drives culture.” I’m happy for him that he finally got his dream opportunity to work on “one of the greatest brands in the world.” Maybe his world, not mine.
“I’m passionate about creating the right conditions for the agency, our people and our clients to do their very best work to help change the world.” – EVP/ECD
And finally, the “change the world” quote. Every agency has one. This is like going to the racetrack, betting on the three-legged horse with crutches because that’s obviously the winner. Alright, so analogies aren’t my strong suit but you see where I’m going. Every agency wants to change the world, and so few of them do. Apple and Chiat did with 1984, the perfect blending of product (which actually didn’t come out until a year after the commercial), message and execution.
I do sympathize though. It’s never easy coming up with a quote that will age well when you’re asked for one. Which is why my standard replies no matter what the question, is “Measure twice, cut once.” Or “I’m not the guy to ask.”
Let’s talk about ideas. I’ll start. I have lots and lots of them. Not exactly an earth shattering revelation. After all, it’s what I do for a living. As Hyman Roth put it, “This is the business we’ve chosen.”
But for as many ideas I have being in advertising, I’ve probably had just as many with regards to getting out of advertising. Don’t give me that look. It’s not the confession you think it is. The dirty little secret is everyone in advertising is working off a strategy.
An exit strategy.
I’ve done it as well. I know what you’re thinking: where did I ever find the time? Well, come to find out those endless, countless status meetings, agency pep talks and kick offs are actually good for something besides catching up on my naps.
Under the heading of sticking close to what you know, my late pal Mardel and I decided to open an ad agency of our own called Bigtime Professional Advertising. We did this because, as everyone knows, what the world always needs is one more ad agency. I wrote up some funny stationery that Mardel designed, and we entered it in an awards show under the self-promotion category and won.
So technically, even though we had no accounts, we were an award winning agency.
Then there was my radio production company called Radio Royale. It was Vegas themed, with the business cards looking like casino gambling chips. The tagline was, “It’s radio baby!”
Alright, they can’t all be gems. Let’s just say Dick Orkin’s Radio Ranch, Oink ink Radio and Bert Barz were not threatened.
The next one my friend Michelle South and I came up with. It was called Bar Soap. The idea was to reinvent the laundromats, especially those near colleges and universities, by attaching an upscale bar and restaurant to them. There’d be a large wall of glass on one side where customers could see the state-of-the-art machines and watch their laundry spin. They’d have an app to add more time to the machines, but there’d be a two-hour limit.
And they’d be happy with the results, because after a couple hours drinking who’s going to notice stains anyway, amIrite?
The last example is actually the first idea I had. The Guidance Counselor. After my late, great friend Paula (just realized too many friends are gone now. That’s another post…) who was VP of Marketing at Disneyland hired me to be a creative consultant on the review, I decided I liked being on the other side of the table at agencies. Not gonna lie- it was fun having creative directors who were assholes to me when I was freelancing for them suddenly bowing, scrapinng, serving me coffee and croissants and just generally laughing a little too hard at my jokes all in the name of trying to win the Disney account.
Won’t name names, but do the initials J.M. mean anything? Maybe yes, maybe no.
Anyway, my great, yes you guessed it, late friend George Roux designed my Guidance Counselor stationery when I decided to make a business out of it. That was as far as it ever went.
But now, I’m on a new career path I think is really going to pan out: multiple lottery winner.
If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, and if you have feel free to use Covid as an excuse, then you already know I’m always thinking ahead.
A little over fourteen years ago, I wrote a fabulous piece about my estate plans. You can read it here. Now I know what you’re saying to yourself: “He’s been cranking out this crap for fourteen years?” Trust me, get in line.
At any rate, I was thinking about my exit strategy again lately, and realized while the big pieces of the goodbye puzzle are in place, there will be lots of loose ends to tie up. And it just seemed rude to leave it all for whoever draws the short straw and has to figure it out.
Which is why I ordered a Nok Box.
Frankly I’d be surprised if you haven’t heard of it. It seems like every third email I get and every second Instagram reel that comes up is selling them.
Hmmmm, what does the algorithm know that I don’t?
Nok stands for Next Of Kin. It’s a pre-made group of file folders, complete with individual instruction sheets for each of them, telling me what details and information to fill them with. Being the little organizer I am, because somebody has to be, this appealed to me in a big way. There are so many odds and ends to deal with at the end of the road, I wanted to make it easy on those I’m leaving behind.
