Leaving Las Vegas

You can’t go back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a blast off

If you've been following this blog for any length of time, and if you have perhaps you should use the Google to find better ways to kill time during the pandemic, you probably already know I have a somewhat compulsive side to my otherwise sparkling personality.

Breaking Bad. Bruce Springsteen. Sourdough bread. Las Vegas (in the before times).

One other quasi-obsession I have that I don't blog about much is space movies. Specifically ones about the golden age of the space race: the Gemini, Mercury and Apollo programs. There's been a lot of great movies about them: Apollo 13. First Man. The Right Stuff.

Going to change the subject for a sec, but I'll thread the needle on the back end. Here's the thing: we have way too many streaming services. The house is lousy with them: Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime. Disney +. So when Apple TV+ rode into town, I wasn't itchin' to sign up and pay yet another monthly fee.

But as they say in the ad biz, nothing beats free. And come to find out that's exactly what Apple TV+ is. Seems they have a promotion going on for a free year's subscription within 90 days of purchasing any Apple device. Like, say, the wife's new MacBook Air.

Truth be told, the original shows on Apple TV+ haven't been getting what you'd call rave reviews. But the one that, predictably, caught my attention was For All Mankind.

Space? Astronauts? 10 hours? Apollo program? I'm in.

So for the past couple of days I've been bingeing it. I know, I'm as shocked as you are. And I"m here to tell ya it's really, seriously great. The premise is simple: what if the Russians had beat us to the moon, and the space race never stopped? It's alternative history fiction built around the space program.

And for all my show biz pals at the studios, listen up. It's also made me decide that, more than anything, I want to have a bit part in a space movie.

I want to be one of the engineers wearing a short sleeve, white shirt, skinny tie and thick frame glasses sitting at one of the rows of those bulky, green, Mission Control computers.

And I'm not looking for a showy, star turn. In fact the only thing I want to say is one line. During the obligatory pre-launch checklist scene, when it's my turn I want to bark out: "It's a go."

Start to finish, like the best series, it's a rollercoaster ride with unexpected twists and turns, surprising revisionist history and characters you can't help care about. It's making you cry and cheer one minute, gutting you the next.

So I'll be counting down until next season launches, and I'm sure I'll happily binge it a few more times before then.

My advice to you? Don't screw the pooch by missing it. Watch and enjoy.

Godspeed.

ENCORE POST: Mr. Tee

Today is Presidents Day. And since it's a holiday, I decided to repost this piece as opposed to writing an entirely new one.

I'm doing it because I want to observe the holiday properly. Because I want to use the day to spend time with my family. And mainly because I couldn't think of anything new to write about.

I admit it's the easy way out. But if you know anything about me—and you should know almost everything by now—you know I'm all about easy.

Enough chit-chat. This post has everything: Friendship. Drama. Vegas. Rewritten parts. Spelling errors. Ready? Please to enjoy.

A few years ago, I was looking for something I could do to add on to the monumental fortune I've made in advertising. Preferably something not involving monster egos, all-night work sessions, talking to account planners and unimaginably bad pizza.

So my close friend and art director extraordinaire Kurt Brushwyler and I kicked around escape plans for a while, and came up with a business idea we could both get behind: t-shirts.

Alright, so it wasn't the most original idea. But we were going to do it in a way that managed to combine two things we loved: t-shirts and Vegas.

I forget the name of it, but for a while there was a little newsletter/brochure you could pick up at any restaurant, usually near the restrooms by the sponsored post card rack and outdated copies of the L.A. Weekly. It listed all kinds of bizarre classes that not only reinforced every stereotype about L.A., but also that no legitimate institution of learning would ever offer.

One of them was How To Get Into The T-Shirt Industry. Coincidence? I think not.

So one night after a long day freelancing at Chiat (is there any other kind?), Kurt and I hopped in his Prius and drove over to the world-famous, two-star Marina Del Rey Marriott for a three-hour class taught by guys who'd hit it big making t-shirts and selling them to Paris Hilton for $95 a piece at Kitson.

It was actually an interesting and educational evening. Needless to say the part about having to go to Vegas to hawk our wares at the Magic Fashion Convention was quite appealing.

Our master plan was to get those cart/kiosk things you see in the main promenade of The Forum Shops at Caesar's and sell the t-shirts off of them. It was going to be our test run. If they did well, we'd approach each of the casinos and holding companies about making exclusive t-shirts for their gift shops, with funny lines tailored specifically for each hotel.

I wrote about a couple hundred Vegas/hotel lines, and Kurt started working on designs for them. It was ours, and it was fun.

Right up until I called The Forum Shops to find out about the carts. Come to find out - and if I'd thought about it for a second I would've realized it - that Caesar's owned all the carts in their mall. They didn't rent them to outside vendors.

