What did I miss

Did you miss me? Just kidding. It's a rhetorical question. I know the answer.

I missed you too. What I didn’t miss was any of the social media I’ve been on a cleanse from for the last three weeks.

Alright, maybe I missed it a little.

But you'll be glad to hear I went against all my only child instincts, the ones that scream I can do what I want because the world revolves around me, and stayed strong. I didn’t cave to temptation. I kept my scrolling thumbs otherwise engaged with chores like typing, turning pages on actual books (I’ll never use an e-reader, don’t get me started) and of course the remote since I used some of my reclaimed time to binge The Sopranos, start The Rehearsal and finish the latest season of For All Mankind.

Now that I've tried this little experiment, I’ve learned I can live quite well without Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Having said that, there are events in the world I do want to comment on in real time. Like the can't-happen-fast-enough inevitable indictment of Cadet Bone Spurs.

So I’m moving on to what I like to call the second phase of my cleanse. Behavior modification.

While moderation and I have never made good roommates—Breaking Bad sixteen times, Springsteen over 70 times, The Godfather a gazillion times, the craps tables at the Venetian more times than I remember, Disney's Tower of Terror fourteen times in a row—I’m going to give it another go.

My new regimen, like brushing my teeth and walking the dogs, will be twice a day. Once in the morning, and again in the early evening, a few hours before bedtime to make sure I'm still not seeing the iPhone screen on the inside of my eyelids when I close my eyes to hitch a ride to dreamland (another thing I can use my thumbs for).

I’ll also be challenging myself to limit my two daily scrolls to fifteen minutes each, which to my new way of thinking gives me more than enough time to read through new posts, wish everyone happy birthday and anniversary, reply to all with the clever snark, razor-sharp wit, keen insight and borrowed memes you’ve come to expect from me. Then I'll sign off.

That’s right. To make it just a little less appealing, I'll be logging in and out each and every time I go online. No point in leaving the apps open and tempting temptation.

And if I'm bored during the hours in between—say waiting in a doctor's office, standing in line or wondering why curbside service is taking so damn long to bring my burger out to the car—I'll just find something else to occupy my time.

So it's official. Starting today, I’m back baby. Go ahead, hit the smiley emoji, read the hashtags and AMA.

Thumbs down

A lot of people have been asking how my social media cleanse is going. At least I think they have. I can’t go online so I don’t actually know.

I’ve been at it, or not at it, for five days now and I have to say it’s going pretty well. But it’s a lot harder than I thought it’d be.

Clearly I was much more addicted to making snarky comments, pithy observations, endless and endlessly deserved Cadet Bone Spurs bashing, posting Tweets I thought were funny, clever memes, pictures of Ace and Lucy (world's greatest dogs), being the first to break news about recently departed public figures and celebrities, and racking up the likes than I thought I was.

It is nice to give the old scrolling thumb a rest. It’s also nice to reclaim time in the mornings and evenings to make a dent on that stack of new books piling up on my nightstand, continue bingeing The Sopranos and getting to bed earlier so there’s more night to wake up in the middle of.

At least now when I’m up in the night I’m not reaching for the phone.

The other frustrating thing is, to paraphrase Steve McCroskey, it looks like I picked the wrong week to quit social media.

What with the search at Mar-A-Lago, Cadet Bone Spurs taking the fifth over four-hundred times in his New York trial, Republicans losing what little was left of their conspiracy-theorin', propaganda-believin', election-denyin', Nazi-lovin', cult-joinin' minds over everything even more than usual, I can only imagine the cleverness, wit and belly laughs I'd be contributing as well as appreciating on social media right now.

I did make a minor modification in my program. Originally I was going to delete the social media apps from my phone. But I've discovered it's easier to reload the apps than it is to log back on once I've logged out. So the apps remain, but I'm logged out of all of them. And honestly, with my fat fingers and bad eyesight, logging in is much more of a challenge than I'm looking for right now.

Of course I am getting a low level thrill from the fact that, as promised, I’ll at least get to do a quick breaking and entering to put up my Rotation and Balance posts. Don’t worry, there’ll be no cheating.

Log in. Post. Log out. No one gets hurt. I won't even stick around or check back to see if anyone gives me any likes.

At least there’s light at the end of the tunnel. This trial run is only going to be somewhere between three weeks and a month, and then I’ll reassess my scrolling ways.

Like losing weight, exercising more and paying for an upcoming wedding, I’m sure this will get easier.

On second thought, those might not be the best examples.

Reclaiming my time

If you know anything about me, and if you don’t by now you have no one but yourself to blame, you know that for the most part, in life and online, I'm a social butterfly. I comment, I post, I joke, I engage.

What I also do is scroll, sometimes doomscroll, first thing when I get up and last thing before I go to bed. If I'm up in the middle of the night—did I say if? I meant when—I also take a look at what I might’ve missed since I went to bed.

I’ve spent too many hours, way too many hours, going down a YouTube rabbit hole. And even though I’ve now seen every version in existence of Springsteen singing Twist & Shout, all the Breaking Bad and Friends blooper reels and discovered some of my favorite artists I wouldn’t have known about otherwise (Paul Thorn, John Moreland), I’m not getting those hours back.

So I’m reclaiming my time. I’m going on a social media cleanse for a bit, and see if I can’t put that reclaimed time to better use. SPOILER ALERT: I know I can.