Although just to be clear, I’m not planning on going anywhere soon.
So now begins the task of pulling all the info together, so my heirs will be able to find their way through their grief and cash the life insurance checks as soon as possible.
The one other thing I’m going to do to make it easy on them is plan my own memorial and funeral ahead of time, so the only thing they'll have to do is call for a pickup. I know they’ll be grieving deeply, which is why I thought an iPod in the casket playing the sound of someone frantically knocking on a heavy wooden door might add a little levity to the situation.
Anyway I’m not thinking anything fancy. Just a plywood casket, and markers so everyone can write something on it. I’d like to spend eternity in a black t-shirt and cargo shorts, and have a player with a fully charged battery and Thunder Road on repeat.
This is the second time I've encored this post. Hence the double "encore" in the title. It wasn't a typo, although given my fat fingers and Apple's miniscule keyboard it easily could've been.
The reason I'm reposting again is I saw the brilliant and hilarious John Mulaney at the Hollywood Bowl Saturday night, and I was awe struck, again, at what a spectacular venue it is.
I'll have a post about the show, our fabulous first-row box seats, our parking spot that created immediate jealousy with other parkers and the fine meal we had there soon, but in the meantime, enjoy this hilarious, insightful, yet somehow humble quick read.
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.
You can’t overstate the ability of advertising people to inhale their own fumes. It may be part of the job description. I’ll have to check with HR.
Many of them have what I’d call an unrealistic sense of consumer behavior that should rightfully be filed under wishful thinking. For example, against all evidence from the beginning of advertising time, there’s a prevailing thought that just because you bark an order at the consumer and tell them to do something, they’ll actually do it.
If it were only that easy.
How else to explain the fact almost every piece of—let’s call it marketing communication—that gets produced has what’s referred to in the biz as a CTA. In civilian terms, a Call To Action.
It’s the instruction from the advertiser on what they want you to do next. And it’s not one-size-fits-all. There is no standard CTA. It can be anything from Learn More to Call Now. Sign Up to Get Started. Take the Survey to Talk To Us. Let’s Go to Join Free For A Month (that was Netflix-it was a great month).
It’s a good thing it’s there. Otherwise how would you know what to do, amiright?
Here’s the truth: agencies consider a 2% click rate on web ad CTAs a resounding success. If you were getting a 2% return on any investment in your life you’d be looking for a new place to invest. But when it’s a 2% click through on banner ads (don’t get me started), the champagne is flowing, the overgrown frat boys are high-fivin', backs are being slapped and the junior team is getting assigned the agency promo piece touting their digital prowess.
On every agency brief—the six to eight page document explaining the assignment and showing that otherwise educated people don't know what brief means—there’s a description about what the agency/client wants the consumer to do as a result of seeing the CTA. For example, “Include CTA to visit website to drive user to website.”
Hey, Captain Obvious, what color was George Washington’s white horse?
Anyway, it occurred to me how much better agency life would be if there were CTAs, like these, that you could click on when the situation called for it.
Make It StopAnytime anyone calls a meeting about what they discussed at the last meeting, and what they'll be discussing in the next meeting as a result of this meeting, all you do is click on this CTA and immediately all the sounds stop coming out of their mouth. Their lips are moving, but they're not saying anything. Oh wait, that's already happening.
Go AwayThis one's a lifesaver. Great for personal space invaders, hallway talkers or the smug, self-righteous contrarian that lives to argue with everything you say. It's essentially the CTA that wishes them into the cornfield. I'm guessing that's going to be one crowded cornfield.
Not This AgainRemember that revision the client wanted, and you made, and then they took it out? And now they want it back in? This happens on a daily basis on every account in every agency. It just makes you shake your head and ask if they've always had this much trouble making up their mind (well, yes and no - BAM!). Hit this CTA, and it resets time back 15 minutes before the original request got re-requested. Normally only Superman can turn back time by flying counter clockwise to the earth's rotation. This will make it a lot easier on him.
Drop ItBasically a trap door for every occasion. Whatever they're doing to bother you, just hit this CTA and a trapdoor opens under them. Laugh and smile as they go plummeting down an endless tunnel that will eventually land them in the seventh circle of hell.
They were playing at Pechanga Arena, a venue I was unfamiliar with and had never been to, even though it’s been there over sixty years under various names.
