New Year's Eve and keeping hope alive

New Year’s Eve promises so much—a fresh start, a blank slate, a chance to look at the tangled mess of our lives and say, “This year, I’ll get it together. No, really.”

But before we pop the champagne and make resolutions we have no intention of keeping, let’s pause a moment to honor the often unappreciated beauty of a quiet New Year’s Eve, where glitter and champagne are optional.

We’ve all been there. Midnight strikes, and suddenly, you’re promising to quit carbs, learn French and train for a marathon. It feels exhilarating in the moment, but then reality smacks you in the face and calls you Sally. And through your champagne haze you remember croissants are delicious, French is exhausting, and running hurts.

But this annual exercise of overpromise is actually an act of hope. A reminder we can still believe in the power of change.

Maybe it’s naive. Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s the champagne talking.

As in years past, the wife and I will definitely not be spending New Year’s Eve out on the town. We’ll have an early-ish dinner at a restaurant we love in Newport Beach, and be back home with plenty of time to spare before the ball drops. Because for us, the true magic of NYE is staying in and not participating in the demolition derby that happens on the roads one minute after midnight.

Also, neither of us look good in gold party hats.

While we try to remain optimistic, sadly we face challenges guaranteed to wreak havoc in the coming year. Cadet Bone Spurs incoming administration—back for a sequel no one wanted but we’re all forced to watch—feels like a cruel cosmic joke.

But New Year’s isn’t just about personal resolutions. It’s about collective resolve. Whether you’re marching, organizing, donating, or simply staying informed, every action matters. Progress is messy, slow, and sometimes heartbreakingly incomplete. But always worth fighting for.

So let’s take the spirit of New Year’s Eve—the hope, defiance and determination to do better—and channel it into something bigger than ourselves.

Because while resolutions come and go, resistance is evergreen.

Here’s to a New Year filled with small victories, big dreams, and the strength to face whatever comes our way.

Happy New Year.

The Monday after

The Monday after a big work week or weekend—not that I know much about working on weekends—is more or less a recovery day. You're exhausted from the effort, cranky from lack of sleep and depressed about all the other ways you could've been spending that time.

That's especially true for Santa and his pointy-eared, curly-toed staff of toybuilders at the workshop.

No matter how many late nights you've put in, I'm going out on a limb and guessing your checklist didn't include working in a snowed in sub-zero environment, five billion stops in one night, having a front-row view of eight reindeer butts delivering their own special kind of presents, cramming yourself down chimneys that haven't been cleaned since ever, or eating more cookies and drinking more milk than a fat man of a certain age should even be thinking about.

BTW, I know what you thought when I said, "..fat man of a certain age." Fuck you.

The point is let's go easy on Santa and give him a break. Sure, maybe you didn't get exactly what you wanted this year. But his red bag carries a lot of gifts, and sometimes, like Amazon, FedEx or UPS, the wrong package goes to the wrong house.

Unlike Amazon however, Santa, believing everyone is entitled to a living wage and safe working coniditions, never engaged in union-busting tactics when the elves wanted to unionize.

I may be getting off topic.

Look, holly jolly and merry ole' St. Nick is a character he plays. In real life, Santa and the elves are people who were young once. They had hopes and dreams. No one wanted to be doing this job, but sometimes life's paths aren't the ones we might choose for ourselves. We play the cards we're dealt.

So if they want to blow off a little steam after a solid nights' work with a few drinks, Marlboros and, um, companionship, who're we to judge.

Have at it Santa. No matter what you do, you'll always be on my nice list.

Tony Shaloub is brilliant

I’ve been a hardcore fan of Tony Shaloub for a very long time. In fact, almost seven years ago I wrote a post here, singing his praises. What I hadn’t done until now is watch the show he’s probably most familiar to audiences for: Monk.

The wife and I have been bingeing it now for the past couple of weeks. From the first “Here’s what happened” to the last time Adrian Monk straightened a crooked picture frame, this show pulls you in like an obsessive-compulsive black hole.

