Emotional energy conservation

In case you didn’t notice, we’re in the middle of an energy crisis. Not the one involving Saudi oil barrels. Or the Texas power grid. I’m not talking about the reduction in natural gas production. Also not preaching about greenhouse gas emissions.

I’m talking about the emotional energy crisis.

Maybe it’s just me, because a lot of times it is, but there are just too many things being thrown at me on a daily basis that, for some reason, I’m supposed to care about. It’s a never-ending news cycle in the loosest sense of the word "news."

There are of course more than enough legitimate issues we should all be concerned about:

The war in Ukraine.

The next covid variant.

The national debt.

The fact congress is being held hostage by spineless, right-wing, Trump-loving, racist, conspiracy theory loving, power hungry liars and seditionists more concerned with conducting revenge hearings against imaginary wrongs than actually governing.

I can’t even.

Then there’s the ever increasing, never ending tidal wave of stories about things I couldn’t care about if I tried, but for some reason algorithms deem worthy of being served up to me as if they mattered. And as if I cared. A few examples of “news” from today alone:

Michael Strahan Poses for Rare Photo With Girlfriend at Hollywood Walk of Fame Ceremony

Ashley Graham Shows Off 'Ripped' Gym Session Photo With Husband

See David Foster and Katharine McPhee’s Toddler’s Amazing Drum Solo

Justin Bieber sells his music catalog

Shailene Woodley opens up about Aaron Rodgers relationship

Kylie Jenner reveals son’s name and how to pronounce it

New pill treats diabetic cats without daily insulin shots

Vanna White Distracts ‘Wheel of Fortune’ Viewers With Another Bold Outfit

J.Lo and Ben Affleck Reunite with Jennifer Garner for Family Event

Alright, full disclosure—I’m a little worried about Jennifer Garner. She shouldn’t have to put up with that crap. But everything else, nope.

I only have so much emotional energy to spend, and last I looked the emotional energy filling station was closed. So I suppose the only answer is to try and shut out the noise and focus on the things that really matter.

Now if I could just stop thinking about how much those cats were paying for insulin.

Brace for no impact

My good friend, former office wife and best-selling author Janice MacLeod had a way of putting what we do (what she used to do) in perspective, summing it up in six precise, well-chosen words.

We’re creating a legacy of garbage.

Besides agency holding companies, the digital team and the person who schedules the meetings, I don’t know of anyone who can’t wait for more advertising to burn their eyes. They say the average person is exposed to roughly anywhere between 500 and 7,000 advertising messages a day.

Whichever number is right, it’s too damn much.

No wonder advertising doesn’t have the impact it once did. If it ever really did. Sure there are quantitative and qualitative studies showing the effectiveness of any given message in any medium. Except digital. No one buys anything because of digital, no matter what the guy in the knit cap and ironic t-shirt says.

They can test the results as much as they want, but as an old friend used to say to me, "The only thing testing proves is that testing works."

There’s a lot of job justification that goes on in advertising. It’s the reason Powerpoint was invented. But every time I sit through a presentation where someone is telling me how effective the advertising has been, I’m reminded of William Goldman’s great line about Hollywood: No one knows anything.

Advertised cold bottled water during the heat wave and sales went up? Who could’ve seen that coming?

There are $6000 rebates on cars during December, and year end car sales set records? Must’ve been that exceptional retail car spot, you know, the one with the running footage and giant supers.

I could go into what I think of brand loyalty, but Bob Hoffman over at The Ad Contrarian said it perfectly. I suppose there’s an argument to be made that consumers wouldn’t know about these deals if advertising didn’t tell them. Fair enough, but like so much of retail advertising, the ads are just the messenger. The deal is the closer.

There are only a handful of ads with enough inherent greatness and lasting impact to make you want to talk about them reverentially. The go-to example is the Apple 1984 spot directed by Ridley Scott.

Seeing it thirty years later, it still stands up and stands out as one of the greatest commercials of all time. You can never underestimate the power of a great looking blonde with a sledgehammer.