But since we both come from advertising, and are used to rejection, adversity, broken dreams and plans going awry on a daily basis, we knew exactly how to handle the situation.

We gave up.

Every once in awhile, when I talk to Kurt or we get together, we kick around rebooting the idea. But then we move on to more important things, like which sushi place to go to for lunch.

We still own the URL we came up with (no, I'm not saying it here just in case...) and still have the lines. Plus there are a whole slew of casinos that weren't there the first time around we could approach. So I'm not ruling anything out—we might come back to the idea at some point.

All I know for sure is if we do, there'll definitely be a lot of research involved.

Nothing but grateful

Despite the fact I’m an only child and the world revolves around me (that’s just science, look it up), I’ve always had a grateful heart and a thankful attitude. I appreciate there’s one day a year designated for celebrating our gratitude, but I think a better approach is to practice it everyday.

Ok, so it’s not going to be my funniest post.

Anyway, between the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade hosted by Savannah Guthrie and Hoda Kotb (It’s the Riverside City College marching band!) and the generically titled National Dog Show (where the German Shepherd came in fourth – rigged), I started thinking about things I’m grateful for, not just today but everyday.

I know what you’re thinking: is he going to tell us or not? I won't keep you in suspense - I am.

I’m grateful for my wife and children. I’d say they somehow manage to put up with my craziness and idiosyncracies and love me in spite of them, except that—and they’d be the first to tell you this—I’m the perfect husband and father. I know, they can hardly believe it either.

I’m grateful I enjoy almost all the people I work with. They’re creative, funny, smart and they challenge me in a positive way to raise my game. I spend a lot of my life with them, so it’s a good thing I feel that way. Except for that one guy—he’s a total asshat.

Grateful for my long-time friends, the one’s I’ve known forever and even though I don’t see as much as I like, can pick up right where we left off. The conversation usually goes something like this: ME: Hey, remember that $500 I loaned you that time we were in Vegas? THEM: I’m pretty sure I paid you back. ME: You didn’t. THEM: Huh. Ok. When I get home I’ll get it to you. (Fast forward ten years) ME: Remember that $500 I loaned you that time we were in Vegas?

I’m grateful for my good health. Despite having to do a little more maintenance than I used to, I’m in pretty good shape. Could stand to lose a few pounds, but I don’t think this is the day to be thinking about that. In fact, I probably won’t worry about it until after the Olympic trials.

So grateful for my dogs. Unconditional love in both directions. They’re both beautiful and smart, but they still don’t pick up after themselves in the yard. If they only knew how many treats were waiting for them if they ever do.

I’m grateful my dear friend, ex-office wife and person who encouraged me to start blogging (blame her) Janice has been declared the winner in her bout with cancer. She’s someone I love and hold in my heart in a way reserved for a special few, and a world without her just would not have been acceptable.

I can’t name all my friends here—not because I have so many, I’m just bad with names—but if I'm lucky enough to call you my friend, know that I am grateful for you every day of the year. Each of you in your own way make my life richer and more frustrating. I meant meaningful.

Finally, I’m grateful for Robert Mueller. And I hope with all my might to be even more grateful to him very soon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

The right connections

Assuming you're going to read this post—and I recognize that's a big assumption—are you going to read it all the way through the first time, or stop halfway, go do something else for an hour, then come back and finish it?

Stop talking, it's a rhetorical question.

If you're going to read it, you'll do it nonstop until you get to the end. And why wouldn't you? It's easier, it takes less time and you can get to whatever you're doing afterwards a lot faster.

All the same reasons I like to fly nonstop.

It's literally been 21 years since I last took a connecting flight somewhere. The only reason was because it was the only way I could get to a surprise birthday party I'd arranged for a friend who was shooting a movie in Ponca City, Oklahoma. If you've never been to Ponca City, the Walmart on Saturday night is the hot tip. You're welcome.

Of course, part of the reason it's been so long since I've been on a connecting flight is I usually fly to destinations that are easy to get to directly. San Francisco. Las Vegas. New York. Las Vegas. Seattle. Las Vegas. Portland. Las Vegas. Austin. You get the pattern.

With how much I love gambling (how could you tell?), you'd think I'd book connecting flights more often. It's always a roll of the dice whether or not it'll be on time, the connecting flight will be there when I land, or the weather will cooperate at the second airport of the day.

I was just in Iowa. I had to fly to Denver, connect to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, then drive an hour and a half to where I was going in Iowa. It was an adventure, but it wasn't fun.

Like visits to the dentist, prostate exams and tax returns, I just prefer to have it done and over with as soon as possible. But because of the airline hub structure, and my need to go to little out-of-the-way towns in Iowa, I don't have as much choice in the matter as I used to.

I suppose the thing to do would be to look at connecting flights as a way to see parts of the country I wouldn't normally see, fly a variety of aircraft I wouldn't otherwise get to experience and rack up more frequent flier miles than I might going nonstop.