Since it was just an overnight trip, and arena shows are notorious for hellish parking and hours-long traffic jams leaving afterwards, I used my big brain and thought the best thing to do would be to book us three rooms at a nearby hotel, where we’d be able to leave the car and just walk to the show.
The hotel I found, the Wyndham Garden San Diego Sea World (the arena is right behind the orca prison) was literally across the street from the arena.
But as we all know, when it comes to looks, as in used cars and the opposite sex at closing time, they can be deceiving.
Most arenas are not located in the better part of town, and Pechanga is no exception.
When we pulled into the hotel, which come to find out was more of a motel, it looked decent enough. The woman at the front desk who checked us in was pleasant, and directed us to the building our rooms were in. On the way over, we noticed several extremely sketchy characters not just around the property, but staying there.
It reminded me of the Crystal Palace on Breaking Bad, except without the charm. Although if they had room service, like the Crystal Palace, I was pretty sure meth was on the menu.
We went into the room and, as they say, it was nothing like the brochure. Dingy, dirty and with a prison bathroom, there was only one window with a transparent shade out to the upstairs walkway. I imagine that was to make it easier for the addicts to decide what to steal.
All I could think was Gitmo must’ve been booked for the weekend.
If I’d been a little more thorough in my research, and the only reason I wasn't was because I was pretty danged pleased I'd found a place within walking distance, I would’ve seen the pictures of cockroaches in the rooms and Wyndham’s less than stellar ratings on Yelp.
That would’ve been the first clue.
I told everyone not to put anything on the beds, we were getting out of there.
Speaking with the woman who’d checked us in not fifteen minutes earlier, I let her know the rooms weren’t what we expected and we weren’t going to stay. Without skipping a beat, she said no problem and gave us a full refund. Which told me this probably was a daily request.
Fortunately, the Hyatt Regency Mission Bay Spa & Marina had rooms available and we wound up staying there. Instead of across the street, it was a six-minute Uber ride to the arena, and a million miles away from the Wyndham.
In a word, the Hyatt was heaven. I can’t say enough good things about it. And I believe in my heart that their staff is as great and the accommodations as comfortable, clean and pleasant as they were all the time—not just because we’d made our escape from the bowels of hell.
I wasn't trapped in the Wyndham cell long enough to notice if they had movie channels on the TV. If they do, I'd recommend watching Escape From Alcatraz.
If I'm being honest with myself, and really, where's the percentage in that, I may have been right from the start. And by the start I mean when my now grown, married daughter started listening to her when she—my daughter, not Taylor—was a little girl.
At first I was hesitant to admit it, but it was a different time. That was then and this is now. Besides, these days, even if I didn't like a lot of her music, which I do, there'd be an awful lot of other things to like about her.
Let's start with the one main reason that brings me endless joy: she terrifies MAGA nation. That alone is reason enough to love Taylor Swift. With one Instagram post encouraging fans to register to vote, and driving them to vote.org, over 35,000 of them did just that. The GOP is scared that she could sway an election by endorsing Biden. Which she could. Fuck MAGA.
And while she didn't support a side, it's well known in 2018 she supported the democratic candidates in Tennessee.
Do yourself a favor and take nine minutes to look at this clip of Brian Tyler Cohen explaining exactly how Fox News and Republicans are melting down about Taylor. It's a thing of beauty.
Politics aside, a few other things to love about Taylor Swift. She's an extraordinary role model, which, if you happen to have a daughter, you know are in short supply. Unlike artists in her position, she not only appreciates her fans but she shows up for them, usually without fanfare or publicity. Taylor's been known to surprise fans at their homes, on their birthdays, at weddings, at their hospital bedside, and sometimes, like here, their engagement parties.
She's generous with her time as well as her money. At the end of the U.S. leg of her wildly popular ERAS tour, Taylor gave members of her crew $100,000 each as a thank you for all their hard work—do the math. Never mind, I'll do it for you. It totalled $50 million.
She cares about people. She's nice. She models gratitude. If you've ever seen her in interviews she's A) Genuine B) Intelligent C) Suprisingly funny D) All of the above.
The answer is D.
And let's not neglect to mention her work ethic. She's been a star for a long time now, but she didn't start out filling up 96,000 seat stadiums night after night. She worked hard from a young age to become the performer, songwriter and global pop star she is today.