Casting Tony Shalhoub as Adrian Monk was pure magic. Shalhoub doesn’t just play Monk; he becomes him. Every nervous twitch, every panic-stricken "Wipe! Wipe!" when he’s touched something questionable feels so real. And yet, Shalhoub somehow makes a man who alphabetizes his breakfast cereals deeply endearing. Sure, he has 312 phobias, but who doesn’t.

Each episode of Monk follows a classic whodunit formula. There’s a crime. There’s a suspect who seems innocent. And there’s Monk, who notices that one microscopic detail—a mismatched sock, a coffee stain, a slightly-too-perfect alibi—that cracks the case wide open.

The brilliance of Monk is it keeps surprising you, even though you know exactly how the story will go. It’s comfort food for your brain. Like mac and cheese, but with more murder.

Adrian Monk’s quirks are as relatable as they are ridiculous. Sure, most of us don’t measure our orange juice to make sure it’s precisely half a cup, but who hasn’t had a mini meltdown over an improperly loaded dishwasher? Just me? Okay. I wrote about it here. Don't judge me.

Monk’s relentless pursuit of order in a chaotic world speaks to that part of all of us that just wants everything to make sense. He’s fighting the battles we can’t, like ensuring all the chairs at the table are aligned perfectly.

Monk may be the star, but the supporting characters help make the show sing. There’s Sharona, his tough-love assistant, who somehow manages to keep her cool even as Monk spirals into a hand-washing marathon. Later, Natalie takes over, bringing her own brand of compassion (and frequent eye-rolls).

Then there’s Captain Stottlemeyer (played by Ted Levine, who you may remember as Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs), and Lieutenant Disher, who are equal parts baffled by Monk and completely reliant on him.

For a show about a man crippled by grief and paralyzed by fear, Monk is surprisingly funny. It strikes the perfect balance between comedy and drama, never making Monk the butt of the joke but still letting us laugh at his antics. One minute you’re giggling as he disinfects an entire crime scene; the next, you’re crying as he mourns his late wife, Trudy.

It’s emotional whiplash in the best possible way.

And let’s not forget the iconic theme song, “It’s a Jungle Out There” by Randy Newman. Quirky and catchy, it perfectly encapsulates Monk’s worldview: the world is dangerous, unpredictable, and full of germs. Yet, somehow, it’s worth navigating anyway.

In the end, what makes Monk so irresistible is its heart. The show takes a man who could have easily been reduced to a punchline and turns him into a hero. Monk’s OCD isn’t just a quirk; it’s his superpower. His ability to see what others overlook doesn’t just solve crimes—it saves lives.

If you’ve never watched Monk, grab some hand sanitizer, straighten your remote controls, and prepare to fall in love with, thanks to the brilliance of Tony Shaloub, the world’s most charming detective.

Merry Christmas Eve

Ah, Christmas Eve. Whether you’re celebrating with a full house or spending it solo, there’s something universal about the anticipation that hangs in the air.

It’s like the entire world is holding its breath, except instead of silence, it’s the sound of wrapping paper and someone shouting, “WHO USED ALL THE BUTTER?”

Let’s not pretend Christmas Eve is all serene candlelight and cozy moments by the fire. It’s also a hotbed of last-minute panic. There’s always someone who forgot batteries, someone who just realized they wrapped a gift with last year’s “Happy Birthday” paper, and someone who thought it was a good idea to try a new cookie recipe at 10 p.m.

And yet, Christmas Eve has a way of reminding us what really matters. Maybe it’s the twinkle of lights. Maybe it’s the smell of gingerbread. Or maybe it’s just the quiet moments in between, where you catch yourself looking around and realizing how much love surrounds you—even if it’s buried under a pile of unopened Amazon boxes.

For kids, Christmas Eve is pure magic. It’s leaving cookies and milk out for Santa, wondering how he’ll fit his fat patoot down the chimney, and trying desperately to stay awake long enough to hear reindeer hooves on the roof.

For adults it’s a bit different. You’re the one eating the cookies, debating whether you’re too old for pajamas with reindeer on them, and reflecting on the year that’s nearly over.

It’s bittersweet, isn’t it? There’s joy in traditions, but there’s also a quiet acknowledgment of time passing—a reminder to hold these moments close.