I also suppose I could also look at kale as cotton candy, but that's not happening either.

Watered down

Like the lawn in a torrential downpour, or cocktails at the craps table in Las Vegas, ideas for Super Bowl spots from advertising agencies—like the people who create them—are often not what they start out to be.

For a lot of creatives, the Super Bowl spot is the Holy Grail, the pinnacle, the showcase where you can either make your mark and launch into a career arc filled with money, location shoots, media girls (another time) and a title too long to fit on the puny business cards you'll never carry.

Or it can be a spectacular flop seen by a billion people and sink you faster than the Quizno's Spongmonkeys—which by the way I think is awesome and one of my favorite commercials ever. Call me crazy, but I admire the bravery of it all. Just try not singing the tune after you've seen it.

I know, right?

Anyway, there are a few rules about the annual Super Bowl assignment that seem fairly universal no matter what agency you're at. First is the freelancer's spot never gets chosen, even if it does. No agency hands the biggest boondoggle and budget of the year to the freelancers to produce. And if their spot is picked, it's—take your pick: refined, evolved, massaged—just enough for them not to be able to claim it as their own.

Next, you would think that since the date of the Super Bowl is known over a year in advance, agencies would give themselves enough lead time to concept, sell and produce the spot they really want to make. Not so much. Virtually every agency starts working on their Super Bowl spot late in the game. Then it's a mad rush to meet the goal, with everyone hoping they don't fumble.

Ok, I'm done now.

Finally, just to prove God does have a sense of humor, it's almost always the team who couldn't care less about sports who has the winning spot. Then they have to go through the entire ordeal, pretending they're interested in the game and that they have a favorite team.

Sometimes, even though it's a score (sorry) to get your Super Bowl spot sold, it takes almost more than you can muster to get motivated to see it through.

But to quote Don Draper, "That's what the money's for."

What looks good?

As someone who's binged Breaking Bad ten times, seen every single show—not tour, show—that Bruce Springsteen's done in Los Angeles since '78, stays standing at the craps tables long after my legs and budget have given out, and drinks Coca-Cola with the same joy and frequency as Eric Northman necking (see what I did there?) on True Blood, there's a slim to none chance of anyone ever accusing me of doing things in moderation.

But even with my compulsion to over-enjoy things I like, there are places I firmly believe a little moderation is in order. Menus for example (Menus? In order? Thanks, I'll be here all week).

I think the number of items listed on a menu should be like the food itself: not too little, not too much. Just enough to satisfy. When I'm hungry, I don't want to sit down with a spiral-bound menu the size of the yellow pages and read through it. I want to see sections I like, find the item, get the order in and start scarfing.

Of course what makes a monster menu easier to navigate is the same thing that makes shopping on Amazon quicker: knowing what you want going in. If the menu's that big, they'll either have whatever I'm in the mood for or probably be able to whip it up.

At the restaurant, not Amazon.

For my dining dollar, the best menu in town is In-N-Out.

Simple, friendly, easy to navigate in a hurry, it's essentially the same as it was the day they opened in 1948.

They're a little sly about the fact they have more items than they list, but with the tiniest bit of detective work you'll find the additional dishes on their not-so-secret hidden menu.

What's great about the hidden menu is when I ask for something no one around me sees on the displayed menu, I feel like a real insider, a person in the know. It makes me feel special.

Okay, it's just a hamburger place, but I'll take my self-esteem where I can find it.

Where was I? Oh right. To the everyday diner, the regular In-N-Out menu is a quick glance and an easy decision, which is exactly the way menus should be at every restaurant. To be fair, I suppose there's a certain mood-setting that happens when you have to ponder the menu for a while. But if I'm at a restaurant, my mood is already set on hungry.

I'm not gonna lie, after all this talk of menus and food I'm starving. It's probably time to drag myself out and get something to eat.

Right after I finish Season 4, Episode 7 of Breaking Bad. Again.

Have the best 19 days ever!

Happy New Year! I think this one is going to be spectacularly great. I mean that. After all, it can't be any worse than 2016, amirite? Truth be told, I think 2017 will be the best year any of us can remember. All nineteen days of it.

I know, I can hear you saying, "But Jeff, aren't there 365 days in a year?" Well sure, in a normal year. But 2017 isn't going to be a normal year. For starters, our dipshit elect is going to be sworn in on January 20th. Which coincidentally, I believe, is the day the world as we know it will end.

We already know, and he confirms it on a daily basis, that he will be the most mentally, emotionally and morally unqualified person ever to hold the office of President of the United States. If anything good is going to happen before he gets us into a nuclear war with China, sinks the stock market, destroys the environment and makes the air unbreathable, it's going to happen in the first nineteen days of the year.

