COVID the musical

My close personal friend and RoundSeventeen raconteur Rich Siegel is currently on the uphill side of his first case of covid. He writes about it here.

Which got me thinking (eventually something had to), now that the world has emerged, relatively, from the wrath of covids' heyday, it’s time to look at what we’ve been through in a different light. Many articles have been written about the pandemic, and with each new variant that rears its ugly head, every winter surge and every new booster shot comes an entirely new crop of articles.

I wanted to take a different approach. Instead of dry, medical journal ramblings, I feel the world is finally in a good place, done blowing their nose and ready to tap their toes. So, with that in mind, I’m happy to announce rehearsals will be starting soon for Broadway’s next theater event of the season: Covid Tonight!

You’re in your seat, the houselights go down, the curtain comes up. Spotlights hit the stage as singers belt out the opening number.

Did you hear? Did you hear? It’s getting very near.
Before you can say “vaccination” it’ll already be here
Did you hear? Did you hear? There’s nothing to really fear
The president said it’ll just go away, it’ll just disappear!

Well, we all know how Cadet Bone Spurs prediction worked out. But I digress. Like any great show about a deadly disease, Covid Tonight! will have something for everyone. There’ll be a lot of show-stopping numbers as we travel back down covid memory lane. Like this slow, poignant number speaking to the cure that was in front of us all along.

It’s the guest no one wants, it’s the gift to be returned
It’s the illness that haunts, it’s a cause for great concern
And if you can’t escape it, and at the door it knocks
The cure is already in your laundry room, in a bottle called Clorox

Ah, the good old days when IQ45 told us all we needed to do was pump some bleach into our veins to kill the covid virus. If only he'd taken the lead and shown us how.

As all shows do, the curtain must fall on Covid Tonight! Will it end on a happy note? A caustic warning? An optimistic view of the viral future?

Now the virus has seemingly run its course, at least its that way for now
And Pfizer and Moderna have turned it into a cash cow
We're happy that it's rarer these day, in fact let's raise a cup
But before we celebrate too much let's remember to mask up.

T-shirts, hats and soundtrack CDs are available in the lobby.

Encore post: Book Report

I've taken the easy way out this fine Monday morning (again). I was planninng on writing a new post about a musician I discovered over the weekend, but then the Google started giving me all sorts of Captcha issues with embedded videos in Blogger. The musician post will be here tomorrow.

In the meantime, you can happily fill up a few minutes with this encore post about my pal Rich's fine book. Now I'm not saying I expect a commission on any additional book sales as a result of this post. Then again I'm not saying I don't.

Monitization. It's all the rage. Anyway, please to enjoy.

I don't make a lot of money from this blog. And by a lot I mean none.

However being in advertising, it's occurred to me from time to time I probably could break open a few corporate wallets by selling ad space on here. After all, the very desirable demographics of my readership are the same as Disneyland's - 8 to 80. Plus it is the happiest blog on earth, so there's that.

Advertisers would have a direct line to the 11 people who read this blog on a regular basis. I know that may not sound like much, but it's 11 people they wouldn't have otherwise.

Before I go climbing up the corporate ladder asking for money, I probably should have proof of concept: an example of how well advertising might work on this site, and could work for them.

So as a trial run, I'm going to plug my pal Rich Siegel's book, Round Seventeen & 1/2: The Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Inefficient.

The title comes from his popular blog of the same name. In it, Rich covers a diverse variety of topics like advertising, sex, the situation in the middle East, why he sucked at being a creative director and poo. More than one post about poo.

Alright, maybe not exactly the same demographics as Disneyland.

Anyway, I haven't read the book yet. But I had lunch with Rich a couple weeks ago, and I did get to hold a proof copy of it. And I have to say, I was duly impressed. It had everything the great, classic books throughout time have had.

There are pages, lot's of 'em. And on almost every single page, words. Lots of 'em. Like Moby Dick and The Bible, it also has a front cover and a back cover.

What more do you need to know? If you need a good laugh, and really, who of us doesn't, then pick up a copy of his book today. You can order your copy here.

And once you're done with it, if you don't mind I'd like to borrow it. Because, you know, twelve bucks is twelve bucks.

And we're back

It’s the age old question: if a blogger puts up a post in the forest, does it make a difference? Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly how it goes but you get my continental drift.

There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll just own it. When it comes to timely RNB postings, for the past year I’ve been what I would euphemistically call slacking. You might call that old news.

Whichever, the truth is that the divisive mood of the country, lack of anything meaningful to say (like that’s ever stopped me before) and much better bloggers than myself—I’m looking at you Round Seventeen, Kingdom of Failure and AdAged—have all conspired to put me in a “yeah, I’ll get around to it when I get around to it” frame of mind for some time now. In fact the last new post I put up here was on 9/12 talking about 9/11.

But it’s time to change my evil lazy ways. It’s a new year, and with it comes a new attitude.

All of us here at Rotation and Balance International Headquarters have renewed our commitment, yet again, to being much more prolific this year. Which given the underwhelming 2023 output shouldn’t be too hard.

Now, you might ask yourself what's brought on this renewed energy for filling up blank pages with my musings and ramblings. Well here it is.