Whether your tree is perfectly Instagrammable, or leaning precariously to one side, whether your gifts are meticulously wrapped or shoved into whatever bags you could find, whether your family is all together or scattered across the miles—or the heavens—Christmas Eve isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. Not presents, although those are pretty great too.

So here’s to the traditions, the chaos, and the quiet magic of Christmas Eve. May your evening be filled with laughter, love, and just the right amount of butter for those cookies.

And if you’re lucky, maybe even a little peace on Earth—or at least in your living room.

Merry Christmas Eve.

Location Location Location

Once upon a time, I was enamored with the idea of going "on location" for commercial productions.

Paris? Prague? Peoria? Okay, maybe not Peoria.

The mere mention of a destination would trigger visions of glamorous hotels with impossibly fluffy pillows, fabulous shoot locations with jaw-dropping vistas, and after-hours culinary adventures in Michelin-starred restaurants. I’d pack my suitcase with outfits I’d never actually wear ,but felt I should bring, because who knows? Maybe I’d end up at a yacht party or something.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Fast forward to today. The idea of schlepping myself to some remote corner of the world to "capture the magic" now fills me with an existential dread rivaling that of sitting through a three-hour agency status meeting. Don’t get me wrong — I still love creating. I just don’t want to do it while battling jet lag and sketchy Wi-Fi.

Give me a soundstage in Los Angeles, a coffee cart within arm’s reach, and the sweet promise of going home to my couch by 7 p.m.

Let me paint you a picture of what "on location" really means. You wake up at 4:30 a.m. in a hotel room that smells faintly of carpet cleaner and crushed dreams. It’s pitch black outside, because the best light for your exterior shots happens at the ungodly hour of sunrise. The hotel "continental breakfast" consists of sad, cling-wrapped muffins and coffee brewed by someone who hates joy. You climb into a 15-passenger van with a crew of equally tired people, and off you go, bouncing down dirt roads not designed for motor vehicles.

Then there’s the weather. It’s either too hot, too cold, too windy, or raining sideways.

Contrast that with a soundstage in Los Angeles. You want golden hour lighting? Flip a switch. You want a sweeping mountain vista? Fire up the green screen and let the VFX team work their magic. Nobody’s getting rained on. Nobody’s asking if the porta-potties have been emptied. And nobody’s stuck in a van wondering if craft services will be set up by 6 a.m.

Soundstage life also means I can drive to work like a normal human, film some "magic," and be home in time to binge Breaking Bad for the eighteenth time. (Yes, eighteenth time. Don’t judge me.)

Sure, I’ll admit there are moments when I miss the thrill of going on location. That fleeting rush of stepping off a plane in an exotic city, the camaraderie of late-night shoots, the adventures of finding the world’s best taco stand at 2 a.m. But then I remember the other stuff — the lost luggage, the endless "hurry up and wait" routine — and my nostalgia dissolves faster than the line item for "unexpected expenses."

So here I am, praising the soundstage life. To my younger self, I say this: it’s not you, it’s the jet lag. And the weather. And the 4:30 a.m. call times. And everything else that turns capturing your creative vision into a monumental pain in the ass.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my couch, a bowl of popcorn, and Heisenberg’s greatest hits.

Ups and downs

My daughter, her husband (still have to get used to saying that) and a friend went to Disneyland today. I’m assuming while they’re enjoying the overpriced food and mouse-logo sweatshirts you need a co-signer to purchase, they’ll make time to ride the rollercoaster in Disneyland’s sister park, California Adventure.

There was a time, not all that long ago, when the sight of a rollercoaster filled me with excitement. The louder the screams from passengers, the more I wanted to be in the front row.

I was fearless. I was invincible. I was much younger.

But that was then and this is now. Today, you won’t catch me near one of those headache-inducing, nausea-promoting contraptions even if someone was bribing me with a lifetime supply of front row Springsteen tickets.

Well, maybe then.

For starters, the physics are no longer my friend. Once upon a time, the sheer force of a 60 mph corkscrew was exhilarating. But now it’s like my brain sends out a mass email to all my nerve endings saying, “Code red! We’re not 20 anymore! Shut it down!” Suddenly my head is whiplashing through loops and corkscrews.

By the way, Loops & Corkscrews was my favorite childhood cereal. SWIDT?