So my recommendation is live it up. Go to Vegas, fly to Paris, pour gas on the credit cards, kiss whoever's there at the moment, drive fast (I mean even faster), eat badly (I mean even worse) and get ready to go out with a big, fat, toothless, trailer-trash smile on your face.

And if for some odd, unexpected reason—a speedy impeachment (please, please, please) or an act of God (this is the prayer to answer)—he's removed from office quickly and we all manage to continue on with our lives, don't even give a second thought to the many acts of complete abandon, ribaldry and debasement you just committed.

Decency, truth or consequences for your actions won't be coming back for at least another fifty years.

Mr. Tee

A few years ago, I was looking for something I could do to add on to the monumental fortune I've made in advertising. Preferably something not involving monster egos, all-night work sessions, talking to account planners and unimaginably bad pizza.

So my friend and art director extraordinaire Kurt Brushwyler and I kicked around escape plans for a while, and came up with a business idea we could both get behind: t-shirts.

Alright, so it wasn't the most original idea. But we were going to do it in a way that managed to combine two things we loved - t-shirts and Vegas.

I forget the name of it, but for a while there was a little newsletter/brochure you could pick up at any restaurant, usually near the restrooms by the sponsored post card rack and outdated copies of the L.A. Weekly. It listed all kinds of bizarre classes that not only reinforced every stereotype about L.A., but also that no legitimate institution of learning would ever offer.

One of them was How To Get Into The T-Shirt Industry. Coincidence? I think not.

So one night after a long day freelancing at Chiat (is there any other kind?), Kurt and I hopped in his Prius and drove over to the world-famous, two-star Marina Del Rey Marriott for a three-hour class taught by guys who'd hit it big making t-shirts and selling them to Paris Hilton for $95 a piece at Kitson.

It was actually an interesting and educational evening. Needless to say the part about having to go to Vegas at least once a year to hawk our wares at the Magic Fashion Convention was quite appealing.

Our master plan was to get those cart/kiosk things you see in the main promenade of The Forum Shops at Caesar's and sell the t-shirts off of them. It was going to be our test run. If they did well, we'd approach each of the casinos and holding companies about making exclusive t-shirts for their gift shops, with funny lines tailored specifically for each hotel.

I wrote about a couple hundred Vegas/hotel lines, and Kurt started working on designs for them. It was ours, and it was fun.

Right up until I called The Forum Shops to find out about the carts. Come to find out - and if I'd thought about it for a second I would've realized it - that Caesar's owned all the carts in their mall. They didn't rent them to outside vendors.

But since we both come from advertising, and are used to rejection, adversity, broken dreams and plans going awry on a daily basis, we knew exactly how to handle the situation.

We gave up.

Every once in awhile, when Kurt returns a phone call (my hair was black when I called him) or when I see him, we kick around rebooting the idea. But then we move on to more important things, like which sushi place to go to for lunch.

We still own the URL and still have the lines. Plus there are a whole slew of casinos that weren't there the first time around we could approach. So I'm not ruling anything out - we might come back to the idea at some point.

All I know for sure is if we do, there'll definitely be a lot of research involved.

Pampered poodle

I've been accused - more than once - of being a pampered poodle. It's okay, I'm used to it. It doesn't exactly surprise me. I have a good idea where it comes from.

In fact, as I was getting my pedicure this afternoon, it dawned on me people who call me that, you know, the ones with long toenails and callused feet, may have a point.

There are several telltale signs that are dead giveaways. For instance I like going to the spa for a massage. My favorite spa happens to be the Canyon Ranch Spa at the Palazzo in Las Vegas. So it's a win-win-win right from the start.

When I don't feel like bending over to clip my toenails, or they start looking like I'm doing an uncanny Howard Hughes impression, I head down to the nail boutique for a pedicure. If it's on a day I can't find the clippers I'll get a paraffin wax manicure along with it. Can your hands ever be too smooth? I think not.

Besides, I do want them to look pretty while I'm typing all that copy.

Getting all gussied up isn't the only tell. When it comes to aluminum tubes going six-hundred miles an hour, I like to sit in the front of the plane. I prefer suites over regular hotel rooms, because as anyone who knows me will tell you, I like a big room. I do however enjoy looking at that retro, hipster barber shop I pass on the way to my salon.

One time I was holding hands with this girl (before I met my wife - you can all relax), and she said, "Wow. Your hands are so smooth. It's like you've never worked a day in your life."

I'm a copywriter. It's not exactly breaking rocks.

Anyway, occasionally budget and disposable income does become an obstacle. But like most people in advertising, I like a good challenge.

Like finding a cheaper nail salon.

Gimme shelter, or not

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

Secret identity

I'm just going to say it: Bruce Jenner's story and struggle resonated with me. And in light of Rachel Dolezal’s revelation she’s always identified as black, I feel inspired and moved to come out, and reveal the truth about who I feel I really am in my heart and soul since I was born.