I have close friends who've found themselves in Facebook jail for thirty days, and at first it sounded awful. But right now, honestly, no Facebook for thirty days sounds like heaven.

My friend and great writer Kathy Hepinstall, who's probably written another book in the time it's taken you to read this sentence, signed off of Facebook for good awhile ago. I didn't get it then, but now I recognize that, as usual, she was ahead of her time.

The first step will be to delete the Facebook, Messenger, Twitter and Instagram apps from my phone. I'm all about easy, but if I want back on I'm going to make myself work for it. And I'm not looking for more work.

As much as I'd like it to be, it won’t be an entirely cold turkey withdrawal. I'll still post the occasional link to my Rotation and Balance blogpost, but only because my seven readers demand it. What I won't do is sneak back on to see how many people liked it, cause seriously, where's the percentage in that?

Because I do what I do for a living, I’m expected to maintain a certain level of social media awareness. So occasionally I'll look but not comment. I’ll be stealthy, ninja-like and silent—just like you wish I was in real life.

You won’t even know I’m there. And I won’t be unless my job absolutely requires me to take a look.

I realize this is going to put a big dent in my wishing you a happy birthday/happy anniversary game, but it's the price I'll have to pay. And just to make sure I don't miss yours, happy birthday and happy anniversary in advance.

One of my best friends since elementary school has never been on Facebook. Never had an account, never logged on. I asked him about it one time, and he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be your friend in real life.”

So, if you need to get hold of me, you can always text or email. We can even set up a time to have a meal, face-to-face. I realize you'll have to change out of pajamas to meet me, but that's just the price of being my friend.

Anyway, not a total goodbye to social media, just so long for now.

And of course, like a wise man once told me, I'll still be your friend in real life.

Gone phishing

How gullible are you? Here’s how you find out: take the last four numbers of your Social Security card, add them to the year you were born and that’s the percentage of how gullible you are.

Want to know the rapper name for someone as gullible as you? Take your first dog’s name and the last thing you ate and you’ll have it.

If you think those fun and funny questions that keep popping up in memes on right-wing propaganda highways like Facebook are nothing more than a humorous diversion, then the laugh’s on you.

They’re actually sophisticated, well-designed, algorithmically enhanced, individually targeted ways to fool you into ponying up passwords, security question answers, user names and other personal information that in any other circumstance you’d never reveal to anyone.

The term is phishing. And while phishing originally applied to emails that tried to get you to reveal your personal information to people like that Nigerian prince who needed your bank account to deposit the lottery winnings/inheritance he had waiting for you, the term now applies to any online scheme to rube you out of your personal info.

Full disclosure—I’ve answered a few of these my own self, but only after careful consideration as to the possibility of discerning any of my info from my answers. Of course, I won't know if I got it right until it's too late.

The other part of it is advertising. You and your eyes are the only product Facebook has to sell to advertisers. By posing seemingly harmless, mildly entertaining questions and getting you to answer them, Facebook algorithms easily divvy up a dossier of your likes and dislikes, political views, salary, occupation and more into demographic buckets to justify their ad rates to agencies and advertisers.

Not to burst anyone’s fun bubble, but I’m old enough to remember when privacy was a thing. It still is with me. And if you want to protect yourself from fraud, identity theft, a barrage of advertisements and unscrupulous social network creators, it should still be a thing with you too.

My recommendation is find your fun elsewhere, in ways that won’t separate you from your money without you knowing.

And if anyone asks why you won’t answer these fun questions, tell them rapper Ace Shrimp Burrito told you not to.

The long goodbye

Yesterday was a very good day. At twelve minutes before noon eastern, you could actually feel the country—nay, the world—breathe a sigh of relief we’d been holding in for over four years.

In case you’ve been living under a rock,—in which case there’s a better than average chance you might be a Trump cabinet member—the reason is because decency, compassion, intelligence, experience, diplomacy, scientists, grownups and words spelled correctly are once again calling the White House home.

There were also a lot of predictable songs being played, quoted and sung to celebrate the occasion—all taking aim at a certain orange-faced, tiny-handed, democracy-hating, Stay Puft, unstable genius who was leaving on a jet plane (at taxpayer’s expense) for the last time.

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead.

Goodbye To You.

Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Goodbye.

Good Riddance. Not the Green Day song: I’m saying good riddance.

And I’m filing this one under better late than never, but almost all the social platforms that gave Cadet Bone Spurs a megaphone to spew his bile and idiocy finally decided to cut off his oxygen by banning him and his hate rhetoric. This isn’t to say he’ll be gone from the public eye entirely, what with that pesky impeachment trial and New York state indictments coming down the pike, but his exposure—at least to the public—has been greatly sidelined.

I’m sure his fragile ego and malignant narcissism are handling it just fine.

Anyway, like almost everyone in the world not wearing a red hat, I’ve had more than enough of him. I refuse to give him anymore mind space.

So as of today, I’m announcing my candidacy for….wait…that’s not it. Oh, right. I’m announcing I’m done posting memes, retweets, cartoons, articles and anything else talking about Trump, even if it’s how awful he is, to any of my social feeds.

Yeah I know. I’m sorry to see them go too.

But really, it’s just redundant. It’s like saying the sky is blue. The ocean is deep. Trump is a festering piece of shit.

Damn it! Old habits die hard. Sorry (not sorry).