And another thing. What ever happened to the classic rollercoaster that just went really fast, dropped steeply, and maybe had one loop? Modern coasters flip you upside down, tilt you sideways, and sometimes even hang you face-down.

“Why is the sky on my left now?”

When I was younger, my balance was like a rock. I could spin in circles for hours and walk away like I was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Now, after one helix on a modern coaster, my inner ear stages a mutiny. Another gift of aging.

I also never want to be that rider. The person who gets off the ride looking like they survived Oceanic 815. Pale, sweaty, clutching their stomach, mumbling, “Never again.”

I’ve reached the age where I’m okay saying, “I’ll just eat a churro and watch.”

Here’s the thing: I still love thrills—just different ones. Simpler ones, like parallel parking on the first try or remembering to bring my reusable bags to Trader Joe’s. I even get a tiny adrenaline rush when my phone battery is at 2% and I find a charger in time.

Who needs 10-story drops when life is already full of heart-pounding moments?

There’s a certain wisdom that comes with age—or at least that’s what I tell myself when I pass on the rollercoaster and opt for the carousel instead. I’m happy waving from the sidelines, holding everyone’s jackets while the rest of the group screams themselves silly. At least I know I’ll be headache-free and standing upright at the end of the day.

I don’t think of my recently found rollercoaster aversion as a loss. More of a shift in priorities. I’m grounding myself and I’m okay with it.

And if you need me, I’ll be at the churro stand.

It's about TIME

A potato in a wig would’ve been a better choice for TIME Magazine’s Person of the year.

Sure, Trump has a personality—if you can call the chaotic mix of Twitter rants, spray tan, and ego a "personality." He’s like that one guy at the office holiday party who shows up uninvited, drinks all the eggnog, and insists on karaoke-ing “My Way” until HR makes him stop.

Oh yeah, and has the nuclear codes.

But does personality alone merit the honor? If that’s the bar, why not give the title to the inflatable dancing tube man outside your local car dealership. At least it’s flexible and doesn’t sue everyone who looks at it funny.

How far TIME has fallen. We’re talking about the same magazine that once named Albert Einstein and Martin Luther King Jr. as Person of the Year. And now they want to lump Trump in there? That’s like putting a gas station sushi chef in the Michelin Guide.

Einstein gave us the theory of relativity. Trump gave us the phrase “Covfefe.” King led a movement for equality. Trump led a movement to redefine what counts as a “huge” crowd size.

Come on TIME, have some self-respect.

And what exactly are Cadet Bone Spurs achievements? And I use the word achievements as loosely as an oversized navy blue suit jacket.

The man wanted to build a border wall, but all he ended up constructing was a metaphor for divisiveness. If walls could talk, they’d probably point at him, laugh and say, “What an asshole.”

Trump also logged more hours on the golf course during his presidency than a PGA pro. Presidential? Not unless your country’s GDP is measured in bogeys.

And let’s not forget Twitter. Trump’s tweets were the literary equivalent of giving a toddler a blowhorn and a bag of sugar.

IQ45’s time in office and beyond has been defined by a relentless downpour of lies. Fact-checkers needed overtime to keep up with his claims, ranging from "historic tax cuts" that mostly benefited the wealthy to his bullshit assertions the 2020 election, the safest and freest in history, was "stolen."

His relationship with the truth is so shaky, it might as well file for divorce.

But at least he’s surrounded by “the best people.” Or who he thinks are the best people. From Steve Bannon to Rudy Giuliani to Michael Flynn, his inner circle seemed like the cast from America's Most Wanted. Many of these advisors ended up entangled in legal troubles, resigning in disgrace, or both.

Add to that Trump’s ongoing legal battles, including 34 felony counts related to falsifying business records. His presidency would make the most scandal-hardened observers shake their heads in disbelief.

TIME’s Person of the Year is supposed to recognize the individual who "most influenced the events of the year, for better or worse.” Fair enough. Trump has influenced things, much like a drunk raccoon influences the contents of your trash can. But if we’re celebrating chaos for chaos’s sake, why not name a literal hurricane Person of the Year?