I can now say this with pride: I identify as rich.

I relate to the rich experience. As long as I can remember, I’ve spent money when, where and as much as I’ve wanted, never concerned about running out or if more will come to replace it. I've gone to great lengths to change my appearance and behavior to look rich.

For example, I enjoy sushi immensely. And really, do people who aren’t rich drop a c-note on raw fish and sticky rice for dinner nearly as often as I do? Of course they don't. No sane person does.

Would a non-rich person take their car to the dealer to be repaired, knowing full well they'll pay at least twice what they'd pay at an authorized independent mechanic? I have my car serviced exclusively at the dealer. I have for years. My rich inner self wouldn't have it any other way.

I’ve operated for years on the philosophy that “if I spend it it will come.” This approach been particularly evident on my visits to Las Vegas. Speaking of which, there are dozens of low-price hotels there, but instead, I choose to stay at the Venetian or Bellagio. I realize what one night costs at these establishments is probably three nights at a significantly lesser hotel like the Tropicana or Flamingo. But I feel like need a shower for even mentioning those other hotels.

It's a reaction the rich often have.

Identifying as rich hasn’t been an easy road. Sometimes the bank, credit card companies and my kids’ piggy bank try to convince me I’m really not rich by birth. Well sure, not on the outside.

On the inside, I'm all champagne dreams and caviar wishes.

Someday I hope society will accept me for who I am and not judge. But until then, I’m willing to suffer the indignities that come with identifying as rich: waiting for the valet. Trying to get change for a hundred. Wearing socks more than once.

Thank you for your understanding and support as I introduce my rich personality to the world.

If you need me, I’ll be at the sushi bar.

Trigger happy

Back in the day, before I could roll out of bed and be at Jet Blue, when I wanted to go to Vegas - and it was fairly often - I'd just hop on the 15, crank up Springsteen, put my lead-lined shoe on the gas and go.

But before I stopped for a Quarter Pounder at the water tower McDonald's in Barstow, and before I pulled over to buy a lotto ticket at the Country Store in Baker, I'd drive past Apple Valley, the small town just after Victorville in the high desert.

Home of the Roy Rogers Museum.

Thanks to the giant statue of Roy's golden palomino Trigger on the roof of the museum, you could see it from the freeway. Every time I went screaming past it I always thought someday I should make some time and stop in there. Not exactly a bucket list item, but more to satisfy my curiosity about exactly what good 'ole Roy had that could fill a museum.

When I was growing up, Roy Rogers was the King of the Cowboys, starring in many musical westerns. Co-starring in all of them was his trusty horse Trigger. Famously, the big draw at the museum was the fact that when Trigger died, Roy had him stuffed. He was now living at the museum, posed rearing up, just like he used to do in the movies and on Roy Rogers television show.

It could've gone worse for Trigger. At one point, Roy Rogers had a chain of roast beef restaurants.

Finally, on one of my Vegas runs, I stopped in the museum. Though it'd been open a couple hours by the time I got there, I was literally the only person in the place.

I came to two conclusions right off the bat: first, Roy and Dale Rogers were hoarders. And second, seeing Trigger stuffed and posed like that was more sad than anything else. It wasn't so much a museum as a garage packed with souvenirs from a lifetime in cowboy show biz.

Like seeing Elvis at the International Hotel in Vegas, hearing Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. at the Greek Theater, and meeting Groucho Marx, I can now wear the badge and say I've seen Trigger in his eternity pose.

Given the low attendance at the museum, probably due to the fact there weren't that many hardcore Roy Rogers fans still walking the earth (at least they weren't stuffed and posed), the museum closed. It moved to Branson, Missouri for a bit, but it eventually closed there too.

Trigger still lives on however, although now it's in the lobby of RFD-TV in Omaha, Nebraska. When the museum closed, he was auctioned off to the station for $266,000, along with Roy's dog Bullet who went for $35,000.

Just like my childhood, Roy and Dale are long gone now. But they're a fond memory from that time, even if their museum wasn't the thrilling experience I'd hoped it would be.

Still, I like thinking that wherever they are, they're still singing', ridin', roping' and wearing the white hats.

Happy trails Roy.

Who's doing the talking here

I've always had a morbid fascination with ventriloquists. What other kind of fascination could you have with them?

Years ago, I was freelancing for the Fox Family Channel. One of the programs I had to write about was a special called the World Of Magic that was filmed at the Hollywood Palladium. I went to the show, and saw a lot of poofy sleeves, tired doves and startled looking rabbits.

But towards the end, there was a magician that had a grotesque looking mask on his face. He removed it, and underneath was another mask. And another one. And another one. He was pulling them off one after the other at an insane speed. He must've had fifty masks on.

