One is the loneliest number

He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. What he has is a target on his back.

Mitt Romney did something today that will without a doubt have long lasting consequences for his political future. He voted to convict a sitting president in his own party.

I've never been a fan of Romney, but I'm filled with gratitude he had the character and bravery to look at the evidence, vote for witnesses (also against his party) and take seriously his oath to be an impartial juror in the shithole president's impeachment trial.

The Cult-Of-Trump backlash was immediate. Within seconds, literally seconds, of his vote, Trump PACS started running ads calling him a traitor, the leader of the Democratic resistance and a patsy for the opposition. Pre-printed fundraising flyers asking for money to fight Romney were in the mail before the final gavel.

I'm sure he's also getting threats to himself and his family by the fine people who want to make America great again.

In the current environment, the vote Romney cast today was nothing short of heroic. It's something he should be proud of. History will recall his bravery for decades to come—just as it will record the sniveling cowardice of all who enabled the unstable genius in his criminal activities, betraying the country and the constitution.

For all the wrong reasons, Romney's now Republican enemy number one. I believe he should become an independent, so he's free to vote his conscience without consequence. And also so the rest of the GOP asshats would have to sidle up to him for his vote whenever they wanted to pass one of their bills reversing the last fifty years of social progress.

I've never agreed with him on much of anything, and I don't imagine I will going forward. Mitt Romney is probably never going to earn my vote.

But today, he definitely earned my admiration.

Don't ask: Taking the middle seat

In my ongoing Don't Ask series I've covered such hot-button issues as moving, watching your stuff, sharing a hotel room and loaning you money to name a few. In tonight's installment, I tackle a topic that makes me very uncomfortable. The middle seat.

The middle is a place I've never cared for much. Middle management. Middle America. Middle earth. Middle of the road. Thanks, but no (being a night owl, I don't mind the middle of the night, but we're going to table that for the purposes of this post).

Let's start at the movies. When I go with friends, often they like to sit dead center in the theater. Alledgedly the picture and sound are calibrated for the optimum movie-going experience in those seats. You know who doesn't have the optimum experience sitting there? Me. My comfort zone is on the aisle—right or left, center or side. Doesn't matter. I've been going to movies my whole life, and I don't feel like I've missed much by sitting on the aisle.

There's a method to my no-center-seat madness. For starters, I'm a not a small guy. I'm built for comfort, not for speed—at least that's what I used to tell my high school girlfriend. I don't like feeling crowded.

I also have the bladder of a three-year old. At some point he'll want it back, but until then I'm using it (I'll be here all week). Because of that inconvenient truth, I don't like having to crawl over strangers in the dark, potentially stepping on their toes or knocking over their stupid bag of popcorn that should've been in their lap instead of on the floor. But can I tell them that? I can't, because there's no talking during the movie. And besides, I don't have time to chat. I need to get to the bathroom.

The other place you'll never find me in the middle seat is on an airplane.

Being the pampered poodle I am, it's always my preference to fly in the front of the plane, where middle seats are imaginary, non-existent things like unicorns or responsible Republicans. People always ask me, "Isn't it really expensive to fly in the front of the plane?" I always give them the same answer: that's what the college fund is for.

But on those occasions where I do find myself in a three-seat row on the plane, my seat choice happens in this order: window, aisle or window or aisle in another row.

I don't fly in the middle seat. Ever. Not to sound mean, but I'm not switching to the middle so you can be closer to your wife who's sitting behind us. Or so you can put a little distance between you and your screaming baby. Not because you're scared of flying and my window/aisle seat would make it easier.

I used to be scared of flying, and look how good I am at it now. Know what helped me get over it? Not flying in the middle seat.

If you somehow find yourself traveling with me, or going to the movies, I promise we'll have a good time. But make sure you set your expectations ahead of time, because when it comes to where I'm sitting, there's no middle ground.

So don't ask.

The most wonderful time of the day

I think breakfast has been hogging the spotlight as "the most important meal of the day" for far too long. It's a new morning in America. And as the sun rises on this new morning, we skip breakfast and go straight to the rightful holder of the title: Lunch.

There are a couple things I look forward to everyday as I make my scenic, freeway-free commute to work. One is the end of the day, and the other is lunch.

Neither ever gets here fast enough.

There's a strange phenomenon in advertising agencies I've talked about before here and here. People take themselves way too seriously. They think they're contributing something—shall we say, more meaningful—to society than they really are.

One way that kind of thinking reveals itself is by not going to lunch.

Apparently some agency people have talked themselves into thinking the work they're doing is too important to stop for lunch (it isn't), if they take a lunch break they'll fall behind (you won't), and that they can't go to lunch because what if the client calls? (News flash—the client's out to lunch).

You see these people in the kitchen between 11:45a.m. and 1p.m., loitering in front of the bad coffee, next to the dirty microwave waiting for it to ding. Then they're back at their desks, typing that Powerpoint presentation with one hand and eating Stouffer's Lasagna, again, with the other.