At this point, suggesting Trump for Person of the Year feels like a practical joke, one step above naming your cat CEO of your company. Sure, it might be funny for five minutes, but then you remember you actually have to live with the consequences.

If TIME really wants to rile people up for clicks, they could at least consider something a little less obvious. Maybe name literally anyone else—a healthcare worker, a scientist, even the squirrel that keeps wire-walking and fucking up my cable tv would be more deserving.

Donald Trump as Person of the Year is a bigly no from me. The most tremendous "no" anyone's ever seen. Not because he’s a Republican. Not because he’s a former president. Not even because his idea of diplomacy involves sharpies and McDonalds. It’s because TIME Magazine’s Person of the Year should inspire us to be better humans, not serve as an excuse for our therapists to raise their rates.

So, TIME, do us all a favor and leave Trump where he belongs. In the blooper reel, and in the dumpster, of American history. Not on the cover of your magazine.

Clever gets crickets

Sit down ad kids, and let me tell you a story of days gone….hey! hey! Get off my lawn!

Where was I? Oh, right. Story of days gone by.

You’ll find this hard to believe, but before the interwebs, once people got their foot in the agency door, they had to drag a giant, sometimes heavy black portfolio in with them. Inside were usually unjustifiably expensively laminated samples of their work and a fat three-quarter inch video reel of their broadcast spots if they had any.

But before you got in the door for that interview, you had to get the attention of the creative director or at the very least their gatekeeper. And a lot people, including yours truly, tried to do that with self-promo pieces.

Eleven years ago, Venables Bell in San Francisco did an Audi spot called Prom for Super Bowl. And I loved it. I don't know if it's the best car commercial ever, but man did it land with me. The minute I saw it I decided I wanted to work there.

I sent them the promo piece above (mounted on black foam core, as one does). Why? Because Audi was their biggest account, I loved the work and I drove an A6.

Instead of submitting a conventional résumé which I was sure they got inundated with, I sent my Audi registration slip to show off my experience with the brand. In my mind, I imagined the team opening it and saying, “This is clever, unexpected, exactly the kind of thinking we want for Audi!”

I sent it off with all the confidence of revving an R8 next to your father's Oldsmobile at a green light. Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Not a single word. Not a “Wow, this is clever.” Not a “Thanks, but we’re going in another direction.” Not even a polite “Who dis?” My inbox was emptier than a republican promise.

At first, I thought maybe they needed time to gather the team and properly marvel at my ingenuity. Or maybe the job was already promised to someone else, and my clever little stunt was simply a victim of bad timing.

What it turned out to be was a reminder creativity is a gamble. Sometimes you hit a home run, sometimes your ball lands in the neighbor’s yard.

Even though I didn’t hear back, I don’t regret sending it. I thought it was a fun idea at the time and I went for it. And maybe, just maybe, one day someone at Venables will stumble across my registration slip and think, "Wow, we missed out."

I believe that will happen right after Scarlett Johansson returns my call.

Anyway, I left the agency side for client side about five years ago, so I'm out of the agency shopping biz. But if I ever decide to go back, I’ll keep in mind the lesson I learned sending without hesitation what I thought was a funny promo piece to an agency.

That creativity, much like an Audi, isn’t about stopping.

The lost art - Stick edition

We are gathered here today to mourn what’s become a dying skill. A cultural relic that once separated the casual driver from the true master of the open road: driving a stick shift.

Kids today look at a manual transmission the way a caveman might look at an iPhone: equal parts confusion and fear. Be that as it may, let’s have a good laugh at youngsters who will never understand the joy—and terror—of grinding gears.

Driving a manual used to be a full-body sport. Your left hand gripped the wheel while your left foot was a finely tuned machine dancing on the clutch. Your right hand held tight on the shift knob—custom leather if we were bein’ all fancy—and slid through the gears with precision timing.

As opposed to todays’ automatic transmissions, where you sit back and let the car do all the thinking.

Driving a stick came with one universal truth: You will stall the car. And because God does have a sense of humor it was usually when you were on a hill (mine was on La Cienega just before Sunset Blvd.), and the car rolled backward like a panicked toddler.