I turned to the girl sitting next to me and said, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say he had a pretty screwed up childhood." She said, "If you think that's messed up, you ought to see the vents." By vents she meant ventriloquists. Come to find out she was Erica Larsen, daughter of the founder of the Magic Castle. We talked for a bit, and she told me about all the vents that performed at the Castle.

I was hooked. I decided then and there I was going to make a documentary showing the bizarre world of ventriloquists.

I met Erica at the Castle for lunch and told her the idea. She liked it a lot, and said she'd be happy to connect me with some vents. I also wound up going to the International Ventriloquist Convention in Las Vegas, where I shot a lot of video and interviewed many of the participants.

One of the things I remember most is the woman who'd only talk or answer question through her dummy.

It's a little surprising I could even look at a ventriloquist dummy after a prank my roommate Ned pulled on me years ago.

Ned owned a Jerry Mahoney dummy he knew creeped me out. He also knew I got up in the night to go to the kitchen. So he put the dummy on the kitchen counter right next to the frig. That night, about two in the morning, I went to the frig. I believe there's still a hole in the ceiling from when I saw the dummy sitting there.

And of course, I still get a chill thinking about the Twilight Zone episode pictured above, where a ventriloquist dummy is alive, eventually changing places with his owner - Cliff Robertson.

Anyway, add my documentary on ventriloquists to the list - along with accordion lessons, several screenplays, helicopter flying lessons and marathon training - of things I've started and never finished.

But the idea haunts me, and I imagine eventually I'll come back to it. After all the time and thought I've given it over the years, I'd be a dummy not to.

Remembering George

I just got back from a memorial service for my great friend George Roux, who died a little over a week ago. Having known George for almost thirty years, I have a lot of history and stories to tell.

Now sometimes at services like these, they open it up and ask whoever would like to say a few words about the dearly departed to come up to the podium. And there have been times when I've wanted to say something, but truthfully I'm not at my best off the cuff with emotions spilling over, and loud sobbing as background noise.

Plus, being a writer, I like to map out what I'm going to say.

So when I heard about George, my Boy Scout instincts about being prepared kicked into merit-badge readiness. I wrote down what I wanted to say, rehearsed it and was ready for the call.

Come to find out, the call never came. George's service was beautifully planned by his wife Julie, was beyond lovely and went off like clockwork - something you can't do if you just invite people to speak willy-nilly.

Anyway, had I gotten the call, this is what I would've said:

I think the thing that surprised me most is that George’s heart failed him. Surprising because it never failed any of us.

George and I met almost 30 years ago. Being in advertising, of course I’d heard of him, how talented he was, the classes he taught at Art Center and Ad Center. For a while there it seemed like you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone who was mentored by George.

George and I were first partnered as a team when we worked at Tracy Locke. And let me say, work was never easier or more fun. Great ideas flowed out of George fast and furious. Besides being an incredibly talented art director, George was a great writer.

And trust me, copywriters don’t love anything more than an art director who knows how to write.

Maybe it wasn’t so much that we worked together, but that I got to watch him work. I would’ve paid for the privilege.

George and I became great and lasting friends. We were also co-conspirators. At Tracy Locke, we came up with a plan to pitch the Yamaha Electronics business by personally delivering the VP of Marketing an invitation to come to the agency. It was during the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. So we made a poster with a headline that read, “We came to your party. Now you're invited to ours.” We went to the show, found him, talked for a few minutes and gave him the poster, which he loved.

He never came to the agency, but George and I had three awesome days in Vegas.

I’m not saying that was the plan all along, But I'm not saying it wasn’t.

George and I also shared an appreciation for crappy horror films. Every time another one came out, we’d sit through it, then come out of the theater saying the same thing: “There’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back.” But we kept going, I think not so much for the films but to spend the time with each other.

George has been there for me at almost every pivotal point in my life. My dad’s death. Break ups, break downs. He was one of the groomsmen at my wedding, as well as self-appointed videographer, lending his incredible eye and talent to turning a wedding video into art. If only the DMV had known about him.

He was the first person I called when my son was born. At every juncture, George was there, offering his experience, insight, jokes, strength and friendship for me to lean on.

We freelanced as a team at several agencies over the years. I remember one conversation with him where I told him how jealous I was because he could do so many things so well: he was an art director, commercial director, illustrator, photographer. He had options. All I could do was write.

He looked at me and said, "That may be true, but nobody writes like you do."

I think he meant it as a compliment.

When George met Julie, he fell and fell hard. And while I’d seen him in relationships before, it was clear he’d just been biding his time. This was the one he’d been waiting for. Julie brought a joy to George’s life all of us who loved him will be forever grateful for.

We used to spend a lot of time together, but as often happens, life overtakes intentions and in the past few years we haven’t seen each other nearly often enough. The last time I talked to George was on his birthday in July. We had a long conversation, checking in with each other and catching up on our lives and families.

I called him on his birthday, he called me on mine. So while the call this year may be long distance, I’m pretty sure one way or another I’ll hear from him. I know he’ll hear from me.