From where I sit, at the restaurant down the street waiting for my food to be brought to my table, it's a sad existence.

A few agencies I've been at cater lunch in every day. It's positioned as a nice, money-saving perk for the employees. But don't be fooled. Their intentions aren't that altruistic. They knows people take shorter lunches if they don't go out, so they can get more work hours out of them. As if just being there actually equalled productivity.

Anyone who's ever worked with me can tell you that's not true.

Personally, I have to make a break from the compound everyday. I spend too much time there already, and if I don't get out, feel the air, the sun and walk around a bit, it just feels like I'm biding time until my parole hearing.

I understand not wanting to spend money eating out every day. By the time you've split the check with the person who had a three-course meal while you had a cup of soup, and add tax and tip, you feel like you need a co-signer just to pay the check. But I think the more important thing to ask is what's the psychological cost of not going out for lunch at least once in awhile?

I have no idea either, but I'll bet it's pretty high.

Hearing it differently

I've always been a big fan of Ben E. King's Stand By Me (if you recall, and I believe you should have perfect recall of every post I write, I posted an article with several versions of the song here). To me, it's not just one of the great vocals of all time, but also one of the great songs of all time in its purity and simplicity.

Like everything else in life, what it means and who it's being sung to are open to interpretation. Over the years when I've heard it, I've often thought it was a song about lovers and loyalty, staying with each other no matter what.

But today, I have a different take on it.

Here's my truth: it's getting harder and harder to maintain a sense of humor when our country is being dismantled by a mentally unstable, billionaire (?) dictator and the neo-Nazi pulling his strings behind the curtain. I wake up with a sick sense of dread every day, convinced it can't be happening, yet slapped in the face by the reality of the situation with every newscast and social media post about politics.

I know I'm not the only one. There are at least seventy million in this boat with me.

Not to sound preachy (although it may be too late for that), smug or sanctimonious, but in this stark, stripped-down version of Stand By Me sung by Tracy Chapman—which I left out of my original post about the song—I hear something different. In this version, in this time, in this country, it feels like the voices of democracy, decency, morality, kindness, humanity and all things good crying out for us not to abandon them. Is hearing verses about the sky falling and mountains crumbling so far fetched in a time when an egotistical, ignorant, morally and intellectually bankrupt liar has control of the nuclear arsenal? Is it?

This particular version, to me, is everything good about America crying out, asking us to save her and be there for her.

I plan on doing that every second this narcissistic sociopath manages to stay in office.

Again, I know I'm not the only one.

Ghostwriter

The wide and raging river of taglines, headlines, subheads, subject lines, pre-headers, bold lead-ins, body copy, banner ads, manifestos, landing pages, social media posts, positioning statements and concept write-ups seems to flow on endlessly no matter which ad agency I happen to find myself at.

This of course is an excellent situation for a freelancer, because when the river dries up so does the bank account.

But as any copywriter will tell you, occasionally you have to deal with a bout of what real writer’s who aren’t creating a legacy of garbage (Legacy Of Garbage ©Janice MacLeod) refer to as writer’s block. For whatever reason, sometimes the words that make America buy just aren’t there when you need them.

Which is fine if you’re writing a snarky little blog only nine people read, and then only when reruns of the Bachelorette aren’t on. But when you’re a hired gun up against a deadline, there are no excuses. If the words aren’t there you have to go out and find them.

Fortunately I know just where to look. To my son James.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But I don’t have an apple tree, because it attracts rats to the backyard and I have a black thumb and would probably kill it anyway. And who wants to eat apples that fall off a rat-infested tree into the dirt. There’s not enough Dawn and Brillo to get them clean enough for me to eat. Don't get me started on the worms.

I may have wandered off track here.

My son is a great writer. He's unburdened by strategy briefs, client concerns, nervous account people, award-whore creative directors, account planners whispering sweet nothing in his ear – and I do mean nothing. He just likes to make up fun lines. So on those rare occasions when I need to get a fresh, untarnished perspective because my brain has gone into vapor lock, I just give him a call and tell him what I need.

Give me some car headlines that talk about performance. Knock out a few lines for this video game. I need something for a hotel in half an hour.

He always delivers.

I'd like to think he gets his writing talent from my side of the family, but I think it's just who he is. Screenwriting major, hello? This is a kid who's not afraid of throwing it out there and seeing what happens.

So, to the agencies I work for now, and will in the future, rest assured that when it comes to writing copy for your prestigious clients, and even your lesser ones, I'm going to give it everything I've got. Including my first born.

Happy birthday America

Just about wrapped up with my week of reposting. But not before you have a chance to re-read last year's birthday card to America.

America is 238 years old today. And I didn't even get her a card.

Still, I'm happy to celebrate it by doing all the usual things you'd expect on the 4th of July: Fireworks. Block party. Barbeque. Eating myself stupid. Maybe a beer.

But the other thing I do, and not to wax patriotic here, is take more than a few moments out of the day to remember the sacrifices made by our men and women in the armed forces to get the country this far. It ain't perfect, but it ain't Baghdad or North Korea either.