Fear not, I’ll still be putting up political posts, maybe even about his grifter family members or android son-in-law. Just no more directly about him. Every time his name gets mentioned, it keeps him in the public conversation and a kitten dies. I don’t think any of us want that.

Besides, there’s a whole new administration to make fun of, although I’m sure for the most part it’ll be the good-hearted, good-natured kind.

And don’t you worry about me backsliding on my promise. It’s as solid as the new year’s resolution I made to lose weight.

For the last twenty years.

The deep end

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

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

Someone I’ve worked with.

Someone I’ve worked for.

Someone I respect. Strike that. Respected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My high school girlfriend

If you know me, or follow this blog regularly—and if you do someone really should show you what a library looks like—you know once I get hold of a joke I like I hang on tight and ride it straight into the ground.

Now normally, after that last sentence, I'd follow it up with "Just like my high school girlfriend." It's my version of “That’s what she said” —an easy joke I've used numerous times in more posts than I can count. And I'm sure more posts than you wanted.

The good news is I'll be retiring that joke for awhile. The bad news is the reason why.

Yesterday I happened to be thinking about my actual high school girlfriend Sandy. She was never the one I referred to in the joke. In fact I never had a specific person in mind—it was just a funny line I could use over and over. And over.

Anyway, when I went to the Google to look up Sandy, what came up wasn't her Facebook profile or her Twitter account. The first thing I saw was her obituary. Turns out she passed away unexpectedly back in October. And even though I hadn't spoken with her in decades, it was still a gut punch that hit me like a ton of bricks.

I remember a few years after we broke up, we wound up getting together for a mini-reunion to catch up with each other's lives. What I found out was that Sandy had a very tough go of it in the years since I'd seen her. She'd had problems with drugs, which I knew she'd dabbled with in high school. She'd gotten married, but her husband was in prison for armed robbery, caught by undercover cops in the middle of a drug deal. And, while she was trying to figure her life out, she was back working at the same dead end data entry job for a car leasing company she'd had in high school.

According to the obituary, she moved to Florida in 2006, and had been working in the mortgage industry for Bank of America. Apparently she was a fairly high-ranking banking officer there. She’d also become a hardcore animal rights activist, and had eight dogs, a snake and an iguana—all of them rescues.

It was nice to read that in the years in between, Sandy seemed to have turned her life around and become an accomplished professional. I hope she was a happy one.

So again, I'm retiring the "high school girlfriend" joke for awhile. While it was never about her, now I can’t say it without thinking of her, even though I know she'd appreciate it. Hey, funny then, funny now.

Besides, that line's not the real joke. The real joke is thinking people who were once special to you will always be around. The punchline is they won't.

God bless you Sandy. You meant the world to me and you'll be in my heart forever. Rest in peace.

Sounds familiar

Almost six years ago, I wrote the post you see here. I know what you're thinking: "He's been pumping out this crap for six years?!"

One man's crap is another man's shinola, or something like that.

The point is I don't like to recycle my posts, but six years later this one is still as relevant as ever.

How do I know? Because in my day job writing about a luxury automotive brand, I find myself using the same exact words I speak about in the post. I'm not proud.

I guess what I'm saying is even though this is a pre-owned article, it's been through a 140-word inspection and reads just like new. Take it out for a test read, and experience it for yourself.

Like a lot of writers living in Southern California, I’ve worked on many car accounts. From top end $90,000 luxury vehicles to $14,000 coffee-grinders, I’ve written it all.

Commercials, collateral, radio spots, print ads, online banners, interactive content, Twitter posts, Facebook posts, outdoor, customer kits, dealer kits, CPO kits, sale kits, employee bonus kits, warranty kits.

Oddly enough, no matter the price or quality of the car, they all have something in common. The words used to describe them.

Pick a car, any car. I bet it’s exhilarating. It’s probably also a leader in innovation. No doubt it’s been engineered to maximize your driving experience, and designed to turn heads as well as corners.

Let’s not forget the fact it’s also loaded with state-of-the-art technology, as well as class-leading aerodynamics whose job it is to keep you connected to the road. How else could you get a car that makes setting the standard, standard.

But there's no point to any of it unless you're around to enjoy it. That's why the car you're thinking about is loaded with the latest active and passive safety features.

The cars come with airbags. The agencies come with windbags.

Differentiating parity products - different brands with the exact same features - has always been a problem in advertising. Often the only thing that does it is the quality of the creative idea, the consistency of the execution and the personality it establishes for the brand.

I bet you know what BMW builds. But I'm fairly sure you aren't nearly as familiar with the tagline Toyota - which builds awesome cars for all income levels - just spent millions to introduce.

Unless there's a real product difference, almost every category from athletic shoes to cars to fast food use the same words to describe their product. Which makes it even harder to tell them apart.

Sort of like ad agencies.

Taking one for the team

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Of all the snappy little phrases that get tossed around in ad agencies, and God knows there are plenty of ‘em, the one I like least is “team player.”

Now, before you start getting your panties in a bunch, wagging your finger, stammering and screaming, “I knew it!” you might want to hear me out. Then again you might not.

My life will go on either way.

Anyway, just because I don’t like the term doesn’t mean I’m not one. For instance, I’m also not a fan of the phrase “slightly overweight” or "distinguished gray" but, well, never mind. Bad examples. The point is, as much as it goes against my grain, I’m a team player when I need to be.

New business presentations? My sleeves are rolled up, and I’m banging out manifestos and taglines faster than Bret Kavanaugh driving to a liquor store at closing time.