If I was looking for a profession where I could create something lasting people loved, talked about and made them feel glad every time they saw or thought of it, I might not have chosen this one.

On the other hand, Michelangelo never got to stay in a penthouse at the Essex House for a shoot on the company dime. So I suppose it all evens out.

The Con is on. Again.

Except for this past week, I don't usually repost pieces on here. And I've never reposted a repost. But it's the Comic Con time of year again, and I was going to write a post about going. Again. But then I reread this little gem and realized it said exactly what I wanted to say. Again. We don't have to re-invent the wheel each time out people. Let's just take tonight's post at face value, and enjoy the writing for what it is - an excuse not to think of something new to write. Wait? Did I say that out loud?

Don't say you haven't been warned. For four and a half days this week, my son and I will be living amongst 'em (well, actually we'll be living at the Hilton and walking amongst 'em, but no one's under oath here): the Stormtroopers, Wolverines, Lara Crofts, Jokers, Iron Men, Darth Vaders, Zombies, Batmen, Supermen and other assorted, costumed inhabitants of Comic Con.

As you can see here and here, this isn't the first time I've written about the Con. And it won't be the last.

Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not saying it's the only subject I'll post about for the next few days. But if you happen to notice my writing in the Wednesday through Sunday posts have a nerdist, geekesque, maybe-I-ought-to-get-a-life, gee-he-sounds-REALLY-tired quality to them, then I've done my job and you'll know we're having a fine time.

For those who've never been - and really, like the Rolling Stones or Rick Perry trying to complete a sentence, it's something you need to see at least once in your life - please to enjoy this little taste of my next few days.

Welcome to my world.

God nose, it could be worse

This week hasn't gotten off to a great start.

As you'll recall from an earlier post - and there will be a test - I mentioned I had a rather volcanic nosebleed about a week ago. But I saw my ear/nose/throat doctor, decided to buy some stock in saline gel and spray, and let it go at that.

And I didn't have another nosebleed. Until yesterday.

I was leaving the house for a gig at an agency I work at frequently, and I let the dogs out (guess that answers that question) one last time. While I was in the yard, I bent over to pick something up and blew a gasket. Like they say in the movies, it was a gusher.

The creative director at the agency I was supposed to start at has been great, and after having my nose cauterized (this post just gets better and better doesn't it?) today, I should be back on track Friday.

It all got me thinking about people who have it much worse than I do when it comes to nose issues. If there's anywhere size does matter, it's the schnoz, especially when it comes to colds, allergies or, for the overachievers in the audience, fire-hose nosebleeds.

I don't have a large nose or a small nose. I'd place it right in the middle. However, when I was in junior high school, Eddie Petroff decided to place it off to the side.

I was on the bus home from Bancroft Jr. High School in Hollywood. The bus was jammed with kids, and was pulling away from the stop when I saw Eddie walking with his girlfriend Dorinda, who I was friends with. Eddie saw me looking at Dorinda and said something to me, and I said something back. I figured I was fine since the bus was moving.

Well, besides being in a gang called the Diablos (so quaint, they used fists instead of guns), old Eddie was quite the little runner. He ran alongside the bus, and got the driver to stop and let him on. In slow motion, I saw Eddie parting the Red Sea of students, storming down the middle aisle making his way to me.

All together now: Oh shit.

Eddie got to me, grabbed me by the collar, said something stupid that made me wonder, again, why Dorinda was with him, then punched me in the nose and broke it. My friend Sandy was in the seat behind me, and years later, when I asked him why he didn't do anything to help me, he gave me a disarmingly honest answer. He said, "I figured why should I get killed."

Anyway, ever since having my nose broken by Eddie, I've had problems. I've had surgery twice to correct a deviated septum (Septum? Damn near killed 'em!). Apparently during one of those surgeries, my septum was perforated so I now have a small hole in between airways. Sometimes late at night, when the moon is full and the sky is clear, if the air's cold or I'm breathing hard enough, like from walking to the kitchen to stare into the open refrigerator, or looking for the remote, if you listen carefully you can hear my nose whistle.