Still, there are some definite perks to knowing how to drive manual. For one, nobody will ever ask to borrow your car. Also, it’s probably the best theft deterrent on the market. No thief under 40 is touching that thing.

I can’t help feeling sad for today’s generation of drivers. While their self-driving cars will be convenient—and is it really driving if the car is driving itself? Discuss—they’ll never know the rush of nailing a perfect heel-toe downshift, or the satisfaction of cruising down the highway with your car purring in the sweet spot of fourth gear. They won’t have the connection with their vehicle that only comes from manually controlling every grunt and groan of the engine.

So, here’s to the gearheads of yesteryear—and the kids who think “clutch” is just a handbag. May we never forget the joy, frustration, and sheer chaos of driving stick.

If you’re feeling nostalgic and want to talk about it some more, come find me.

I’ll be the guy on the hill, rolling backward into traffic, trying to shift into first.

Turkey time

Thanksgiving. The day we all come together to celebrate a uniquely American tradition: carb-loading like we’re prepping for the Olympics.

Every year, we gather around the table, and swear “this time I won’t overeat.” Cut to an hour later: you're sprawled out on the couch, pants unbuttoned, clutching your stomach like you're smuggling a watermelon.

It starts innocently enough. You sip a little wine, nibble on an appetizer— maybe a rogue deviled egg. Then the turkey arrives, and it's bigger than your first apartment. Followed by the mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole and the perennial mac and cheese.

And let’s not forget those soft, buttery Kings Hawaiian Rolls that seem harmless until you’ve inhaled six of them in under sixty seconds. You tell yourself you’ll space it out, but last year you didn’t get thirds on pumpkin pie and that’s not happening again.

Then there’s the conversation, the yearly revival of the same script, performed live by your family.

First, the weather commentary. Wherever you live, someone will complain it’s too hot, cold, rainy, or windy. Next there’s the politics grenade. Someone throws it in the middle of the table like a Molotov cocktail, and everyone braces for impact.

“If I ran the country things would be different,” says an uncle who couldn’t run a lemonade stand without losing money. Five minutes later, we’re knee-deep in a debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn’t).

And yet, as the night winds down, the vibe changes. Everyone settles into quiet resignation of a food coma. Maybe it’s the tryptophan, or the second bottle of wine. But something unexpected starts welling up inside. Gratitude.

Not the hashtag kind of gratitude, where you post a filtered photo of pie with a caption about “feeling so blessed.” This is the raw, messy gratitude that sneaks up on you when you’re hit with the realization these are your people, and you wouldn’t trade them for the world.

And there it is. The point of Thanksgiving. It isn’t to be perfect. Or poised. Or even politically correct. It’s to show up. To gather. To try.

So, this Thanksgiving, embrace the chaos, the carbs, and the conversations. And when you’re lying on the couch, full to the brim with turkey and love, remember: you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if you did promise yourself you’d only eat one roll.

BMW drivers can breathe easy

BMW drivers, the time has come.

You can finally unclench your leather-gloved fists, exhale that long-held sigh of relief, and maybe, just maybe, start using your turn signals. Why? Because Tesla drivers have officially stolen your crown as the most insufferable, self-entitled assholes on the road.

Congratulations Tesla drivers on achieving the impossible: making BMW drivers look humble by comparison.

If you’ve been on the road lately, you’ve probably noticed Teslas zipping around, silently judging your gas-powered existence from inside their tech-on-wheels spaceships.

Their inner vibe screams, “I’m saving the planet!” Their outer vibe screams “Look at me, I’m an asshole!”

Apparently all the people leasing or that have shelled out money for their Tesla are blissfully ignorant about how famously unreliable they are. From Model 3s randomly deciding to burst into flames (bonus: free fireworks!) to battery replacements that cost more than the GDP of a small country, Teslas are basically expensive, rolling dice with a touch screen.

It would be a dereliction of duty to write about Tesla and not talk about the Cybertruck. How ugly is it? It’s so ugly, the Plymouth Aztec sent Tesla a thank-you note for taking the heat off.

Apparently Musk took one look at every basic principle of car design and said, “Nah.”.