Client meetings? Point me towards the bagels and let me loose. I love presenting, the bigger the room the better. I have a slightly different way of measuring if it’s been a good meeting. Here it is: If I get the big laugh, it was a successful meeting. I know some people think if we sell the work or get the account that’s actually the measure of success.

Whatever. To each their own.

The off-campus pep talk/morale boosting/team building meetings? You don't have to ask me twice. I’d be there even if there weren’t luxury buses to shuttle me, and free food and liquor after. I just wouldn’t stay as long.

Where I seem to be unable to muster up one for the team is Halloween. To me, October 31st at agencies is like personalized license plates: once you’ve seen the costumes, the joke’s over. What starts out at 9 with everyone oohing and ahhhing over the costume you made winds up with everyone tired of looking at it by 9:30.

However, I have nothing but love for the team I work with. So when they decided our group would dress up as characters from iconic 90's movies, even though all my Jedi instincts were screaming no, I decided I'd do it.

I thought it would be good for me to get over my bad attitude and insecurities—and I know what you're thinking: besides my weight, bank balance, increased memory loss, receding hairline, bad skin tone, limited wardrobe, nine-year old car, complete inability to fix the simplest things around the house, having to wear glasses, feeling like an outsider, not liking sports and, did I mention weight, what do I have to be insecure about?

Perhaps I've said too much. You never read this.

The point is I eventually decided to come to work as one of my favorite characters and perpetual profile photo on Facebook—The Dude from The Big Lebowski.

I found an exact match for the Dude's bathrobe. I went not to a pop up Halloween store, but to a professional wig shop and got my long hair locks like the Dude. I bought L'Oreal Light Brown Root Control spray to match the Dude's hair color (I'll probably be hanging on to that). I bought the sunglasses and brown flip-flops to complete the look.

I was ready and set, but I didn't go. I just couldn't do it.

Was it that the look wasn't as exact and perfect as I wanted it to be? Or was it that I couldn't get past the image of me wearing a white t-shirt under the robe that, well, remember the "slightly overweight" phrase? Talk amongst yourselves.

And despite the fact I could've legitimately gotten wasted downing White Russians all day, told my creative director "Well, that's just your opinion man" and said things like "That rug really tied the room together" to stay in character, it wasn't enough for me to suit up.

But not wanting to let my colleagues down, I did finally decide to come in dressed as an older, overweight, gray-haired, married Jewish guy with kids.

I know, it was a stretch. But what can I tell you. I'm a team player.

Zuckerbot 3000 goes to Washington

As expected, the Zuckerbot 3000 performed admirably at the senate hearings on internet privacy today.

The emotion protocol was clearly disabled, rendering the 3000 calm and collected under questioning that no doubt would've crashed last year's model. Clearly the Phase II testing, preparation and recently improved controller module integration paid off.

Far less composed and knowledgable were many of the senators questioning the 3000. They were throwing around terms they thought would make them sound tech savvy, like banner ads, personal information, instant messaging, apps and so on. It's a good thing the humor architecture build isn't too nuanced, otherwise the 3000 might've broken into a human-sounding chuckle.

Setting Zuckerbot chat in sleep mode for a bit, here's the thing: I rarely have any sympathy for Zuckerberg. While I understand and appreciate his monumental accomplishment, to me he's alway seemed like a Steve Jobs wanna-be, trading black turtlenecks for gray t-shirts, hoodies and a monotone. But watching these unfocused senators asking questions that were all over the board, from Cambridge Analytica to Russian election tampering to privacy protection, revealed how little they actually know about the very technology they're conducting hearings on.

And Zuckerberg, by contrast, knows everything. Certainly about Facebook, maybe even technology. He was far more articulate, knowledgable and impressive than the self-serving senators posturing while they made their five-minute speeches and interrupted him.

Granted being more impressive than the current crop of senators isn't exactly hard work, but still.

There was a lot of speculation about how these hearings would go, but the most dead on description was the one Bob Hoffman wrote for his blog, the Ad Contrarian. You'll find it here.

At the end of the day (yes, I said it), I'm not sure how to feel about it all. Anyone who knows me knows I'm a strong, long-time advocate of personal privacy. It took me years to use online banking. I fiercely guard my social security number. I rarely post pictures of myself or my family. And I even wear a wig and disguise when I go out in public.

No I don't. But if I did, I'd have one that used a lot of black and was very slimming.

If I seem uncharacteristically ambivalent here, it's because I understand Facebook isn't using some techno-hypnotizing-whammy-jammy to extract any information from me I don't want to give them. Everything Facebook knows about me has been volunteered. It's how they use and who they share the information with that's the issue. But again, in the name of personal responsibility and reading the small print, once I've surrendered it, it's out there.

I think the lesson for us all is if you don't want information about yourself out in the world, don't post it online. That's why I never post about my breakup with Scarlett Johansson.

It's nobody's business.

How low can you go

In the limbo dance (I'll pause while you all hear "Leembo Leembo Leembo" in your head), the goal is to see how low you can set the bar before you decide you can't go any lower.

Sound familiar?

In advertising unfortunately this is a dance you get invited to on a daily basis. It comes at you from all directions: Client. Budget. Holding companies. People on your own team. And if you say no to the invite, then suddenly you're not a "team player" (as if I ever was), and pegged as difficult, which I may have been called once or twice. Today.