I'm thinking about taking it on America's Got Talent. Still undecided.

The point, and yes there is one, is despite my nasal distress since junior high and this past week, it could've been worse. Thankfully, it's all manageable.

If someone were to ask me what I think of this post, I'd have to say snot the best I've ever done, but at least it doesn't blow. Sorry, couldn't help myself.

I'll take my leave now with my favorite big nose joke of all time. Pay attention, it happens early around the :47 second mark. Please to enjoy.

Honey I love my kids

There's a very small club of actors I'm genuinely happy to see on screen, regardless of what movie they're in. But one who always brings, and brought, a smile to my face was Rick Moranis.

For decades, Moranis was the go to nerd, the nebbish with glasses who stole your heart and split your sides. His characters, cartoony sometimes, had depth. Not only did I feel for them, I rooted for them.

Which leads me to the question: where's he been the last twenty or so years? Come to find out he's been staying true to himself, and earning my respect in a way few people can.

In February 1991, Moranis lost his wife Ann Belsky to breast cancer. They had two small children, and Moranis made the unofficial decision to walk away from Hollywood and raise his kids. It became official in 1997. He was done.

In the few rare interviews he's given since, he says he doesn't miss it. He's always surprised when people are so shocked at what they think he gave up. But the truth was he had very little control over the material he was doing - especially the Honey I Shrunk The Kids franchise. For a comedy writer, it wasn't a good situation.

Here's what he had to say about it:

“Stuff happens to people everyday, and they make adjustments to their lives for all kinds of reasons. There was nothing unusual about what happened or what I did, I think the reason that people were intrigued by the decisions I was making and sometimes seem to have almost admiration for it had less to do with the fact that I was doing what I was doing and more to do with what they thought I was walking away from, as if what I was walking away from had far greater value than anything else that one might have. The decision in my case to become a stay-at-home-Dad, which people do all the time, I guess wouldn’t have meant as much to people if I had had a very simple kind of make-a-living existence and decided I needed to spend more time at home. Nobody would pay attention to it, but because I came from celebrity and fame and what was the peak of a career, that was intriguing to people. To me, it wasn’t that. I didn’t have anything to do with that. It was work, and it was just time to make an adjustment.”

In the past few years, since his kids are grown now, Moranis has gotten his feet wet again, doing a little voice over work in cartoons and recording a record album. It was all done close to home, and sadly doesn't signal a return to movie roles.

I won't run down his list of credits. You can see them all on his IMDB page. But I will say that when one of his films comes on TV, it does make me miss the Keymaster, Seymour Krelborn, Bob McKenzie and Dark Helmet.

But fortunately, they're all still alive and well and right where I last left them on Netflix, cable and DVD. They'll always be around whenever I want them.

Just like Rick Moranis was for his kids.

Face the music

I have a lot of sympathy for actors, especially women, who feel they need to have a nip and tuck just to stay competitive in an industry that worships youth, and tosses anyone over thirty to the curb.

But as Joan Rivers, Jocelyn Wildenstein (the cat lady in New York) and Priscilla Presley would be the first to tell you, sometimes the results are less than what you hoped for.

I feel particularly sad for Lara Flynn Boyle.

I know she made the decision to do it, and I know she has to live with the consequences. But you have to wonder what she saw when she looked in the mirror that drove her to such extremes. It obviously wasn't the beautiful, talented actor the rest of the world saw.

I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on TV. It's just my opinion that sometimes there's a thin line between doing what you have to do and mental illness.

LFB was in one of my favorite films ever, John Dahl's Red Rock West with Nic Cage. She also displayed her comedy chops in Wayne's World, and her very sinister side in The Temp. Sadly every time I see one of her films now, it's overlaid with a veneer of pity and sadness for her each time she's on screen.

Rumor has it she's had some corrective surgery to regain some semblance of her former self. But unless she has a DeLorean that goes 88 mph, I don't think her former looks are coming back any time soon.

I hear people joke about celebrities that have plastic surgery, but I get it. No one is harder and more critical of our physical looks than we are. Times a thousand for people who make a living being looked at by millions of people.