I saw someone online refer to Cadet Bonespurs as IQ45. I’m not missing any chances to use that one.

Encore post: Radio radio

Yesterday I was talking about radio with my pal Rich Siegel, author, owner and grand poobah of Round Seventeen. In one of my many business schemes, I asked Rich why don’t we start a radio production company. We’re both good writers with lots of radio production experience. It seemed like a win-win to me.

Rich replied, “Who pays for radio anymore?”

Thanks pal. Here’s my balloon –pop it.

Of course, he’s right.

For starters, there’s not a lot of radio being done, and what little there is certainly doesn't have any money – real money – thrown against it. Agencies usually just hand it off to the juniors, or the interns because they pay them even less than the juniors.

In most agencies, radio is considered the bastard stepchild to, well, to just about every other media. Maybe it’s because good radio is so hard to do, but many writers suddenly seem to get swamped when a radio assignment is up for grabs.

I’ve never looked at it that way.

The fact is, for the most part, the agency leaves you alone when you write radio. It’s not that high on the glam-o-meter, so you can usually fly under the radar and write some pretty fun stuff. But let me go back to an earlier point: good radio is hard to do.

There are of course basic rules to writing good radio. But if you've listened to any radio commercials lately, I'm sure you'll agree there need to be more.

Here are a few I’d add:

First, no more spots where the listener is eavesdropping on the recording session, and then the talent realizes they’re recording.

Next, no fake stand-up comedians with bad fake material and fake canned laughs.

Then, no more spots where the talent is talking about a sale with another talent, and suddenly there’s a door slam sound effect and the first talent says something to the effect of, “I guess everybody’s going to the (CLIENT NAME HERE) sale!”

Even though many writers use them, filler lines have got to go. You know the ones I mean. Lines like “so what’re you waiting for?” or “Hurry in now, the only thing that’ll be gone faster than these (PRODUCT NAME) is this sale.“

Lastly, the direction “more energy, have fun with it” must be banned from all recording sessions. No real person is that happy about having to take erectile dysfunction pills or diarrhea medicines.

This isn't the first time Rich and I have talked about starting a business. Just a few days ago, he suggested we start a deli.

I thought it was a good idea. Obviously, since we work in agencies, we already have enough baloney to stock it.

A new decade

So here's something you don't want to do: look for pictures of feet on a scale on the interwebs. If you ever thought feet were strange looking, browsing through dozens of pictures of them won't do anything to change that.

What am I saying? Feet. Not a pretty picture.

But contrary to what you've read so far, I'm not here to talk about feet. I'm here to talk about the scale.

Historically the scale has not been my friend. Whether it's my expensive digital bathroom scale, or the twenty-year old beam scale (yes that's what it's called, no I didn't have to look it up) in the doctor's office, they always come up with a number that shocks me. Of the two, I look more forward to the bathroom scale, because that one is usually off by three or four pounds in my favor. But the doctor's office scale pops that balloon real fast.

It's a number that says, "Well, looks like we're not keeping that resolution again this year."

Everyone has a different way of assessing their weight. Mine is in decades. Not the years, the increments. I call every ten-pound increment on the scale a decade. And here's the bad news: I thought I was in one decade, but come to find out I'm well into the next one.

It made me so mad at myself I had to have some sugar cookies just to calm down.

When I enter a new decade on the scale, it's not easy to deal with the shame, embarrassment and disappointment. Something my high school girlfriend used to tell me all the time.

And it's not like I don't have inspiration all around me. My close personal friend Rich Siegel—Peleton evangelist, proprietor and editor-in-chief of Round Seventeen—has recently undergone a physical transformation, dropping a ton (not literally) of weight. He looks great, feels great and is currently in the market for a newer, less tenty wardrobe.

When I ask him how he did it he said diet and exercise. Like I'm buying that.

Another close friend, the formidably talented copywriter, screenwriter and bronze medal winner in curling at the 2014 games in Sochi, Cameron Young is constantly encouraging me and generously making himself available to go for long scenic walks, where we can speak of things that matter, make fun of strangers and burn calories at the same time.

Walking. Isn't that what I do between the bedroom and the refrigerator? At midnight?

One problem is I can carry a lot of weight without looking too awful. But I can only kid myself for so long. It's a numbers game, and sometimes the numbers just decide to slap you across the face and call you Sally.

Anyway, seems to me there are really only two solutions. One is to give the scale a twenty-pound head start so I don't feel so bad. The other is to let it keep starting at zero and get serious about lowering the number. After all, it's not a lot to lose. I've done it before and I know how.

And since I've been measuring the ups and downs in decades, I'll have to do what Superman did flying counterclockwise around the earth, and Cher did singing on a battleship.

Turn back time.

Coming attractions

With everything going on in the world, you may not have noticed this hasn't been what anyone would call a productive year blogpost wise for me. I suppose one could speculate on the reasons for that.

You might chalk it up to pandemic malaise.

Or being too exhausted and thought out after spending my day writing for a leading cybersecurity company.

Maybe it was the sense a lot of ground I was going to cover had been covered. I mean how many posts about Springsteen, Breaking Bad and ad agency idiocy can one person read, let alone write.