Speaking of songwriting, her catalog ranges from teenage girl longing (Love Story / You Belong With Me), to cleverly written and performed break up songs (We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together), to a feminist anthem that resonates with truth (The Man). The first two songs my daughter played for me, also included below, were Hey Stephen and the heart-tugging The Best Day.
If you're already a fan, and especially if you're not, have a listen.
She's performed with, and counts as fans people like James Taylor, Mick Jagger, Ed Sheeran, Tim McGraw and Kendrick Lamar to name a few.
It's not easy to experience the confusing emotions of sacrifice, joy and relief in the same moment. But that's exactly what videos like this make me feel.
I go down a lot of rabbit holes on YouTube—Springsteen, Taylor Swift (yes I'm a Swiftie), standup comedians, German Shepherd videos, versions of Stand By Me and Tracks of My Tears—but the ones that affect me to the core are of soldiers returning from overseas, surprising their families and relatives.
These joyful, tearful reunions remind me of the sacrifice, real sacrifice, our soldiers and their families make everyday. Even during an awful period of time when a bone-spur addled, dementia-ridden, brainless, spineless, morally and financially bankrupt, rapist, convicted felon and overall cowardly piece of shit who thought of them (and still does) as "suckers" and "losers" was elected for reasons I'll never understand.
Anyway, the minute these families realize what's happening, you can see and practically feel the fear and uncertainty lift from them as they run to hug their loved ones who've done the one thing they hoped and prayed for: they came home.
They fight wars they didn't start. They're at the whims of politicians who have no idea what it means to sacrifice or defend honor. And they go back time and time again because it's their duty. It makes me realize I need to stop complaining about tough days at the office.
It doesn't matter what side of the aisle you're on, or what color your state is. If you have a beating heart, you can't help but be moved by videos like this.
God bless all our soldiers.
And just for the record, I'm not crying. You're crying.
You know the face right? Sure, it looks a little older than when you first saw it. But still, your mind instantly knows exactly who it is. And why you recognize him.
Isn’t that right, butthead?
Along with Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter, Ralph Fiennes as Lord Voldemort, Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates and Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch just to name a few, Tom Wilson is in the unique and rarified position of having been one of the screen’s most iconic villains, Biff Tannen, in the wildly successful Back To The Future series.
As Tom points out in his revealing new YouTube documentary, Humbly Super Famous, being Biff is both a blessing and a curse.
In the film, Tom takes us on his journey to getting cast in the role, which he initially didn't want, and how surprisingly close it was to his own experience growing up.
Not being the bully, but being the victim of bullying on almost a daily basis.
There are sweet moments in the film, like fans tearfully talking about how BTTF changed their lives, and how much the film means to them. There are also surreal moments as well, like when a hospital employee wants to talk about the movie and Tom’s role while his mom is in her last moments. It’s those encounters that leave you shaking your head.
Another story about how Tom, fresh off his second hip replacement surgery, has a fan encounter in a restaurant while he’s eating, and despite the excruciating pain of standing up, does it without complaint to accommodate the fan’s request.
In the film we also meet Tom’s beautiful family, his son and daughters. His wife Caroline appears, though only in photographs, and with a label covering her face that says “wife.”
Full disclosure: I know Tom. We met through our mutual friend Ned when he was shooting BTTF. And while I wouldn’t call us close friends, we’ve run into each other several times over the years at different events—bar mitzvahs, a wedding, another wedding, out by the Korean BBQ truck—and every time, Tom is a funny, giving, gregarious, inclusive and a joyful instigator of fun. My kids and my wife adore him. When they know Tom's going to be somewhere we are, they prepare themselves to have their sides hurt from laughing and ask me to drive there faster.
Even if I didn't know him, I'd tell you to do yourself a favor and watch Humbly Super Famous. You’ll see why Tom is really nothing like Biff.
Jon Stewart brought me to tears last night. It wasn't because he was talking about some atrocity happening in the world, a celebrity who died tragically too young, or recounting that scene from Forest Gump where Forest asks Jenny if his son is smart or if he's like him.
Nope. Jon Stewart brought me to tears talking about his dog, Dipper, who he'd lost the day before taping last night's Daily Show. As you can see in the video, he can barely get through telling us about how he met Dipper, how he came to be his dog and how much he meant to him and his family.
For Stewart, Dipper was that dog.
Anyone who's ever had a dog, whether they admit it or not, on some level understands the deal they're making from the start—that they're going to be with us for far too short a time, during which they'll steal your heart and never, ever give it back.