It’s hard to get almost 30 years of a friendship into a few minutes, or to find exactly the right words to tell you about all the experiences George and I had.

It’d be a lot easier if he were here. Not only would he tell the stories better, he’d have pictures to go with them.

When Julie told me the news, we talked about George and how one reason this is so shocking is that he seemed indestructible. He’d been through a bad car accident, by-pass surgery, a home invasion robbery. All of them were like bullets off Superman. Julie also said she knew he’d had an entire life before he met her, and that she knew what she’d signed up for when she married him.

But Julie, I’m here to tell you, he also had an entire life after he met you. A complete life. The one he wanted. The one he was looking for. The one that counted. The one he found with you.

I’d also like to say something to Rachel and George. Your father was an exceptional man, and he loved you both beyond measure. I’m sure you know that. I’m also sure he’d want you to know this: life will be challenging sometimes. It’ll make you angry. It’ll make you weary. There’ll be times you’ll stumble and fall. But in those times, when you don’t know if you can get up or go on, remember, in your hearts, your dad will forever be smiling down, sending his love and cheering you on.

Let me wrap it up by saying words I’d have much preferred to say to him in person.

George, thank you for your kindness, your friendship, your brilliance, your humor, your heart, your decency, your encouragement, your work, your talent, your downright brutal good looks, and your love.

I’ll miss you friend. Before you know it. Love you George.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 5

The rodeo was in town.

If you were driving down the Las Vegas Strip, past exploding volcanoes, pirate ships, the Statue of Liberty, Eiffel Tower, nine story Coke bottle and gargantuan flashing hotel signs, and if you were a stickler for detail, you might have noticed the limp flags hanging from light posts, lamely fighting a losing battle for attention. They read “National Rodeo Finals Oct. 15th - 24th, West Valley Center”.

Billy Delrogh noticed them. In fact, they were almost the only thing he noticed.

Seven years ago, when he was just five years old, Billy became a rodeo fan. His father, Robert, had been a senior vice-president of marketing at Johnson & Johnson in New York for most of his career. But when J & J hired a consultant to help them figure out how they could run more efficiently and profitably, one of their bright ideas was to offer senior management early retirement in a way they couldn’t refuse.

Which actually turned out to be O.K. with Robert.

In the last few years, he’d begun to notice his enthusiasm for New York dwindling. He was also having second thoughts about raising Billy there.

His debate was that while the city was the center of the universe, with its museums, theater, publishing and possibilities, it was also headquarters for the kind of perverse crime that lands on the front page daily, and urban paranoia that leaves you no choice but to walk with your eyes looking behind as much as ahead of you. Of course, September 11th had done nothing to improve that.

Besides, having Billy in a private school, which was the only real option in New York, was giving him a first class education but also shielding him from the very things the city had to offer.

So when the early retirement offer came down, Robert took it. He cashed in his stock options and profit sharing, and decided he was going to take Billy someplace new that had different things to offer.

Space is what he wanted one of those things to be. Despite the fact they lived in an extraordinarily spacious condo on Central Park West, Robert felt Billy should have the opportunity to grow up with a real yard to play in, instead of a cement balcony nine stories above traffic.

Before Sarah died giving birth to Billy, the condo had meant more to them than just a great place to live. Robert struggled for years as a mid-level executive at Johnson & Johnson, and Sarah had had to put up with an unreasonable number of late nights, missed holidays and family dinners with an empty place setting where Robert should have been but wasn’t. She’d taken a part time job as a cocktail waitress at a bar called Rendezvous in the east village just to help make ends meet. It was demeaning, and she grew weary deflecting nasty pick-up lines from drunken losers and losers trying to get drunk.

Persistence was what Robert had always told her. Make yourself indispensable to the company, they’ll see your value and they’ll reward you for it. And he was right. Eventually, they did. The title, the money, stock options, the corner office. All as a way of rewarding the fine work, and recognizing the contribution he’d made to the company’s bottom line.

What success meant more than anything to Robert was at last he’d be able to repay Sarah for her sacrifice. So they rewarded themselves with their dream condo, and the promise of a family to come.

It was exactly the kind of place people with rich fantasy lives imagine they’d live when they think about living in New York. But since Sarah’s death, it'd become a constant, sad reminder to Robert that he was raising his boy alone. While Billy was the most beautiful gift Sarah could have left as her legacy, the truth was that this oversized apartment, with their footsteps echoing on hardwood floors, the muted sound of the traffic coming in the weatherproofed windows, and the two of them rattling around in it only served to constantly remind him of the hole in his heart since she died.

In conversations they’d had while she was pregnant, Sarah always told Robert if anything ever happened to her she wanted him to show Billy things he wouldn’t normally be exposed to in the city.

The circus. The tall boats. The rodeo.