It might've been that with incredibly entertaining, thoughful, hilarious, well-written blogs like Rich Siegel's Round Seventeen, and Jeff Eaker's Kingdom of Failure readily available on the interwebs, I didn't feel the need to keep throwing my URL in the ring.

But I finally figured out the reason. And it was right there in front of me the whole time.

As Will Patton said to Griffin Dunne in After Hours— "lack of discipline."

Not saying it was a total lack of discipline. Problem was it was the exact same amount I apply to my new year's resolutions to diet, exercise, get through my ever rising tower of unread books, clean the garage and, did I mention my diet?

You see where I'm going.

But like disco and eating at Five Guys, that's all behind me now.

I've gotten my second wind, and here at Rotation and Balance headquarters we're going to be ramping up the line.

Normally I don't like to tip my hand, show my cards, spill the beans or whatever the fuck that saying is. But because you may recall I've made this promise once or twice before here, I wanted to give you a little sneak preview of the topics that will be coming up in the next couple weeks for your reading and time-wasting pleasure.

There will be a fine piece on how I recently came out to my car one morning only to find out it'd been broken into and ransacked.

I'll have a little rant about LAX and all the joy that implies.

You can look forward to reading what a monumental prick Matthew Perry is (could he be any more of an asshole?).

There'll be a tribute to my friend and former boss Amy who passed away recently (#fuckcancer).

And, just in time for the holiday season, I'll have my musings on my experience giving the wife not one, but two Cameo videos from some of her favorite actors.

Those are just a few on the list, but there are many more to come.

So like shoulder pads, floral wallpaper and patchwork denim, I'm back.

Besides, if I'm writing I won't be eating. So there's hope for that diet resolution yet.

Podcast news

If you’re anything like me—and if you are you really need to set your sights higher—you’re always on the lookout for new ways to entertain yourself. I was like that before the covid, and my search has only intensified since.

Since the lockdown or stay at home or isolating ourselves or whatever this Twilight Zone time we’re living in began, like everyone else I’ve done more than my share of Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime Video, Disney+ and AppleTV viewing.

In fact, I’ve been streaming so much my urologist has me on speed dial! BAM! Thanks so much, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress. You’ve been a great crowd.

Anyway, having blown through The Crown, The Morning Show, The Queen's Gambit, Jeffrey Epstein Filthy Rich, Servant, The Hunters, Broadchurch, Dead To Me, Ted Lasso, For All Mankind, The Vow, The Last Dance, Defending Jacob, The Rookie, several Dave Chappelle specials, Jim Gaffigan specials, John Mulaney specials, Bruce Springsteen’s Letter To You (surprise!), Breaking Bad (binge 14 if you’re keeping count), American Murder, The Great British Baking Show and several others I can’t even remember, I decided it was time to look for other forms of amusement since covid doesn’t look like it’s wrapping anytime soon.

There was a joke going around last year that if you didn’t start a podcast in 2020 you were never going to start one. I was thinking about that, and thought I’d look and see how I could expand my podcast repertoire.

I sampled a lot of them, and listen to two of them regularly.

First is Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me (WWDTM), the NPR game show that has three different panelists each week, usually comedians or comedy writers, answering questions about current events and playing the game with callers. It’s extremely funny, timely and always enjoyable.

The other one is The Al Franken Podcast. Former comedian and senator, Franken has guests from both the worlds of entertainment and politics, and reminds me every Sunday what a brilliant mind and champion for justice the senate lost.

If you want proof, just listen to the episode of the questions he would’ve asked Amy Coney Barrett had he been at the confirmation hearings.

But my latest podcast binge—because apparently that’s the only way I know how to listen or watch anything—is Smartless.

Here’s the drill: each week, Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes and Will Arnett get together and insult each other. Also, one of them brings along a guest the other two don’t know about, and hilarity ensues. It is a seriously funny, laugh out loud, good time.

So far I’ve listened to the episodes with Bryan Cranston, Martin Short, Sarah Silverman, James Corden, Conan O’Brien, Ron Howard, Kamala Harris, Reese Witherspoon and Ricky Gervais. I’m about to start the one with Stacy Abrams.

I cannot recommend this podcast enough. Give it a listen, thank me later.

If I’m being honest, and of course no one’s under oath here, I was also thinking about starting a podcast of my own. I wouldn’t want to do it by myself though, especially since Smartless has shown me the many benefits and humorous possibilities of having partners to play off of.

Maybe I’ll see if can cajole my pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen to do one with me.

Instead of Smartless, we could call it Smartass.

It begins

First of all, happy new year, and congratulations for surviving—in a very literal sense—what’s sure to be the worst year in everyone’s life. I think I speak for all of us when I say I’m glad we made it, and there’s definitely nowhere to go but up.

Unless of course Cadet Bone Spurs has a(nother) Giuliani-size brain fart and decides to burn the house down on his way out. And out he will go, no matter how many calls he makes to Georgia.

Of course, despite the fact we’re still going to be using masks as a fashion statement, keeping our distance and washing our hands like Howard Hughes for the foreseeable future, there are a lot of things to look forward to in the coming year.