And anyone who's lost a dog understands how deep the grief runs. I've been through it with dogs I've loved too many times. Even now, they're always in my orbit, and my life. My home is emptier without them, and my life is immeasurably better in every way for them having been here.
Except for the shedding. I could do without the shedding.
In the clip, Stewart wishes we all find that dog. For me, it was Max. An actual German long-hair German Shepherd, Max was the world's greatest dog. Literally not a day goes by I don't miss him.
Maybe that's because his ashes are still sitting on mantle. Who's to say?
It's been said before but I'm going to say it again: with their unconditional love, unlimited joy and undeniable loyalty, we don't deserve dogs. We just don't.
Anyway, tonight I hope Dipper is playing hard with his new best friend Max.
And like Jon Stewart, my wish for you is that you're lucky enough and blessed enough in your life to find that dog.
Every once in awhile on a Zoom call, my colleagues see me wearing this hat. And they always want to know the significance of 3:30. I explained it in this post about six years ago. But since I was asked again recently, I thought an encore posting might be timely.
So here you go. More than you ever wanted to know about this hat. Please to enjoy.
You might think what you're looking at is a ratty old baseball cap with 330 embroidered on it. You'd only be half right. What you're actually looking at is a collector's item.
Years ago, my colleagues and close personal friends Alan Otto, Tena Olson and I decided what America, and dare I say the world, was crying out for was another advertising agency.
And really, can you ever have enough?
So to fill the void, and to have a place to go where we could work with people and clients we like all day long, we immediately leapt into action and started getting together every Sunday morning at Starbuck's to map out our plan of attack for opening our own agency. Between lattes and banana bread, we batted around ideas how we'd differentiate our agency from the zillion others out there.
The first name we were going to go with was The Beefery. We took an old butcher cow chart, and instead of the names of the cuts we substituted clever ad terms, none of which I can remember right now. That may be why we never went with it. Under the heading of collector's items, there are also Beefery t-shirts and hats hidden away deep in some storage locker somewhere.
Anyway, we knew an agency called The Beefery wasn't going to get any vegan clients, but we were okay with that. Then, somewhere in the course of those caffeinated Sunday morning discussions, we decided to go with a name that represented something the three of us had experienced many, many times in our combined years in the business— nothing really good happens after 3:30 in the afternoon.
Ideas. Strategies. Disruptions. Pitches. Performance reviews. Client meetings. They all happen, but just not as well as they should after 3:30PM.
Our promise was we were going to get while the gettin' was good in the first three-quarters of the day. People were fresh, their creative juices flowing, they hadn't burned out yet. Every single day, we were going to hit the ground running first thing in the morning.
We'd be unstoppable. Then completely stoppable by 3:30.
Of course almost immediately it occurred to us, what with this being a "service business" and client emergencies having a timetable all their own, that clients would have a tough time buying into our philosophy. Which explains why, at the end of the day, 330 never got off the ground.
Despite that fact we continued to meet at Starbucks for months afterwards, occasionally talking about opening an agency but mostly just enjoying each other's company and the people watching.
Optimists that we were, when enthusiasm was at its highest we ponied up and had these hats made. I wear it all the time, and have to say I still like it a lot.
But not nearly as much as I like the idea of calling it a day at 3:30.
This has been quite a year for a certain individual who goes by the name of Ken. I know what you're thinking: I'm going to go off on a diatribe about Barbie's perpetually rejected pal Ken. But as predictable as that would be, actually I'm not doing that. Because this post isn't about that plasic, de-genitalized, beach-loving doll.
It's about the other Ken who's had a very big year. Ken Jennings.
Now I'm not going to go into every little detail of his life and background. Besides, you already know a lot of it, and what you don't know about him you can find out here. What I will say, and I'll say it in the form of a question, is what the hell took so long to give him the job of permanent Jeopardy host?
If you've watched any of the Jeopardy episodes with him as host, it's beyond clear he is and has always been the rightful heir to the Alex Trebek lecturn. Because he holds the record for the most consecutive wins by any Jeopardy contestant, seventy-four, he simply has a personal, emotinal and, let's just put it out there, financial connection to the show that's not possible for others who auditioned to have.