Most creatives I know would wear that label as a badge of honor. We'd all rather fail with quality than succeed with garbage. But it's easy to see just by grabbing the clicker and turning on the TV or radio, opening a magazine or going to a website, that it's not a landscape that supports that point of view very often.

It's not a state secret that in this world of reduced budgets, no AOR/project-based clients and the amount of money being spent on 360 campaigns for everything from running shoes to laundry detergent (how're those Twitter and Facebook engagement numbers for Tide working out?), agencies operate much more fearfully than they ever have.

So I just want to take this opportunity to raise a glass and say thank you to my fellow creatives, creative directors and everyone who keeps pushing to make the work better, tirelessly fighting the powers working against them and managing to turn out work that's as creative, interesting and inspiring as it is results-getting.

Also, thanks for leaving your dancing shoes at home.

The rafters

I put up a Facebook post recently about my trip back to New York to see Springsteen On Broadway. In the comments, I saw my good friend Shivaun put one up asking me if I saw anything in the rafters. I was startled by it, not because of what it said, but because she remembered. It was a reference very few people in my orbit know about, and an experience I hadn't thought about in many years.

And Shivaun, if you're reading this, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of it.

It begins, as so many of my stories do, at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Bruce was doing a five-night gig at the late, great Los Angeles Sports Arena. My girlfriend at the time—now my wife—would always go with me to the opening and closing shows of his multi-night gigs. So it didn't come as a surprise that she didn't want to go to all five shows this time—two were enough for her.

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

Naturally I wouldn't have missed the shows for any reason, but this tour it was more important than usual that I be there. My dad had died unexpectedly a couple months earlier, six years after my mom had passed away. Being an only child, after I lost my dad, I jokingly (kind of) referred to myself as an orphan. My spirit—sad, defeated, lost and feeling very much alone—was in dire need of the kind of lifting only a Springsteen concert can give me.

I don't remember which show in between the opening and closing one it was, but with me that night was an art director, friend and one-time roommate of mine named Monte Hallis.

Now anyone who knows me knows I'm long past believing there's any concert worth a few hours sitting in the nosebleed seats. Unless of course that concert is Bruce Springsteen. If it means the difference between being in the building and not, I'll sit wherever I can get a seat.

Monte and I sat in the very definition of nosebleed seats: the very last row where you could reach up and touch the ceiling of the arena, at the complete opposite end of the building from the stage (may I direct your attention to the yellow arrow in the top picture).

It was just after intermission, and Bruce came out to start his second half of the show. Because I'd already seen it two or three times, I knew the first song was going to be Cover Me.

My Bruce tramp pals and me have a name for his songs we're not crazy about. We call them bathroom songs, because if we have to go, those are the ones we don't mind missing. And, I know you never thought you'd read these words from me, but there are songs of his I'm just not crazy about.

Working On A Dream is one. So is Outlaw Pete, or as my friend Kim appropriately calls it Outlaw Pee. And at the top of my list, Cover Me.

So the lights dim, Bruce rips into Cover Me, and I'm just removed from it all. I'm watching Monte watching Bruce. I see the entire arena in front of me rocking out.

Then it happened.

It was like a fog set in, figuratively speaking. Movie like, the sound slowly faded way, way down but not out entirely. The crowd jumping up and down and pumping their fists seemed to be doing it in slow motion. Scanning the building, I tilted my head up and peered into the darkness that lay just up above. Moving my eyes along the rafters from one side to the other, my vision landed on a beam above and a little in front of me.

And a smile came across my face, because that's when I saw him. My dad was sitting on the rafter waving to me.

He was sitting on a horizontal beam, legs crossed and dangling below him. His right arm was wrapped around a vertical beam, and he was wearing the new purple plaid bathrobe my girlfriend and I had given him at Christmas—two months before he died. He had his blue striped pajamas on underneath, and his brown slippers with the fleece lining on his feet. His glasses, like always, were sitting askew on top of his nose that'd been broken years ago and never set correctly.

As our eyes locked in what definitely was a moment out of time, I realized he wasn't just waving randomly at me.

He was saying he loved me.

He wanted me to know everything was going to be okay.

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

I understood, and I smiled and nodded up at him. Then, I slowly looked away from him and came back to the room. The sound dialed back up again, the fans were moving in real time and Monte was enjoying herself immensely.

I looked back up at the rafter, and he was gone.

Out of the closet

Mark Zuckerberg has had a couple of really good ideas in his young life.

One of them you might have heard about was creating this little social networking platform, where people you haven't heard from in 25 years can stalk you online, look at your personal pictures and make comments you don't care about and don't want to hear. It also lets friends in your outer, outer, outer circle remind you when their birthday is.

On the bright side, it lets you slam Donald Trump endlessly day and night, for which I'm deeply grateful.

His other great idea was his singular approach to his daily wardrobe. With the exception of weddings (his own), funerals (Steve Jobs) and dinners at the White House (Obama), Zuckerberg wears the same exact outfit every day of his life. The gray t-shirt, blue jeans, sneakers and dark gray sweatshirt with hoodie.

What Mark—may I call you Mark?—and I both love about this method is it removes the decision-making process about what to wear everyday, freeing up valuable brain space to ponder the more important choices in life.

For example, glazed or sprinkles.

Sartorially speaking, Zuckerberg's not the first person to stick to what works for him.