In just a Scaramucci and five days we’ll have a new sane, decent, smart and compassionate president. I don’t agree on all policy with him, but he’s already a breath of fresh sanity.

We’ll also have the first female, Black/Indian vice-president. I’m even more excited about Kamala because she was my first choice for the top job in the primary. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. It may still wind up being that. No one's getting any younger if you get my continental drift.

Dr. Fauci is staying on, and he’ll have a new president who believes in science, listens to and respects what he says, and will be a partner in finally bringing this horrible pandemic chapter to a close. As well as the run on bleach and hypodermic needles.

The vaccine. Just give it to me in the left arm like the flu shot. I never like waiting in line, but I’m more than willing to make an exception.

And as I’ve done so many times before, I buried the lead. The other thing you’ll have to look forward to, and you know you will, is another year of stimulating, insightful, side-spitting, far too long posts on Rotation and Balance. Now at the risk of sounding like the blogger who cried wolf, this year is actually positioned to be a stellar one in number of posts, if not in quality of writing. You can’t have everything.

Besides, who do you think I am. Round Seventeen?

She screams for ice cream

Before I get to the post that answers the question, "Why is there a picture of vanilla ice cream on here?" I should probably address the other burning question you have: "It's been 4 months since his last post. What the hell happened?"

I'll tell you what happened - I didn't feel like doing it. There it is. I know, you're about to remind me of the many posts I put up about how I was going to be more consistent and productive in my postings. How I was going to match, if not beat, Roundseventeen.com post for post. Whatever. I get tired just thinking about it.

The truth of the matter is every time I'd sit down to write a post, all I wanted to talk about was that festering piece of shit in the White House. The unstable genius. The traitor-in-chief. But I figured there were so many smart, incisive, critical, analytical and factual articles and opinions being written about him - and not by the fake news - that I didn't really need to chime in.

So what's gotten me off my big fat bahookie and propelled me back to the keyboard and pictures of vanilla ice cream? My daughter is having her tonsils out tomorrow.

First off all, I think you all need to thank me for the fact you're looking at a picture of ice cream. At first I went to the Google and searched tonsilectomy - I don't recommend it.

My girl is home on Christmas break from college in Iowa (don't get me started). And we just thought what's more fun over Christmas break than having throat surgery, amirite?

Her tonsils have been inflamed for awhile and making her sick at school in Iowa, but her mother and I wanted her to have the procedure done by our ENT surgeon here. Someone we know. Someone we trust. Someone who doesn't use corn-based anesthesia.

So starting tomorrow afternoon, her diet for the next couple of weeks will consist primarily of ice cream, yogurt, chicken broth, ice cream, applesauce, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and more ice cream.

The good news is I'm not working for the next couple weeks, so I'll be able to lavish attention on my girl, and nurse her back to health while she's recovering from the surgery.

The bad news is since I'll be home, it means less ice cream for her.

Production is down

There are a couple of ways you can tell this blog hasn't exactly been one of my priorities this year.

First is the aching, lonely, abandoned feeling you've been experiencing deep in the pit of your stomach. The sense that something good is gone. That uneasy, anxiety-ridden, nagging feeling that asks, "Why can't he just give me my daily dose of humor, insight and wit I've relied on so dearly for the last ten years to get through my otherwise sad, mundane and ordinary day. Why?"

The other way to tell is the chart pictured here.

When I started blogging in 2009, you can see I just put up a couple of posts. I was getting my toes wet in the blogging waters of the interwebs. Then for the next five trips around the sun, I posted over 100 articles each year. Enthusiasm was high, people were commenting, I was confident I had something worth saying to fill up all those posts.

Of course, 2015 was the best year for this blog. Not for the quality ("quality", good one) of the posts, or the subject matter, but for the fact it was the year I beat out my close personal friend and fashion consultant Rich Siegel of Round Seventeen fame in my imaginary race to keep up with, and exceed, his prolific output of online articles.

Just pausing for a second to re-live the victory.

Ok, I'm back.

Apparently that was the year I peaked, because as you can see the following years took a precipitous drop in postings despite a slight upward tick last year. This year doesn't even average out to two postings a month. And I think I know why.

Besides being the least disciplined writer you know, every time I begin to write a post it becomes political in nature. No surprise given my complete revulsion and disdain for the unstable genius we have for liar-in-chief. But after a day of political posts on Facebook and the sewer that is now Twitter, it just seems difficult to add anything of meaning to the discussion that isn't already being covered a thousand different ways on other channels. And writing about anything else seems meaningless and a wasted effort, given the dire state of our country and our democracy.

I just light up a room don't I?

But writing is a muscle, and if you don't exercise it you lose it. And God knows I've lost enough muscle in my life. So I'm going to start thinking about maybe making the effort to perhaps begin posting a little more frequently if I think I have something worth talking about.

A grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief.

Admit it, you're feeling better already.

What Papa said

Who's up for a really passive aggressive blogpost? I knew you'd say that. Here we go.

I'm going to have to disagree with my pal Rich Siegel, wedding coordinator to the stars and proprietor of the infamous Round Seventeen blog. In one of his more recent posts, A Celebration of Birth, he makes a rather large, revealing statement near the end that sums up the difference between his approach to writing and mine.