Like, for example, conspiracy theorist, anti-vaxxer and perpetual raging asshole Aaron Rogers. Diet pill peddler, snake oil salesman and Oprah syncophant "Dr." Mehmet Oz. And former executive producer and new Jeopardy host for a hot minute until he was fired because "those" recordings showed up Mike Richards.
Jennings also brings a quick wit along with genuine interest and engagement with contestants during the brief, and sometimes awkward, interviews after the first commercial break. The other thing he brings to the party is that big brain of his.
I'm pretty sure the reason he so effortlessly keeps the game moving briskly is because he already knows the answers without having to look at them.
Originally Jeopardy producers decided to give Jennings co-host responsibilities, with him taking the nightly syndicated shows and Mayim Bialik doing the tournaments and prime time version.
Mayim's ratings were never what Jennings were/are. And neither were her reviews if the comments on Twitter (#nevercallingitX) were any indication.
She wouldn't cross the picket line at Sony during the five-month WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes, and I respect her for that. But Jennings was willing to—whispers say it's one of the decisions that got him the hosting gig full time. And while I'm an outspoken union supporter, I can't help but have forgiveness in my heart for Jennings' scab like decision to keep the games that aired first-run episodes.
In the past I've written here, and here about how I took the online test a few times and tried to get on Jeopardy. Now that Ken's the permanent host, I just may give it another go. Assuming hell froze over, if I were to actually get on the show I think it'd be fun to meet him, have a witty back and forth contestant interview, then go down in flames while one of my two competitors pummeled me with their obviously superior random knowledge (please don't let the category be Geography) and next-level buzzer skills.
That is unless the categories are SUITS, The Bear, Breaking Bad, New Jersey Bands, Sushi Rolls and Star Trek or Star Wars. Then I'd at least have a shot of making it to Final Jeopardy.
Until then, I'll just enjoy watching Ken Jennings rising to the occasion in the dream job he never dreamed he'd have.
I've probably posted this before—I tend to repeat myself—but I grew up on the mean streets of West L.A., north of Wilshire. My home now is the first house I've ever lived in, although not the first one I've ever owned (whole other post).
Like every new and experienced homeowner eventually learns, homes are like Disneyland: they'll never be finished. A house is a living organism, its own ecosystem that requires regular, constant maintenance to keep living and thriving.
To which I say yeah yeah, sure sure.
For some reason there are people in the world who know how and, even more baffling, want to do everything themselves when it comes to home maintenance.
Seriously, that's just crazy talk.
There are more than a few household things you'll never catch me doing:
Restaining hardwood floors. Sure, inhaling the wood finish fumes is tempting, but no.
Tuning up the roof tiles. No thanks. I have neuropathy in my feet, and have enough trouble walking on flat ground. When I think of myself walking and trying to balance my slightly fuller physique on slippery roof tiles, one song keeps popping into my mind.
Changing out a sprinkler head is also a no go. It's tougher than it looks. There's alignment, positioning, measuring and water pressure involved. Plus since we now use detergent from Trader Joe's instead of real detergent, I just can't risk the grass stains.
Plumbing? I have people for that. Same with electrical. And heating. And airconditioning. Although I do change the air filters all on my own. In fact I custom order them a half inch smaller on each side so they fit easily and I don't have to try to jam them in while balancing on my step ladder.
I know. I'm writing my acceptance speech now.
Another thing you won't find me doing is mowing the lawn. We have an excellent gardner who does a fine job without all the sweating and swearing that would inevitably accompany my efforts.
Here's the funny part. Even though I avoid mowing the lawn myself, I get a tremendous sense of satisfaction out of watching a runaway lawn get mowed down to size by SB Mowing.
Spencer from SB Mowing is a gardner who's sprung to fame on Instagram and YouTube. He lives in Kentucky, which besides moonshine, the Derby and, ironically, bluegrass, is also famous for having two of the worst senators in the history of time—Mitch "Mr. Freeze" McConnell and Rand "Yes sir Mr. Putin!" Paul. Although admittedly with Ted "When's the next flight to Cancun?" Cruz and John "Leave the oil company money in a plain envelope" Cornyn, Texas does give them a run for the money.
I may be getting off point here.
Anyway what Spencer does is find wildly overgrown or neglected lawns once a week, then asks the homeowner or a neighbor what the story is and if he can cut it down to size for free. He films the entire process in time lapse, and then displays truly breathtaking, incredibly satisfying before and after stills at the end of his videos (the YT videos run quite long - the four minute one at the top is one of the shorter ones).