She wanted wide horizons for her son, and she wanted him to appreciate life beyond the cement and skyscraper world he was growing up in. Robert hated it when she talked about dying before he did. Each time she mentioned it, and she mentioned it far too often for a woman her age, he emphatically assured her she’d be around to watch Billy grow up, and see that he learned and saw everything she wanted him to.

It was an assurance he now felt foolish giving.

So, on the very day Billy turned five, a day each year that caused both great grief and celebration, Robert was perusing the New York Times. He turned the middle page of the sports section, and there it was. An ad for the Watkins Family Rodeo at Madison Square Garden.

Remembering his promise, he scooped up Billy, grabbed their coats, and they were off to a rodeo. In the middle of New York City.

He smiled up at Sarah as he closed the door.

Shut up and roll

It’s that time of year again. The weather’s getting cooler (not counting the record-setting 113 degree day last week). Kids are back in school. The holidays are just around the corner. And I’m counting the days until my annual trip to SEMA in Las Vegas.

SEMA is the Specialty Equipment Market Association convention held every November at the Vegas convention center. It’s over a million square feet of intricately tricked out cars, vintage hot rods, customized paint jobs, ear-shattering tuners, chrome wheels, smiling car show models and auto executives frantically networking and handing out resumes (I don’t know if you heard, it’s been a tough couple years for those boys). At SEMA, it’s all about automotive aftermarket products and equipment.

That’s not what it’s about for me. For me, it’s about Vegas.

I have a confession to make. I love that town, and not in the nice-place-to-visit or once-a-year-is-enough kind of way. I mean really love it. Beyond reason. I’ve said this in another post, but it bears repeating here: Vegas is the only place I know where everything you hear about it, good or bad, is true.

Even if you don’t gamble, there’s still a great time to be had. Cheap (relatively) hotel rooms, great spas, amazing restaurants, headline acts, first-class shows – many of them without tigers. You can have a great time without having to spend one hard-earned cent gambling.

Of course, why you’d want to do it that way is beyond me.

Every year I go to SEMA with my friend Pete who used to be my client on a car account I worked on. He's one of my best friends, and we always have a great time. Here’s the ritual: we go to the show, walk the floor, see what’s new, catch up with his friends in the industry.  We have dinner at Circo at the Bellagio. I call my wife. Then we go to the crap tables.

Or I should say I go to the crap tables.

The tables are where Pete and I part ways philosophically. Apparently he just doesn’t enjoy having watered-down drinks brought to him non-stop while risking large sums of money on a roll of the dice. And not just my roll of the dice, but everyone else that gets to be the shooter as well.

So while Pete does whatever he does while I’m playing (and I believe what he does is humor me), I have a great time rolling the bones. I don’t even know how to describe it. What’s that? Sick? Compulsive? Not really. Just fun.

I play for a while. I set a limit. I have a system.

My system is this: I play until I’m out of money. Then I go to the ATM and get more money. Then I play some more. Say what you will, but that damn ATM pays out every time.

Eventually I start feeling bad for ditching Pete while I’m playing craps, and I leave the table to find him. We’ll have a drink, talk about the day’s events, make plans for the next day at the show. I call my wife. He goes back to his room. And I go back to the tables for a couple more hours.

Oh yeah Pete, like you didn’t know.

When I’m not in Vegas, I love talking about it to anyone who’ll listen. Especially if they feel the same way I do. I had lunch today with my friend Laura. I've worked with her at two agencies, yet didn't realize until today what kindred spirits we actually are. She told me about a recent trip to Vegas with some friends of hers. She had me at, “God I love it there."

Sadly not everyone I've gone with has felt that way. I’ve been there - usually on a business trip - with people who absolutely hate the place. Oddly enough, every time one of those people is tapping their foot impatiently, constantly checking their watch and staring at me while I’m playing craps, I lose. Then when they leave, I start winning. There’s only one logical conclusion you can come to with this information.

The Vegas table gods know who likes them and who doesn’t.

One of the best accounts I ever worked on was The Reserve Hotel & Casino in Henderson, just outside Vegas. It was great for many reasons, especially the trips to present work to the client. We saw the casino being built, watched them install  the slots, and saw the tables brought in. We were there for the fireworks-filled grand opening. I played craps with all of my agency pals, who were just as excited as I was. And we all won.

Remember the part about the Vegas table gods?

As I read this post, I occurs to me that it might be easy to get the idea I have a gambling problem. I don’t. The truth is I enjoy it when I’m there, but do realize there is a real life, and real expenses, to come back to. I don’t go expecting to win. That way when I do, it’s a nice surprise. Don’t worry about me. My savings accounts are intact, the bills get paid, and the kid’s college accounts remain untouched.

The real truth of the matter is I wouldn’t go to Vegas as often as I want even if I could.

It wouldn’t leave me any time for the track.