I quote: "The thing is, I like to write."

The thing is, I do not.

Now, just so I don't sound ungrateful or unprofessional (and I may be too late already), let me clarify something right up front: I love writing for a living. You know, the kind that's creatively challenging, let's me dress like a fifteen-year old every day, surrounds me with wildly creative, funny people and pays the bills. When I say I don't like it, I'm talking more about the idea of sitting down to write as much as the actual act itself.

And of course, one man's essay is another man's agony. Rich likes it. I treat every assignment like I'm going to my execution.

I understand the best writers make it look easy. But by its nature, it's one of the most difficult of the arts.

In fact after juggling, crowd estimating and balloon animals, maybe the most difficult.

I suppose like most writers, if it came easier I'd enjoy it more. But that's Hemingway's point (I'm in no way comparing myself to Hemingway—my sentences are much longer). If you're going to reveal your true self in words, you have to be willing to go to the deepest, truest and most painful place.

I don't like going to those places. I prefer New York or Las Vegas.

If you've followed this blog for any amount of time—and really, you're never going to get those minutes back—then you know there are a few posts on here where, instead of going for the snarky laugh or easy shots, I've actually shined a light, dull though it may be, on my true self, my real life and my inner thoughts.

Not that anyone was asking for that. I know for a fact no one was paying for it.

The reason that kind of writing causes me nothing but anxiety and apprehension is because of this almost crippling fear I'll have nothing to say. In fact, a lot of people think I have over 900 posts to prove that.

My former office wife Janice MacLeod, who's written four maybe five books (who can keep count) including the fabulous Paris Letters, always told me two things. First, that venom was my best medium. I still don't believe that to be true, although that's just what someone whose best medium was venom would say. The other thing she said was just sit down, stare at the blank screen and eventually an idea for something to write about will come to me.

Again, 900 posts prove that may not always be the case.

My close, personal friend Cameron Young is always just completing or just starting a new screenplay. His enthusiasm for original ideas, story structure and writing is inspiring. Apparently not inspiring enough for me to put down the potato chips and the remote, stop bingeing Breaking Bad (again) and write a screenplay of my own. But, you know, inspiring nonetheless.

In spite of my unwavering resistance, all three of these talented, imaginative, disciplined writers are incorrigible encouragers, supporters and advocates of my writing. It is appreciated to a degree I'll never be fully able to express.

Certainly not in words.

I have another problem with opening up as a writer. And I say this with love—frankly, it's none of your business. As an only child, I've always felt the idea of sharing was just crazy talk. But I do recognize that sometimes it makes for good reading. So, you know, anything (almost) for my art.

What am I saying? That Hemingway was right. And if you think by reading my blog you somehow can glean the joy and sense of fulfillment from my words that writing brings me, I only have one thing to say.

You're reading the wrong blog.

Not a keeper

The first post is about the last year. Ironic ain't it?

So here's the thing. When it comes to the promises I made on our last trip around the sun, I'm a lot like the road to hell—I'm paved with good intentions. Alright, so maybe analogies aren't my metier (look it up), but you see where I'm going.

I made a lot of promises in 2017, some spur of the moment without much thought—you know, the same way I approach my career path (rolling eyes at the word "career")—some to you and even more to myself that despite the best intentions, well, we've already covered that.

For example, this one that would've made your Christmas shopping infinitely easier when it came to stocking stuffers. Or this one, where I vowed to be more disciplined and prolific with my blog postings (stops to laugh hysterically at the thought of being disciplined). But not as prolific as Round Seventeen because, frankly, my Crank-O-Meter doesn't go to eleven. And I'd rather read his posts than write my own.

Besides making gift buying easier and giving you more posts to avoid reading, I also made several promises to myself which I've broken like a fine china vase on a sitcom.

"Whatever you do Joey, don't touch the vase!"

"What, do you think I'm stupid? Of course I'm not gonna touch the vase."

SFX: Vase crashing to pieces on the floor.

Laughter and applause. Freeze frame. Roll credits.

Some are the same promises I've made before like losing weight, changing my style (which would involve actually having one), opening the folder marked Jeff's ideas and following through on some of them, any of them, one of them (yes Cameron Y., that includes the one marked "Screenplay ideas").

Those are the actionable, external promises. There are also the internal efforts that met with mixed success.

Cutting people some slack and realizing everyone's not going to do it my way or on my timetable, although for the love of God I still have no idea why not (only child, does it show?).

Following Elvis Costello's advice about trying to be more amused than disgusted at what's going on around me.

Sticking to the golden rule, no matter how hard someone is making it to do.

Not taking any of it personally, although I have to say I'm actually pretty good at that one.

Got a little heavy on you there didn't I? (Insert diet joke here). Yeah I know, I didn't see it coming either.

Anyway, all of this to say my promise to me and you for 2018 is to do better at keeping promises I make, and not make ones I can't keep.

This year, it's like Jules said in Pulp Fiction: "I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard..."

Game of Phones

It's September again. That time of year when the weather gets suprisingly, unbearably hot for a month.