While it's obvious LFB won't get the roles she used to, I hope she's able to continue working in the industry. On her IMDB page, she's just completed a low-budget family film directed by the same person who did Gabe The Cupid Dog and Unstable.

Be that as it may, I'm grateful at least someone in town looks past the surface, and still sees a talented actor looking back.

The luckiest actor alive Part 2: Channing Tatum

Astonishing charisma. Gritty realism. Award-winning performances. Channing Tatum has none of these.

What he did have is what every other good looking kid from Alabama who spent weekends at the local movie house had: a Greyhound bus ticket and a dream.

Unfortunately his dream is every movie lover's nightmare.

Performance after endlessly dull performance, Tatum walks through movies, smiling and posing then calling it "acting." It's a bad imitation of the male stars he used to see in that dingy Alabama theater. It's also the way he thinks the character would act, if the character were a bored and boring individual getting by on his good looks alone. It's what I like to call "model acting." He knows how to walk around and look good. Worse, he thinks that's enough, just like it was when he modeled for Abercrombie & Fitch.

Every one has to start somewhere. But Ricky Martin's She Bangs video? Some people will do anything for $400.

You have to wonder who he has pictures of, or who he took pictures with. It's hard to figure out how the Hollywood fame lottery works. There are a million guys who look good and actually can act, but maybe they don't play the game as well as Tatum does.

It is amazing how many different types can be lucky in Hollywood. My last luckiest actor post was about Jonah Hill, who'll certainly never be mistaken for Channing Tatum. But at least, as he proved in Moneyball, has some acting talent besides being the funny fat guy.

He can also be the serious fat guy.

Tatum is quoted as saying, "I've been able to explore life, and through exploring it I've found that I love art, I love writing, I love acting, I love all the things that make sense to me."

I just wish it made sense to the rest of us.

Hello I must be going

I don't usually drop names. Don't get me wrong, I could. I could drop a lot of them ok? I was born and raised in L.A. I'm a Hollywood brat. I know people.

And my people know people.

But because of a film I saw, I am going to drop one: Groucho Marx.

From the minute I first saw Night At The Opera I was hooked on the Marx Bros. It won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me that the brother I related to most was Groucho. Cynical, sarcastic, biting, brilliant, a ladies man.

When I was growing up, the Marx Bros. films were having a resurgence. There were festivals, retrospects, screenings of long lost footage. My friend David Weitz and I used to slather on the black moustache and eyebrows, slip into the cut away tuxedo jackets and impersonate Groucho at the festivals they used to have at the Universal Amphitheater, back when it was a real amphitheater (look it up). There was also a theater on La Cienega and Waring Avenue called the Ciné Cienega that played Marx Bros. films all the time. David and I would show up there too.

One day, we had the bright idea that we wanted to meet Groucho. So we got in my car - a 1965 Plymouth Fury, the first and last American car I'll ever own (don't get me started) - and drove up to Sunset Blvd. Back then, there was a guy on every corner selling "Maps To The Stars Homes". We bought one and found out where Groucho's house was in Trousdale Estates.

As I write about it now, I realize it reads kind of stalker-esque. It wasn't. Well, maybe it was. But a different time you know?

There used to be a costume shop on Melrose next to Paramount Studios. David and I decided to buy an old cutaway coat like Groucho wore in the movies and give it to him as a gift. It never occurred to us he probably had several of them gathering dust already.

The first attempt didn't go well. We drove up to Trousdale Estates, sat in the car awhile, then finally found the courage to knock on Groucho's door.

His assistant and companion Erin Fleming answered.

We told her we were huge Marx Bros. fans, and we had a gift for Groucho. She thought it was sweet.

From behind her, we heard an elderly but recognizable voice say, "Who is it?" Erin said, "It's two of your fans and they want to give you a gift." To which Groucho replied, "Tell them to go away and never darken my doorway again."

Not exactly the welcome we expected.

Erin told us to come back the next day when Groucho would be in a better mood, and she'd get us in to meet him. So we did. And she did.