I was at the Hollywood Bowl July 4th Fireworks concert last night. It was great, but perhaps the most moving part was the Air Force honor guard that marched out on stage at the beginning of the evening, and lead the sold out crowd of 17,376 people in the Star Spangled Banner. Genuinely stirring.

Just for today, I'm going to forget the discriminatory, misogynistic decisions a partisan Supreme Court makes. A Republican congress who's job isn't to serve the people, but to obstruct any form of progress. The idiotic things that Rick Perry, Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter say on an hourly basis. And all the other things that ratchet my blood pressure up thirty points on a daily basis.

Today, I'll be glad I'm in a country where we can have the debates, say what we think, write and produce what we want - even if it is another Transformers movie (how much freedom do we need?) - and appreciate the men and women who sacrifice so much to keep it that way.

Where the hell's that beer?

Keep it safe and sane. Happy 4th of July.

Happy birthday America

America is 238 years old today. And I didn't even get her a card.

Still, I'm happy to celebrate it by doing all the usual things you'd expect on the 4th of July: Fireworks. Block party. Barbeque. Eating myself stupid. Maybe a beer.

But the other thing I do, and not to wax patriotic here, is take more than a few moments out of the day to remember the sacrifices made by our men and women in the armed forces to get the country this far. It ain't perfect, but it ain't Baghdad or North Korea either.

I was at the Hollywood Bowl July 4th Fireworks concert last night. It was great, but perhaps the most moving part was the Air Force honor guard that marched out on stage at the beginning of the evening, and lead the sold out crowd of 17,376 people in the Star Spangled Banner. Genuinely stirring.

Just for today, I'm going to forget the discriminatory, misogynistic decisions a partisan Supreme Court makes. A Republican congress who's job isn't to serve the people, but to obstruct any form of progress. The idiotic things that Rick Perry, Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter say on an hourly basis. And all the other things that ratchet my blood pressure up thirty points on a daily basis.

Today, I'll be glad I'm in a country where we can have the debates, say what we think, write and produce what we want - even if it is another Transformers movie (how much freedom do we need?) - and appreciate the men and women who sacrifice so much to keep it that way.

Where the hell's that beer?

Keep it safe and sane. Happy 4th of July.

cANT handle it

There was a time in America, a more innocent time, before we were all wired for sound and obsessed with electronic entertainment, when a two simple pieces of plastic, a little sand and a few industrious ants could provide hours of entertainment for children.

Whatever. There was also a time when gas was thirty cents a gallon, but we won’t be seeing that again either. As far as now is concerned, ants are a royal pain in the ass.

It’s summer, and it’s hot and humid. Apparently ants don’t like it anymore than I do, because they’re busy looking for a place to cool off. The problem is they’ve chosen my place.

It seems to be relegated to a few, about 5 at a time that I see in the kitchen, and one or two at a time in the main bathroom. I know what you’re thinking and thanks, but I don’t need to be reminded that for every ant I see, there are probably thousands that I don’t.

Denial is a river that runs right through my living room.

Anyway, right now it’s not unmanageable. I’ve made the trip to Loew’s, bought the ant traps and have strategically placed them in those rooms. And when I say placed them, what I mean is my wife has actually put them down where they need to be.

Truth be told, I have a little issue with ants (what other size issue would I have with them?).

For the most part, bugs don’t bug me. I can deal with spiders, bees, roaches, junebugs, wasps (the kind who sting and the kind who wear button down shirts), ladybugs, dragonflies, worms, whatever. But the one thing I cannot deal with is ants.

It has to do with a giant, sci-fi invasion we had in our house about ten years ago.

Under the heading of no good deed goes unpunished, I had the exterior of our house sprayed for ants after I'd seen a trail of them milling around.

What we didn’t know at the time was there was not one, but two gigantic forty-year old colonies under our house. When they couldn’t get out to do their shopping and take the little ants to school, they came inside.

We tried everything to stop them. And again, when I say we I mean the wife.

I think I completely shut down the morning I walked in the kitchen, looked at the back wall and asked, “Why is that wall black? And why is it moving?”

There were four, three-inch wide trails of thousands of ants coming in the back door, across the floor, up the refrigerator, down the refrigerator, across the counter, in and out of the sink and eventually to our coffee maker, where they were crawling on top of each other inside that clear water level indicator. They were trying to move the entire colony inside.

It was actually a few days before it reached this point, and I was trying desperately to avoid spraying inside the house. But when I saw the kitchen that morning, only two words came to mind.

Nuke ‘em.

After clearing out the bottom shelves in the kitchen, we moved in to the Marriott Residence Inn for three days and two nights while the pest control people had at it. When we got home, we still found thousands of ants, but we found them in the best condition possible.

Say it with me: dead.

Since then, we've had the exterior of the house sprayed quarterly and haven't had any problem. I'm hoping the few I've seen are just a few that've been trapped inside after our quarterly treatment and will die off quickly.

Because if it gets any worse, it's going to be hell on the wife.