Fall is gently knocking at summer's door.

Kid's are learning and playing back in school.

Christmas displays are going up at Home Depot.

Rich Siegel starts waxing nostalgic.

Oh, and one more thing.

The new iPhones are announced.

Every year at this time Apple introduces their newest iPhone model. Sometimes the changes and improvements are minor, sometimes more substantial. Either way, they're always expensive.

This year was different. Not in the price tag, but in the offerings.

Sure, they went sequentially and introduced an iPhone 8 and 8Plus with some marginal improvements. But because it's the 10th anniversary of the introduction of the iPhone, anticipation for this year's event reached a fever pitch, not just among fanboys and the Apple community, but also the press and the general public. And the credit card companies.

To mark the occasion, Apple cooked up (#seewhatIdidthere) a special edition model: the iPhone X (pronounced "ten"). And to go with the special edition is a special price: $999 for the 64GB version, and $1149 for the 256GB version.

The iPhone X comes with all sorts of new technical whammy-jammy like facial mapping and recognition, emojis that animate with the users facial expressions (dubbed "Animojis"), using gestures instead of a home button among a few of them.

I have the same problem with iPhones as I do with cars—I hang on to them too long (insert high school girlfriend joke here).

My first one, phone, not girlfriend, was the 3GS. I thought it was amazing, and I never missed the chance to gloat about it to my friends who only had the iPhone 3. I was so happy with it, I sat out the 4, 4S and the 5. By that time though, it had gotten to the point where I couldn't update the system and a lot of apps wouldn't work on it. So when the 5S came out, I was first in line.

Well, figuratively. I'll never be first in line for a new iPhone. I can't wait that many days in line for anything, unless it's Springsteen tickets. Which I can now get on the iPhone.

The circle of life.

When the 6 Plus came out with the larger screen, I traded up. My eyes get worse every second they're open, and the larger real estate for the screen was a no brainer. Then the 7Plus came out with the better camera. Since I'd gotten the 6Plus on the lease program where you can upgrade without penalty every year, I walked in and did just that.

I'll admit it. I've been an Apple guy almost since the beginning with computers and phones. Every September when they announce the new iPhone, I'm like Steve Martin in The Jerk with the new phonebook.

If I'm being honest with myself, and where's the percentage in that, I don't really need the iPhone X. My 7Plus would do just fine for another few years, and I could bank the $1149, or put it to good use towards something else (Springsteen tickets).

But knowing me, and the tower of strength I am, I'll probably cave like Jim Gaffigan at the dessert bar and get it.

Unless next year's iPhone 11 cleans the house, walks the dog and washes the car.

Then I might wait.

One month later...

Tomorrow is one month since my last post here at Rotation and Balance.

Although you may not have been consciously aware of it, I'm sure you felt a disturbance in the force. An unexplainable void in your life, you know, besides money, a loving relationship and worthwhile employment. For the last thirty days, you've had that creeping feeling the world was a little less entertaining. A lot less funny. Deep down, on the inside, a small, quiet voice was telling you something was missing.

Well now you know.

This isn't the first time I've taken a break from posting. I've done it before, although rarely for this length of time. Sometimes it's pure laziness (most times). Other times it's that I just don't have anything interesting to write about.

Of course, if I let that stop me I'd never write anything.

I have to say that, like you, I haven't exactly missed it. For starters it's been a busy month what with a home remodel going on. Do to refinishing hardwood floors in our house, we've had to move out, move into an airbnb, move out of an airbnb and move back into the house with kids and dogs in tow all in the space of the last ten days.

So that's a hectic third of the month right there.

I've also been enjoying taking time to read and catch up with other ad-bashing blogs, like Round Seventeen, the Ad Contrarian and Ad Aged. They all say a lot of things I'd have said if I'd been posting the past month. Only they're saying them better than I would have.

The truth is I've started to post a number of times in the past month, but nothing really interested me enough to see it through. To quote Stephen King, one of my writing heroes, every false start felt like I was shoveling shit from a sitting position.

Not that it's ever stopped me before.

All of this is to say the month of no blogposts is over. I'm getting back in the saddle, and ready to ride into better metaphors than this one. I think all our lives are going to be better now that I've made this decision.

And if that turns out not to be the case, there's always next month.

A pleasant run-in

Almost seven years ago, I wrote a post about running into people out of context. That is to say in an environment where you don't expect to see them. It's astonishing to me. Not running into people. The fact I've been cranking this thing out for seven years.

Anyway, running into someone I didn't expect to see happened to me again today.

As you may or may not know, the wife and I decided I should work the rest of my life to pay for the extensive kitchen, living room and bathroom remodel we currently have under way at the ponderosa. Contractors, subcontractors, city inspectors and assorted strangers come and go from our house from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon.

Our dogs hate it. But at least they're not paying for it, so quit your barking.

If you've ever done a remodel, which I hadn't until this one, you know part of the process is finding time to pick out accessories like faucets, drawer pulls and lighting. Which is how the wife and I happened to find ourselves on a Saturday afternoon date at Rejuvenation in Culver City, scoping out the many stylish, unexpected and just plain bitcin' lamps and lighting fixtures they have.