Steve Jobs was famous for his black turtlenecks, blue jeans and sneakers.

Albert Einstein had several versions of the same gray suit so he could think about more important matters relative to what he was going to wear (see what I did there?).

Jeff Goldblum's character Seth Brundle in The Fly also had a closet full of one outfit for the same reason (lot of good it did him after that little transporter incident).

I don't have a closet full of the same outfit, but I do have a lot of clothes working off the same color palette: black. Looking in my closet is like peering into a black hole, except mine is cedar-lined and filled with wire hangars and an overflowing bag of Damp Rid.

I know I've told this story before in a post, but it bears repeating here. The wife and I were in Seattle a few years ago and having dinner with an old boss of mine. We were running behind, and she called him to say we'd be a little late. To which he said, "What's the matter? Is Jeff having trouble deciding which black shirt to wear with which black pants?"

If I could wear the same black outfit every day I would. But I don't because I think it'd creep people out. They wouldn't know if I had a lot of the same outfit, or if I was actually wearing the same damn one every day.

The irony is Mark Zuckerberg can afford to buy all the clothes he wants, even have them custom made. He could buy 365 Armani suits to look sharp all year long. That's what I'd do.

I even know the color I'd get them in.

Trick of the trade

Freelancing at ad agencies, or anyplace for that matter, there are commonplace, everyday things I, like most people, have to tend to.

Check email. Answer said email. Check bank balances. Go on Facebook, Twitter and Instgram and tell people I'm working on a social assignment (I kid because I love). Perhaps, hypothetically, respond to a request for other freelance.

The problem is to do those things, I have to go through the agency server to connect to the interwebs. And then, the agency has the password to my bank account, and can read that email I got from the Head Of The China Treasury, who has a charitable donation of $35,000,000 only I can be trusted with (it was easy - all they wanted was my bank account and social security number. The transfer will be here any day now).

Many people far less paranoid than I am just shrug their shoulders, use the servers and surrender a certain amount of privacy for a nice day rate.

So what's a guy who loves his day rate and his privacy to do? Glad you asked.

You pick up one of these little gizmos.

This is my own personal wi-fi hotspot. About the size of a credit card, half as thick as an iPad and password protected, I connect to it and suddenly I can do all my personal business from my computer without the prying eyes of the IT guy, who really should be more worried about getting me that mouse I asked for three weeks ago.

Now, I could've used my smartphone as a hotspot, but then I'd have had to change my plan. And since I've been on AT&T with unlimited data plan since my first iPhone, I wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize that deal.

This device, cleverly called My Go Phone, lets me buy either 2G, 5G or 8G of data a month. I chose the 8G - it's seventy-five tax deductible dollars a month and worth every penny.

So if you have a personal email, a financial matter, or—hypothetically—a job offer you'd like to discuss with me, feel free to email me. Thanks to this snappy bit of technology, it'll just be between us.

Until Mike in Digital Experience hacks it.

The gloves aren't off

In theory, Facebook is a good thing. I can find people I've lost touch with, catch up with celebrities and even talk to them if it’s really them posting on their page. I can follow my favorite brands for discounts and special offers, view endless vacation photos, baby pictures, inspirational sayings, favorite musician YouTube clips and German Shepherd pictures (which I personally can’t get enough of) that friends feel compelled to share with the world. It can be a fun, informative, time-killing app if used correctly.

Where it comes undone for me is the preaching, guiltifying, lecturing and cage-match quality bickering some people feel compelled to administer in the course of my Facebook feed.

I stopped getting into Facebook fights a long time ago. In fact, the post I wrote here almost five years ago was the last time I remember really losing any semblance of control, and continuing an online argument for no reason other than to hammer my point home to someone who was never going to hear it.

Oh, wait a minute. There was another time in the recent past I got into it online with a writer/director/voice-over talent/creative director/agency-owner friend I've known over thirty years. I had no idea about his extreme right wing political beliefs, but all it took to find out about them was posting something favorable about Obama and not so flattering about the way he was being treated by the Republican congress. You know, something factual he didn't want to hear.

What can you do. Some people walk around loaded for bear.

Anyway, after a certain number of back and forth posts, there comes a point in any Facebook argument where it becomes less about the topic at hand and more about energy and endurance. It forces me to ask the tough questions, like how bad do you want it kid? Will it all be worth it in the end (if it ever ends)? Am I willing to go the distance?

What I've discovered about myself, when it comes to Facebook fights, is that I am not.

I put up a post today about the general blahs of being back at work after a holiday weekend. To my way of thinking, not very controversial. I’m pretty sure it’s a universal feeling that after a three-day weekend, no one—regardless of what industry they're in—wants to be back at work after enjoying time off. AmIright?

I got some comments agreeing, and a few likes, but I also got a comment that said, “You’re booked. You should be grateful.”

Let’s disassemble that comment, shall we?

First of all, my post was a little joke, based on a universal truth. And by the way, jokes are so much funnier when you have to explain them aren’t they?

Next, does the fact I made a joke about not wanting to be at work exclude me from being grateful to have the gig? I think not.

And while I’m on the subject, I actually don’t need people telling me what to feel and when to feel that way. I don’t accept that from strangers, I didn't accept it from my high school girlfriend and I’m certainly not going to take it from friends (well, Facebook friends, not real life friends).