And yet, people are actually buying this thing. Why? Because it’s the automotive equivalent of wearing a t-shirt that says, “Ask me about my bad decisions.” Nothing screams “I have too much disposable income and zero taste” quite like rolling up to a coffee shop in a truck that could be outmaneuvered by a shopping cart.

Of course let’s not forget the man behind the curtain (WICKED reference-see yesterday’s post).

When you buy a Tesla, you’re not just getting a car that might glitch and send you hurtling into a guardrail, you’re also funding Elon Musk’s endless parade of bad takes and worse ideas. Want to support someone who uses Twitter as a platform for dabbling in casual racism, misogyny, and vague threats against democracy? Then Tesla is the brand for you.

So, BMW drivers, take that deep breath. Sure, people might still assume you’re a jerk when they see you coming, but at least now you can point and say, “Hey, I cut you off, but at least I’m not driving that.”

Tesla drivers, welcome to the top of the jerk food chain.

Your cars may be quiet, but your egos? Deafening.

Wicked fun

Ladies and gentlemen, start your brooms.

WICKED is the kind of movie musical that sweeps you off your feet—or rather plants them right on the Yellow Brick Road—and leads you straight into the heart of the magical Land of Oz. And it does it with a generous helping of sass, style, and heart.

Buckle up. I’m going to use some reviewer adjectives here: WICKED is dazzling, emotional, funny, and unforgettable.

Let me start with Ariana Grande. I honestly don’t know much of her music, but when I have heard her sing I’m in awe. The girl has pipes. She also has, going by her talk show and Saturday Night live appearances, quite the gift for impressions and comedy.

Her impeccable timing and effortless charm legitimately light up the screen, and her high notes could shatter a few chandeliers in the Emerald City.

And then there’s Cynthia Erivo, who simply owns every second of her screen time as Elphaba. Whether she’s belting out a heart-wrenching tune, or quietly delivering a look that breaks your heart, she reminds us once again she’s more than a triple threat—she’s an every threat. Erivo’s raw emotion and powerhouse vocals make her portrayal of the misunderstood green girl an absolute triumph. And her chemistry with Grande is pure magic.

Now, let’s talk about one of my favorite actors, Jeff Goldblum as the Wizard. The casting is perfect. I mean, was there ever a doubt? His quirky charisma and sly humor bring an edge to the character, and he somehow manages to make a singing, spell-slinging con artist one of the most memorable parts of the movie.

The production itself is jaw-dropping. The visuals are vibrant and imaginative. The costume design, set pieces and sweeping shots of Oz are a treat.

Then of course, there’s the music. I’m the kind of sap that cries at Hallmark card commercials (Note to self: Christmas is coming, stock up on the Kleenex), so by the time the signature song Defying Gravity soars into its breathtaking finale, I was a sniffling, teary-eyed puddle. Easily one of the best movie musical numbers ever put to film.

Speaking of tears, this movie has all the feels. While hilarious and whimsical, it also digs deep into themes of acceptance, friendship and the courage to be yourself. It's also a little bit terrifying. The origin story of the flying monkeys—yes, they have one—is scary and not for the squeamish. These are definitely not your father's flying monkeys

I wasn’t expecting WICKED to be so emotional, but there I was sobbing into my artificially butter-flavored popcorn.

WICKED is a film that’s as enchanting as it is heartfelt. An absolute must-see for anyone with a soul. Grab your friends, your family and your broom and head for the theater.

And be ready to laugh, cry, gasp and cheer while this thoroughly entertaining film casts its spell on you.

I can't wait for the movie

So it’s a book review. I don’t do them often, but sometimes—like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction—a book comes along that simply will not be ignored.

Like most ads, this book review comes with a disclaimer. I’ve been friends with the author for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty years, and I may have had a hand in editing this book.

And by the way, it’s a finely edited book.

The book I’m talking about is Stones & Sticks by Cameron Day. It’s the thrilling conclusion to the advertising trilogy, along with Chew With Your Mind Open and Spittin' Chiclets, that we didn’t know we needed but now can’t live without.

In Stones & Sticks, Cameron, who has clearly earned every gray hair on his LinkedIn profile, delivers a masterclass on what it’s like to sit atop the creative food chain.

Spoiler alert: it’s not all cappuccinos and Cannes Lions.