Wandering through the store, a little tired, a lot hungry and somewhat overwhelmed by all the choices, I was oblivious to other shoppers and designers-in-training circling my orbit. Then, out of nowhere, this guy walks by me, and slams into my shoulder as he passes.

There was plenty of room to get by. I'm not gonna lie, I was pissed. I turned around fast, ready to give this guy a piece of my hungry, tired, overwhelmed mind—even though if you ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you it's something I can't afford to give away. When I did, I was met with a big smile on the face looking back at me.

It was my close personal friend Rich Siegel, Round Seventeen blogger extraordinaire and fourth place pole vault champion behind Denys Yurchenko at the Bejing Olympics.

To this day, I think Rich was robbed of the bronze.

Anyway, we introduced the wives, and chatted for a short bit. In our conversation we managed to trash open offices, throw shade on a creative director we both know and talk about the many benefits of freelance over staff positions.

Ad guys. Nothing if not predictable.

Afterwards, Rich and his wife went to Kohler to look at fixtures, toilets and sinks. My wife and I went to Father's Office and had one of their legendary burgers, along with a light citrus-y pale ale with a side of Spanish mushrooms. Spending money always works up a hearty appetite.

So as we continue our adventure shopping for the remodel, I'll be sure to keep my eyes open for Rich or anyone else I don't expect to see out in the real world.

Right after I'm done icing my shoulder.

Recommitting to recommitting

ROTATION AND BALANCE

                                    

                          ROUND SEVENTEEN

Every year I recommit to doing a better job with this blog. I don’t know why. It’s not like my nine readers are demanding any more from me in the way of quality. Besides, the truth is you can’t get blood from a stone. And after more than 900 posts, frankly this is as good as it gets.

I know. I’m as disappointed as you are.

Nonetheless, here we are at the start of a new year. Even though I believe most of the world only has seventeen days left as of this writing, I’m still going to recommit to recommitting. You can take that to the bank. Although don’t take it to Wells Fargo. They’ll just make you open additional accounts you don't want or need.

Anyway, I’m giving you my word every year from here on out, I’ll make a point of telling you how much better this blog will be. More consistent with postings. More topical with subjects. More entertaining because, let’s face it, when I want to I can bring the funny. I am recommitting to the idea that I will be prolific in the amount of recommitments I’ll be posting.

But let's not forget who we're dealing with. I'm not going to go crazy and be as prolific as say my pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen. Although the stats for 2015 do not lie, and show that thanks to a deliberate effort on my part, I matched his blog post for post and in fact beat his numbers by a solid eight posts for that year. Although the electoral votes still aren’t in yet.

Don't pay no never mind to the numbers for the other years. It's a painful memory.

Besides, I think if committing is good, then recommitting is better. It reminds me year in and year out of the promise I’ve made, even if I have yet to keep it.

It’s not hard for me to recommit to writing more on here.

For one reason, I’m sure you’ve already recommitted to not reading it.

Round here

You may have noticed I haven't written a new post in a while (undisciplined).

And frankly, there have been a lot of reasons for that (laziness).

I've been unbelievably busy with work (couch potato). I've had family obligations (binge watching). I've been concentrating on other projects (lotto tickets).

But I did want to take a few minutes out of my busy schedule (napping) to do something I have never done before—offer a bit of advice to my fellow blogger and swing dance instructor Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen.

Now, normally I don't make it my business to tell anyone else how to do theirs. I don't give other parents advice on how to raise their kids, although God knows with the devil spawn some of them have unleashed on the planet they could use it. I don't offer relationship advice, even though I know the secret to a long and trouble-free relationship most married men find out soon enough involves two words: Yes dear.

But since Rich is a friend of mine, I want the best for him and his blog because, and I think if you're followed me for any length of time and gotten past the crippling disappointment, you know I'm a giver.

So here's the advice: It's time to change the name of your blog. Not that Round Seventeen isn't a fine name, but based on my personal experience as of late, I don't think it's an accurate one anymore.

I can't remember the last time copy got routed less than seventeen times. For starters, once I've used up the entire three to four hours I get to craft a compelling brand story people will relate to, find humor in and want to know more about, it first has to get routed through several of what I like to euphemistically call layers.

The account team.

Strategy.

Account planner.

Product specialist.

Legal.

Associate creative director.

Group creative director.

Proofreading.

Executive creative director.

The cleaning lady on three.

And, if I'm lucky, then it finally makes its way to the client.

That's ten stops it has to make before it gets out the door. And if any of those people have a change, suggestion, idea, whim, opinion, thinks something's missing, thinks something else should be included, forwards a suggestion (mandatory) from the client or just. doesn't. get. it., then, as if I'd written it on a boomerang, it comes back to me for revisions.

After they're made, some well-meaning, highly intelligent, over-worked, underpaid and incredibly organized project manager gets to route it through all those people again. And again. And again.

Every time an "and" gets added. A "the" needs to be included. Disclaimers have to be changed (as if anyone reads them-thanks legal). Something gets underlined. A word gets bolded. An accolade gets deleted. Whatever the change, the copy suits up and does another lap.