I’m not saying people shouldn’t put up how they feel about things. It's a free country, free speech, your right and all that. And I recognize that by posting anything, and being a part of the Facebook community, I leave myself open to whatever comments anyone with a keyboard and access to my feed wants to make.

But, like in a nice restaurant, 90% of the game is presentation. It'd be better—and, even though it might not sway me, it'd probably make me more receptive to hear their point of view—if people commenting on my posts framed it in a way that expressed their opinion without condemning me for not sharing it.

And by the way, this idea I should or shouldn't do or feel a certain way just doesn't fly. Not a big fan of the word "should"—people "should" know better than to use it with that hand-on-hip, reprimanding, wagging-your-finger tone.

To me, it's just as frustrating and insulting as people who ask you to copy and repost what they’ve posted for one hour to prove to them you’re against cancer, bullying, parting your hair on the right or whatever. I’ve written here about how I feel about those people (“What do you mean ‘those people’” “What do you mean ‘Those people’?” - see below). How much validation does one individual need?

Besides, if you're looking for it from Facebook posts, you have bigger issues than whether or not people share your point of view.

I know you all won't agree with me, but if you do copy and paste this post on your page for one hour.

Conflict

I'll keep it short tonight for a couple of reasons. One is I have to travel early tomorrow. The other is I feel like I've visited this well a little too often and you, dear reader, may be yearning for another subject.

To which I say, see the "Next Blog" link at the top left there? Have at it. My blog, my subject.

And tonight's subject, as you can probably tell already, is conflict.

My son leaves for college tomorrow. On one hand, I couldn't be more proud and excited for him as he starts this next season of his life. Not to get too Seussian, but oh the places he'll go. The adventures he'll have. The friends he'll make. It will be rewarding for him in ways neither of us can even imagine.

On the other hand, my baby boy is leaving home. For eighteen years I've lived with him and quite frankly I don't know how to live without him. If you follow me on Facebook, you know I posted a link to an article Rob Lowe wrote about sending his son to college. He absolutely nails it. The experience is as joyous as it is heartbreaking.

I've tried, and admittedly done a lousy job, to keep a game face around him (my son, not Rob Lowe). I don't want him to feel like he can't leave me because I'll be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Which I will, but he doesn't have to see it.

Anyway, tonight's post has been brought to you by Vent. Vent, when you just need to ramble on about it.

On a personal note, I know he doesn't read every single thing I post on here (thank God). But James, if you're reading this one, pack this in your suitcase: I love you and have always loved you more than either of us will ever know. You're more talented in more ways than any hundred people I know. And your heart is bigger than the state you're moving to - and that's saying something. I know I've told you already, but I just can't seem to stop saying it: I'm beyond proud, and can't wait to see the great things I know you're going to accomplish. You done good.

I like to think it's good parenting.

My pal Jayne

I know what you're thinking. Italian movie star? International fashionista? VP of Marketing for Ray-Ban? None of the above.

This is my beautiful friend Jayne.

I've known Jayne ever since junior high school, but we've only been friends for the last two or three years. I know what you're saying: how could you have possibly known her that long and yet only been friends for such a short time?

Easy. I thought she hated me.

Jayne and I ran around in different groups in high school. But high school being what it is, there was some cross-pollination of the people in those groups and we knew of each other. In fact sometimes I'd actually be right there in a group with her, but we never spoke.

I thought she hated me.

Fast forward to one of our high school reunions. I don't remember who spoke to who first, but we wound up talking a little bit. Then we became Facebook friends. Jayne would often make funny, sarcastic and intelligent comments on things I posted. And as you may or may not know, I'm a sucker for attention, and a pushover for funny, sarcastic and intelligent people I think hate me.

So Jayne and I wound up having lunch and catching up. Here's the first thing I said to her: "I always thought you hated me."

Much to my relief it wasn't the case. Come to find out Jayne was painfully shy, and had a tough time talking to new people, even though technically I was a long way from new.

Anyway, we talked about our lives, our spouses, our jobs, the fact neither of us had aged a day (true fact) and a certain friend who always posts in all caps (seriously, you just have to press one key).

I'm happy to say we really are friends now. We speak often, mostly online. Her wit, wisdom and sarcasm are on serious par with mine (I know what you're thinking - what wisdom?). If I ever write a book (I'll wait until the laughter dies down), I'm pretty sure Jayne will be my go to editor to read it, be brutally honest, ask me what the hell I was thinking and then make it better.

But since I won't have a book finished anytime soon, I hope we manage to speak in person before the next reunion. When we do, I know there's at least one question I won't have to ask.

Killing time

The ebb and flow of work at an ad agency is a mystery. Like online metrics, or an account planner’s opinion, it's often unpredictable and unreliable.

Some days it's a hive of activity, with people taking stairs two at a time, foam core boards in hand, comps stuck to them with push pins flying everywhere, racing to solve some important marketing dilemna.

Other days, for reasons equally unknown, there isn’t much to do. And the day goes by slower than Interstellar.

Though if you saw Interstellar, you know nothing could possibly go any slower.

Creative people want to be creative in everything they do, including killing time. As you see from the blurry, lo-res picture above, Matt Groening had some suggestions on the best ways to do that.

I have a few more:

1) Facebook Facebook Facebook
In an era where a disproportionate emphasis is placed on social media (“I can’t wait to engage with my toothpaste online!”), you can literally spend hours brushing up your social skill set.