This isn’t just a book—it’s a survival guide for anyone who’s made it to the big chair with “Creative” in the title, and discovered that it comes with less creating and more fending off crises.

From managing tantrum-prone copywriters and art directors to explaining why your budget really needs those extra drone shots, Cameron walks us through his journey in the high-stakes chaos of wielding ultimate responsibility with wit, wisdom, and just the right amount of jaded sarcasm.

Added bonus—if you’re looking for a fun drinking game, take a shot every time he drops an f-bomb.

The writing is sharp, as if every sentence were honed during a midnight brainstorm fueled by stale donuts and cold pizza, two items that are somehow always available at agencies. Yet beneath the humor lies a treasure trove of practical advice only someone who’s been through the advertising wars with a view from the top could offer. The anecdotes about managing clients who think “just make it pop” is a strategy will leave you laughing and crying—sometimes simultaneously.

What makes Stones & Sticks truly stand out is its brutal honesty. Cameron doesn’t shy away from the burnout, the compromises, or the sheer number of acronyms you’ll pretend to understand during boardroom presentations.

But it also reminds us why we fell in love with advertising in the first place: the thrill of turning a half-baked idea into something iconic.

By the time you close the book, which if you’re like me you’ll wind up doing in one reading, you’ll feel both inspired and slightly terrified—a perfect encapsulation of what it means to be a Creative Director or Executive CD.

Whether you’re an intern dreaming of greatness, or a grizzled vet wondering if it’s too late to start a llama farm, this is the book you need.

If it were a campaign, it’d win gold at the One Show. And the client might even approve the first draft.

Leaving Las Vegas

You can’t go back.

Last week I found myself at a Global Marketing Summit for the cybersecurity company I work for. It was four glorious days and three nights of seminars, eating, lectures, eating, planning, eating, socializing with colleagues, and, say it with me, eating.

There also happened to be craps and blackjack involved, because the summit was held in this little desert rat-trap town that Bugsy Siegel started, Meyer Lansky financed, the Rat Pack sang in and Moe Green—who doesn’t have so much as a plaque—died in: Las Vegas.

As some of my loyal readers will recall (trying to stop laughing at the thought I have “loyal readers”), I’ve written here in the past about how much I used to love Vegas. “Used to” being the operative phrase.

For a lot of years, I’d go four and five times a year to visit the money I’d left behind and see how the Jeff wing of the Venetian was coming along. There was nothing like the adrenaline rush and excitement I used to feel once I landed and was on the way to my hotel. This time, my first Vegas trip in about eight years, that rush was replaced by sadness.

The Vegas strip still photographs well, but if you look closer you see the town, with its out of control development, sad faux showgirls hawking pictures of themselves with you, the mix of well-to-do visitors sidestepping the homeless, and the general low-rent traveling carnival vibe have made it all a lot less glamourous than the brochure.

It was a far cry from the town where I played $5 and $10 minimums at the tables, saw Tony Bennett at the Flamingo, Sigfried & Roy (before) at the Mirage, Danny Gans (RIP) at Caesar’s, Penn & Teller at the Rio, Jerry Seinfeld at the Thomas & Mack Center, Bruce Springsteen (I know, I’m as surprised as you are) at the MGM Grand Garden, and Cirque du Soleil everywhere.

This trip, with the exception of one outing, I was pretty much sequestered at my summit in the dark, unwelcoming, chemical fragrance infused Cosmopolitan Hotel & Casino. My room was on the 49th floor, which made me a little jittery. But then I realized there were still twelve floors above me, so in my head I was on a lower floor.

Having said all that, Vegas is still a town you should see once if you’ve never been.

But I think I’m good for another eight years. Unless they lower the table minimums.

Hey sport

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.

It comes for us all

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.

It comes for us all.

Goodbye Jeff

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.

Unstuck

Letting go. It's never easy.

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.

Don’t forget to stop at the gift shop

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.

Just not a paperweight.

The cars

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."

Stop me if you've heard this one

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.”

You can quote me on that.

There's no business like no business

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.

Believe me, I’m working on it.

Nok Nok, who's gone?

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.

I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

Encore encore post: Bowled over

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.

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