By the time it gets back to me to sign off on, we're on round twenty eight. At least. Of course, as any writer in an agency will tell you, it'd be great if it stopped at twenty-eight. But sadly, predictably, it doesn't.

What people don't know about advertising is it's a lot like Groundhog's Day—the same assignments keep coming back over and over until the powers that be decide it's been watered down, legalesed and tamed enough to make it out the door to the client for their changes. I mean approval.

Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. And as I read this over, I see that would be easy to do. Great work, classic advertising, the kind you remember and talk about for years—I'm looking at you Apple 1984 spot—doesn't happen the first time out. I'm fairly certain anything good I've done and I'm proud of took plenty of victory laps around the agency before it saw the light of day. So I do realize in some cases, this painstaking and often frustrating process has its upside.

Anyway Rich, you don't have to do it today, but you probably want to think about a more realistic number for the old blog title. Of course I suppose it's possible a writer of your caliber may not have to go more than seventeen rounds.

And if that's the case, just forget I said anything.

My home boy

My friend, fellow blogger and professional Orca trainer Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen published a post the other day about the joy and resulting consequences of his two daughters returning home from college.

It is the season.

His post hit home because, like the swans trying to return to Capistrano through the radioactive air of San Onofre, my college boy also pulled up stakes and managed to find his way back home from the Lone Star state. Alright, it's not exactly like the swallows and Capistrano, but you get what I was going for.

Anyway, last Thursday night I returned from picking him up at the airport. His 6pm arrival pulled up to the gate at 10:04pm - a four-hour mechanical delay was the culprit. It was a monumental inconvenience, and eviscerated any plans we had for the night. But frankly, I'd much rather the plane be deemed airworthy while it's still on the ground.

When he set foot in the house, he was beyond tired. After a four-hour delay and a two-hour time difference he's lived with for ten months, young Mr. Spielberg was a wee bit cranky. Completely understandable.

The good news is it's like riding a bicycle - a bicycle that's an eating, cash swallowing machine - the imprinted routine of living at home comes rushing back as if he'd never left.

So despite the laundry I know will pile up, the dishes that will inevitably have to be bussed by me, the floorspace that'll be taken up while he plays Arkham Knight again on the Playstation and the never-ending juggling of cars so he can visit with friends he hasn't seen in ten months, I am beyond happy he's home.

I'm happy for another reason which I'm not at liberty to talk about, but let's just say - for reasons that are nothing but good - he may not be spending his sophomore year in Texas. Not that missing the Campus Carry Law going into effect is going to bother me too much.

Side note: when I asked him a while ago what he thought about Campus Carry and if everyone at school was talking about it, he looked at me and said, "Dad, no one's talking about it. It's Texas. Everyone's already carrying a gun."

I'm really happy he's home.

But who's counting

Believe it or not, this is my 200th Rotation and Balance post for this year. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I think the reason I made it to this particular landmark is I'm an exceptionally prolific writer. I'm also disciplined, making it a point to carve out enough time each day to hone and craft my words so that they convey my thoughts precisely and accurately. Plus I have opinions and things to say on a wide variety of topics - hence the tagline in the header about perfecting random.

You know I'm yankin' your chain right? I just want to have more posts this year than Round Seventeen. So far so good, but the year's not over.

The truth is I enjoy writing the blog, and I've heard rumors at least three of you enjoy reading it. And even though I usually like working a big room, that's enough for me to keep doing it (a grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief).

Anyway, since I have to get my 201st ready tomorrow, I'll keep this short.

I don't have any idea what tomorrow's subject will be, and I haven't set aside any time to write it. Maybe I'll slap it together on my lunch break.

I'm just that disciplined.

Book report

I don't make a lot of money from this blog. And by a lot I mean none.

However being in advertising, it's occurred to me from time to time I probably could break open a few corporate wallets by selling ad space on here. After all, the very desirable demographics of my readership are the same as Disneyland's - 8 to 80. Plus it is the happiest blog on earth, so there's that.

Advertisers would have a direct line to the 11 people who read this blog on a regular basis. I know that may not sound like much, but it's 11 people they wouldn't have otherwise.

Before I go climbing up the corporate ladder asking for money, I probably should have proof of concept: an example of how well advertising might work on this site, and could work for them.

So as a trial run, I'm going to plug my pal Rich Siegel's book, Round Seventeen & 1/2: The Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Inefficient.

The title comes from his popular blog of the same name. In it, Rich covers a diverse variety of topics like advertising, sex, the situation in the middle East, why he sucked at being a creative director and poo. More than one post about poo.

Alright, maybe not exactly the same demographics as Disneyland.

Anyway, I haven't read the book yet. But I had lunch with Rich a couple weeks ago, and I did get to hold a proof copy of it. And I have to say, I was duly impressed. It had everything the great, classic books throughout time have had.

There are pages, lot's of 'em. And on almost every single page, words. Lots of 'em. Like Moby Dick and The Bible, it also has a front cover and a back cover.

What more do you need to know? If you need a good laugh, and really, who of us doesn't, then pick up a copy of his book today. You can order your copy here.

And once you're done with it, if you don't mind I'd like to borrow it. Because, you know, twelve bucks is twelve bucks.