Watching him work I can almost smell the freshly cut grass, as if I'd done it myself. Which as we've established, ain't happening.
On his website, Spencer tells his origin story, promotes the companies that make the equipment he uses and, like any good YT or Instagram star, sells mowing merch.
I don't know if it's watching someone actually finish something they start (you can do that?), the fact he makes gardening and lawn equipment look fun and cool (you can do that?), or his obviously disciplined work ethic (you can have that?), but watching him bring these lawns and their properties back to life is endlessly entertaining.
I know what you're thinking. I'm going to end this post with some corny, lawn-related pun.
Like his business is really growing.
Or when he's done filming his work he yells "Cut!"
Maybe even say he was a little green when he started.
But I won't. I'm keeping this one pun free. You know, in case Spencer keeps his clippings.
When I'm watching a tv show or a movie, there are always certain actors I'm happy to see. Actors who directors and audiences can rely on to give a great, complete, immersed in the character performance every time, with the uncannny ability to play any genre—comedy, drama, classical, farce, screwball, rom-com—all with the greatest of ease.
It's not easy, but these actors make it look that way.
Two of my favorites who deliver every time are Gary Cole and Margo Martindale. They are, as the saying goes, money in the bank.
I first saw Gary Cole in Fatal Vision, the story of Captain Jeffrey MacDonald, who murdered his pregnant wife and two daughters and tried to blame it on a Manson-like group of hippies. Cole has been reliably great in every role I've seen him in since.
One of my favorites was his portrayal of FBI Agent Baxter in A Simple Plan. I'm not going to spoil the surprise twist that his character takes in that role, but it is chilling. It's a great movie worth seeing, and Cole's performance, which comes near the end of the film, is one of the best reasons to watch it.
I'm sure I'd seen Margo Martindale before, but her performance as Hillary Swank's mom in Million Dollar Baby was the one that put her on the map for me. It's a joy for me every time I see her on screen. I especially liked her as the Russian handler in The Americans, and as Peter Florrick's campaign manager in The Good Wife.
Yes, I watched The Good Wife. Shut up.
There are many actors who may not be household names, but elevate whatever project they're in with their enormous talent, humility and committment. A dozen years ago, I wrote about another great one who's name almost no one knows but who's face almost everyone recognizes—Dabbs Greer.
Anyway, no funny little quips to end this. Just a tip of the hat, and a show of appreciation for real talent by two extradordinary actors that bring me pure joy, and some well-needed escape, every time I encounter them.
I’ll be the first to admit it. I am not by any stretch of the imagination or in any way a sports fan. I know what you’re thinking: how can someone like me who’s in peak physical condition not be into sports?
I know, it’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
I do however occasionally like watching the World Series (baseball, right?) but that’s about it. Unless you count the Kentucky Derby, Preakness and Belmont Stakes because who doesn’t like horseys.
And reading the Racing Form. And placing bets.
Anyway, when Super Bowl Sunday rolls around every year, for the most part I look at it as the best day of the year to go to the movies, visit Disneyland or shop at South Coast Plaza. At least for about three and a half hours.
But because I’m in the line of work I’m in, I do have to slog through the game and watch the commercials. Including mine.
Here’s the problem: Apple set the bar for Super Bowl spots with their legendary “1984” commercial. You know, the one directed by Ridley Scott that we’re still talking about forty years later. But the downside of that spot was it got advertisers to think that just by pouring a ton of money into a spot, they’d have a memorable, entertaining Super Bowl spot that would ring up championship sales for whatever they were hawking.
Not so fast. If you watched the big game this year, you might’ve noticed there are about sixty examples that prove otherwise.
That’s not to say there haven’t been some enjoyable spots over the years. One of my favorites is this FedEx spot, which lays out in detail exactly what it takes to produce a successful Super Bowl spot. It's a low-res version, but you still get the idea.
Another is the Audi “Prom” spot. Everything about it is right—the casting, the dialog, the story, the production. They even caught lightning in a bottle with the reaction shot of the prom queen after the kiss.
The spot I liked most this year, besides mine, was actually this Disney+ commercial. Simple, engaging and not weighed down with celebrities and production value. It wasn’t forced.
I was discussing the spot with my close personal friend and blogger extraordinaire Rich Siegel, and he reminded me of the other reason I liked it so much. He said “When everyone is shouting, whisper.”