David and I wound up having lunch with Groucho. We talked about everything from the movies, to the Israeli athletes who'd been killed by terrorists, to Sandy Koufax. The real life Groucho spoke slower and softer than the one in the movies, but the brilliant mind was working just as fast.

Many times after that first meeting, Erin invited me up to the house. She even had me watch Groucho a few times when she'd have to go out.

When another Groucho fan, Steve Stoliar, organized the Committee to Re-release Animal Crackers (CRAC) - a Marx Bros. film that hadn't been seen in thirty years - and staged a protest at UCLA, Groucho wrote a note excusing me from my theater class to be there (Groucho included a copy of the letter in his book The Grouchophile). And when Universal finally re-released it, Erin had the studio hire David and I to impersonate him at the premiere.

She also had us impersonate him and greet arriving celebrities at a live performance she'd convinced him to do, An Evening with Groucho at the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion (I still remember David opening the car door for George Burns. As Burns was getting out he said, "That's very nice of you." David said, "Certainly. Age before beauty." Burns said, "You're not kidding."). Thanks to Erin, we were also at the pre-release party for the soundtrack of the show at the Bistro in Beverly Hills (star-studded affair. Nicest celebrity: Tommy Smothers. Biggest jerk: Carroll O'Connor). She also had us front and center in the audience, in full costume, when Groucho appeared on the Merv Griffin show.

To say the least it was a heady time.

After Groucho died, I lost touch with Erin. I know she went through hard times, with accusations of being a golddigger and abusive to Groucho.

These accusations came from Groucho's son Arthur, who although an author and playwright, primarily made a career of being Groucho's son.

The many times I saw them together, at the house and at studio events, I never saw any indication that any of Arthur's accusations about Erin were true.

Nevertheless, Arthur sued Erin for all the money Groucho had paid her, and the house he'd bought her, and eventually bankrupted her with attorney fees and debt. Sadly she wound up committing suicide years after Groucho was gone.

I'm blessed to have had the chance to meet one of my heroes. It could never happen today, certainly not the way it did then.

Although if anyone has Springsteen's address, I have this guitar I'd like to give him.

Guilty pleasures Part 1: The Final Destination movies

Developing a blog post that can be turned into an ongoing series is not a new idea. My fellow blogger at Round Seventeen has a series of posts called Things Jews Don't Do. And I've done it as well with a couple posts, like Why I Love Costco, and The Luckiest Actor Alive. Now I'm doing it again with Guilty Pleasures. It's like what Hollywood does over and over. Take one idea, recycle it, and wait until people are sick and tired of it.

Then do it again.

So here we go. First up, the Final Destination movies. I’ve seen them all. I'm not proud. But I sure am entertained.

I'm the first to recognize that the money I spend on tickets for these movies could be spent on better things. Like books. Or dry cleaning. Or the college fund (just kidding: what college fund?). But then I wouldn’t have the pure joy and satisfaction of watching a bunch of snotty teenagers who're just asking for it get what’s coming to them.

And by that I mean death. Dead as disco.

Seriously, who doesn’t like to see that?

Every Final Destination movie has the same group of four or five kids. You know the ones: the brainy guy. The smarmy guy. The good girl. The slutty girl. The nerd.

Somehow, they all manage to avoid dying in a plane crash, or a roller coaster derailing, or a race car crashing into the stands. You know, everyday stuff.

Well apparently Death has a quota to make and a timecard to punch. And he gets pissed when people don't die when they're supposed to. So he has to track the kids down and off them one by one.

The great part about these movies for me is the Rube Goldberg way the killings are done. Intricate, clever and way over the top. I don't know which I liked better - the girl stuck in the car wash with her head out the sunroof that won't open, or the guy getting acupuncture who winds up falling off the table and impaling himself on the needles.

I know I'm not doing these scenes justice. You have to see them for yourself. Or not.

On the New Rules segment of his show, Bill Maher had a joke about all these movies. He said the producers of Final Destination need to look up the meaning of the word "final."

For my sake, I hope they don't.