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.
Where to start, where to start. Alright, let’s start here.
Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you: I have opinions. Sometimes I even have them on things that really don’t require them.
”Why are you putting the mugs in the cabinet like that?”
Also, throughout my life, it’s fair to say I’m no stranger to protesting vigorously for many worthy causes, against injustice and for legislative reform to name a few. I’ve peacefully marched, chanted, waived my sign and sat-in along with thousands of like-minded people to help sway public sentiment to the cause, whatever the cause happens to be.
Here’s the not-so-secret to protesting: you want to convert people to your side, not turn them against you. And your tactics need to reflect that. As I’ve said in every ad agency I’ve ever worked in, it ain’t brain surgery.
So when an environmental group decides to protest by hurling soup at the most famous artistic treasure in the world, the Mona Lisa, or protesters block the 101 freeway in downtown Los Angeles at rush hour—preventing parents from picking up their kids, ambulances from getting patients to hospitals and tow trucks from removing stalled vehicles that were already blocking traffic—it occurs to me the organizers might not be making the statement they think they’re making.
And if you’ve ever driven the 101 at rush hour, you know they’re not swaying anyone to their side by blocking it.
I said it up top. I’m all for protest and free expression. But if you're keeping score, the brain trusts that planned these particular displays did zero for their causes and a hundred per cent in making people hate them and not even care what it was all for.
There are far too many serious issues in the world that need to be addressed. The reason you protest in the first place is there are forces fighting and working against you.
Maybe it’d be more helpful to not fight and work against yourself.