He’s right of course. Enough with the shouting.
In politics. In life. And especially in Super Bowl spots.
Last night the wife and I were doing a little channel surfing, and came across one of my favorite films of all time - Miller's Crossing. I was going to post about what a great film it is and how much I love it, but then I realized I'd already done that nine years ago. So you get to read it (maybe for the second time), and I don't have to write a new post. It's what I like to call a win-win. What's the rumpus is a recurring line in the movie. It's so good, someone really should grab that URL. Oh wait, someone already has. Enjoy the post. And as Gabriel Byrne as Tom Reagan says, "Don't get hysterical."
From the first frames of Blood Simple, I've been a Coen Brothers fan. I've enjoyed everything they've done. I even managed to find a few lines worth hearing in The Ladykillers.
But for now and always, my favorite Coen Brothers film is Miller's Crossing.
For me, it's pitch perfect on every level. The writing in particular is so authentic and of the time, it demands attention to follow exactly what's going on. I like movies where I'm required to be an active participant and not an innocent bystander. I also like movies where I don't know what's coming, or, as Tom Reagan (Gabriel Byrne) would say, what the play is.
On the surface it's a gangster film. But it's really about loyalties, relationships, jealously, consequences, love and sacrifice in the most honorable sense.
Brilliant performances all the way around, it's also the movie that made Gabriel Byrne a star (at least in America), and introduced us to Marcia Gay Harden. Albert Finney is superb as mob boss Leo. The film is also filled with Coen Bros. favorites: Jon Polito is brilliant as usual as rival mob boss Casper. John Turturro gives yet another of his eccentric, memorable, scene-stealing performances (while we're talking about Turturro, have a look at him in Big Lebowski). Steve Buscemi, although not going through a wood-chipper in this one like he did in Fargo, has a short, memorable bit that's pure gold.
If you have an eye for detail, you'll notice an apartment building in the film called the Barton Arms. If you're a Coen Bros. fan, you'll know why that's so cool.
Sadly Miller's Crossing didn't do nearly as well commercially as it deserved to because it had the unlucky honor of being a gangster film released the same year as Goodfellas and Godfather III. For me, of the three, it's the best of its' genre.
In this movie, as one of the characters says, "Up is down, black is white." I say Miller's Crossing is a great film you owe it to yourself to see.
My close personal friend and RoundSeventeen raconteur Rich Siegel is currently on the uphill side of his first case of covid. He writes about it here.
Which got me thinking (eventually something had to), now that the world has emerged, relatively, from the wrath of covids' heyday, it’s time to look at what we’ve been through in a different light. Many articles have been written about the pandemic, and with each new variant that rears its ugly head, every winter surge and every new booster shot comes an entirely new crop of articles.
I wanted to take a different approach. Instead of dry, medical journal ramblings, I feel the world is finally in a good place, done blowing their nose and ready to tap their toes. So, with that in mind, I’m happy to announce rehearsals will be starting soon for Broadway’s next theater event of the season: Covid Tonight!
You’re in your seat, the houselights go down, the curtain comes up. Spotlights hit the stage as singers belt out the opening number.
Did you hear? Did you hear? It’s getting very near.Before you can say “vaccination” it’ll already be hereDid you hear? Did you hear? There’s nothing to really fearThe president said it’ll just go away, it’ll just disappear!
Well, we all know how Cadet Bone Spurs prediction worked out. But I digress. Like any great show about a deadly disease, Covid Tonight! will have something for everyone. There’ll be a lot of show-stopping numbers as we travel back down covid memory lane. Like this slow, poignant number speaking to the cure that was in front of us all along.
It’s the guest no one wants, it’s the gift to be returnedIt’s the illness that haunts, it’s a cause for great concernAnd if you can’t escape it, and at the door it knocksThe cure is already in your laundry room, in a bottle called Clorox
Ah, the good old days when IQ45 told us all we needed to do was pump some bleach into our veins to kill the covid virus. If only he'd taken the lead and shown us how.
As all shows do, the curtain must fall on Covid Tonight! Will it end on a happy note? A caustic warning? An optimistic view of the viral future?
Now the virus has seemingly run its course, at least its that way for nowAnd Pfizer and Moderna have turned it into a cash cow We're happy that it's rarer these day, in fact let's raise a cupBut before we celebrate too much let's remember to mask up.
T-shirts, hats and soundtrack CDs are available in the lobby.