Sure, to the untrained eye it might look like you’re posting shots of the sunset and cute cat photos all day. But if anyone asks, you’re studying up on Facebook advertising and the algorithms that allow them to target ads to the last subject you viewed or wrote about.

TIP: Make sure no one’s watching when you post your third Most Interesting Man In The World meme.

2) Starbucks Coffee Break
While Groening has already covered coffee break in the cartoon, he’s talking about that brown sludge that barely passes for coffee in the agency kitchen. I’m talking about Starbucks.

All you have to say is, “I’m running over to Starbucks and grab some coffee. Anyone want anything?” Everyone will immediately nod their approval, tell you no thanks they're fine, and then you can leave the building.

Whether you actually head to Starbucks is up to you. When you come back empty-handed almost forty-five minutes to an hour later, you can always say you drank it there. Or the line was too long. Or they ran out of the raspberry pump.

TIP: Don't say there wasn’t a Starbucks nearby. No one will believe you.

3) Your baby-size bladder
Repeat after me: the bathroom is your friend. No one will blame you or even think twice if you make a bathroom run hourly. It can be a little iffy when it comes to how long you can actually spend in there, but there are always lots of things to blame it on.

Like last nights' chili. Warm sushi. Or that agency coffee I was talking about.

TIP: Don't actually have bad chili or get sushi poisoning. This isn't a method acting class.

I'm sure there are a plethora of other ways to kill time. After all, I'm talking about very creative people here. And dear readers, I'd love to hear suggestions from you as well as some of your own experiences in this pursuit.

Hold that thought. I have to run to the bathroom.

Friendscaping

A couple years ago I was talking to Jeff Nicosia, a writer friend about Facebook. I mentioned I had way too many friends on there - the majority of them weren't even in the inner circle - and I was thinking about thinning the herd. To which he replied, “Never underestimate the value of a little friendscaping.” Good advice. And not just on social media.

The longer I'm on these sites, the more I wonder why I got on them in the first place. However one benefit is I can actually control who sees what I post and who I interact with.

Naturally I want as many people as possible to see my funny, snarky remarks, and click on the links I post to this blog and get the word out. And I'll be the first to admit, even if you're not, that when I go on an obsessive/compulsive tear about the Kardashians, or live Tweet the Academy Awards, it's a funny read. You know it is.

It's the kind of quality writing that's attracted over 24 followers to this blog.

The truth is I don’t want it enough to carry the deadweight of people I haven't heard from in a year or two. Also, I've grown weary of seeing the same predictable comments and memes I disagree with get posted to my timeline or Twitter feed from people who have no other contact with me. I've put up with their posts just like they've put up with mine. But my patience for all this unearned reciprocity is thinning.

It may be the only thing about me that is.

Some friends, make that acquaintances, think social media is a big contest to get as many contacts/friends as they can. It's alright, they're entitled to think what they want. I'm not going to judge them. I won’t call them needy. And desperate for attention. I won’t do it.

So today, I’m taking Nicosia's advice and doing some long overdue friendscaping. Which means tomorrow, I’ll have a fewer number of friends online.

But the ones that're left will know they mean more to me than just a larger tally.

City of angels

I have a complicated relationship with L.A. It's a love/hate relationship, the kind only someone, like myself or anyone who's ever had a high school girlfriend can appreciate.

And when I say someone like myself, I mean a native. Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else.

All too often, the city grabs my arm, pulls it up behind my back until it hurts and makes me start sentences in that way. "When I was a kid..." and "Back when I was in high school..." and "Let me tell you what traffic used to be like."

The major love/hate component of the city is the weather. I've always been torn. On one hand, I'd love to live in a city with real seasons, for example San Francisco. Yeah, yeah, I can hear all the L.A. people whining about how we have seasons too, just not as extreme.

Listen, I've lived here my whole life. There are only two seasons: summer, and construction.

However if I may be allowed to contradict myself (not sure why I'm asking permission for something I do on a daily basis), there are stunningly beautiful days when the east coast is buried in a blizzard or being hit by hurricane Roker and it's ninety and sunny here.

It's the kind of weather that sets Facebook on fire, with everyone posting the same sunny picture of wispy white clouds, the tops of palm trees or the ocean and sarcastic, mocking greetings to the eastern brethren.

Another cause of so much of my agita (look it up) about the city is the fact it's just such a whore. L.A. won't waste a second tearing down its history to put up a strip mall or new fusion sushi restaurant. Cliché but true.

I've watched it tear down or lose places that gave it character and personality. For every Tommy's or Pink's, there's a Spanish Kitchen that's now a beauty salon. Or a Wilshire Blvd. Bob's Big Boy that's a BMW dealership. At least the former Pan Pacific Auditorium is a park people can enjoy. The city gets older but no wiser.

There are even websites, like this one, that revel in articles why L.A. is the worst place ever.

My entire attitude reminds me of the old joke: "Do you have trouble making up your mind?" "Well, yes and no." That's my ongoing debate about the city of my birth.

But I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full, although not with rain water because we're in the seventh year of a statewide drought. Which in L.A. only means one thing: waiters are required to serve Evian at brunch.

Anyway, for the moment I'm not going anywhere. Even though there are states where I could buy city blocks for what I could sell my house for, I just can't seem to leave L.A. behind.

One last thing that bothers me about this urban sprawl of a city is that, bar none, at every restaurant they always..oh crap, look at the time. I gotta get to my audition.

Hold that thought.