Place your credit card in the upright position

Surprisingly, thank God, there are still a few things you don’t know about me. One of them is I used to be deathly afraid of flying. So much so in fact, that years ago I couldn’t bring myself to get on a plane to New York to actually meet Bruce Springsteen and party with him at an SNL after party.

Long story. I’m not proud.

However I’m pleased to tell you—and if you're flying with me you'll be pleased to hear—that’s no longer the case, and hasn’t been for the last twenty-eight years. The way I conquered my fear of flying was simple: I wound up doing a whole lot of it.

When I lived in Santa Monica, I got a freelance gig at Foote Cone Belding in San Francisco. Since these were the before days when you actually had to be in the office, that meant I had to commute up there on Monday mornings and back down on Friday nights. I figured even though I’d be sweating like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News, I could probably white knuckle my way through a forty-eight minute flight twice a week.

Well imagine my surprise when my first week on the job I flew up to San Francisco, then separate round trips to Dallas and Atlanta for focus groups, then back to San Francisco to pick up my clothes at the hotel, back to Los Angeles for a friends birthday party then back up to the bay area.

It was immersion therapy—nine flights in one week.

In the nine months I commuted back and forth, sometimes two or three times a week, I got extremely comfortable with flying. I learned what the noises were. I chatted with pilots. I educated myself about different planes (Boeing 757, sports car of the Boeing fleet). And since I did most of my commuting to the bay and back on United, when the pilot made it available I also listened to channel nine, which was the communications between the plane and various flight controllers along the route.

My thinking was if they’re not worried, I’m not worried.

All this to say the other thing I figured out while I was logging all that airtime is where I like to sit on the plane so I’m the most comfortable and the least stressed.

Here’s a hint: it’s not in the back.

I’d buy books of upgrade coupons and, depending what sections the aircraft was divided into, fly in either first or business every time. One time I flew the eleven minute flight from San Francisco to Monterey and upgraded to first. My motto was, and still is, no trip to short for first.

I know how that sounds. But even though there's no upside in it, I have to face facts—I’m not a small person. And a wider seat—on the chair, not on me—makes flying much easier. Dare I say, enjoyable.

In yet another example of bad parenting, I've tried to pass this philosophy on to my kids, although it hasn’t stuck. Fortunately their current incomes dictates where they sit on the plane. So does mine, but then I figure that’s what credit cards are for.

If you happen to be flying somewhere with me and don't want to pony up for the front of the plane, I understand completely. Just know it'll be like that episode of Seinfeld, where Jerry is flying with Elaine but there’s only one open seat in first and he takes it.

Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk after we land.

One cool cat

If you know anything about me — and if you don't, go back and read the previous twelve-hundred posts, I'll wait here — it'll be pretty clear I'm without a doubt quite the vocal dog lover. I love most dogs, especially the larger breeds. The kind that lets me send my kid to the liquor store at midnight and say "Dad needs a beer. Take the dog."

I'm particularly partial to German Shepherds. I'm currently on my second one, Ace, who was a rescue and is just the sweetest boy. And of course before him, there was the world's greatest dog, Max. You can read Max's story in the wonderful, moving, heartfelt, funny, beautiful labor-of-love book Gone Dogs, available here. Or here. And even here.

But despite being a dog person, I have a secret I don't tell many people. However given the readership numbers here I feel pretty safe in, shall we say, letting the cat out of the bag (sorry).

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I had a cat. Her name was Mr. Kitty. And I loved her.

The short story is Mr. Kitty was a stray who followed my then girlfriend now wife home and never left. So right off the bat we had something in common.

We named her Mr. Kitty because we weren't close enough to check out the equipment, so we went with that.

Mr. Kitty would show up at my girlfriend's door every night. We'd feed her, take her on walks around the block (she just followed us) and then bring her in for the night where she'd sleep on my head. We'd let her out in the morning when we were leaving for work, and she'd always be there to greet us when we got home.

When we moved into my apartment in Santa Monica, even though there were no pets allowed we brought Mr. Kitty with us. We'd hide her when the maintenance people had to come in, or when the fire alarms in the building went off and we'd have to walk down seventeen flights of stairs with her disguised under a blanket or in a box.

A close friend of ours who's a veterinarian estimated she was about four years old. She was seventeen when we had to say goodbye to her. So for thirteen years, I had a cat.

Who slept on my head.

Who I gave subcutaneous fluids to everyday for years for her kidney disease.

Who when she got seriously old and ill, I gave cat enemas to so she could do her business without straining or being in pain. This was something I could've gone my whole life without knowing how to do and I would've been just fine.

When my son was born, someone gave us a Moses basket as a gift. But we never used it for my son. We put it under his crib, and it became Mr. Kitty's bed when she got to be too old and weak to hop up on ours.

Not long after, the time came to say goodbye. We took her to my vet friend, and I held her on my lap as she passed. I cried every time I thought about it for weeks after. I still do.

So when people say I don't know what it's like having a cat, a small, knowing smile comes across my unfairly handsome face. I know they're wrong. I know exactly what it's like, because I had the coolest cat ever.

Which is the reason I don't want another one.

That, and the fact Ace has another name for cats. He calls them appetizers.

Goodbye Garry

I had lunch with Garry Shandling in New York.

Years ago, the wife and I had gone back to visit our friend Kevin, who was living there and working on SNL at the time. We were going to meet him and his wife at the time for lunch at the now defunct Cafe Des Artistes. When we were confirming lunch, Kevin said, "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Shandling and one of his writers to join us."

We were good with it.

We all met at the restaurant, and there was an additional person at the table who I didn't know. Come to find out later he was the president of PETA, which Kevin's wife was very involved with.

Shandling sat next to my wife, and, either not knowing or not caring, spent most of the lunch talking to her and hitting on her. As you might imagine, it was hysterical.

I don't remember many of the lines, but at one point, obviously for the PETA president's benefit, he asked my wife, "I want to get a new haircut, but I'm nervous about how it'll look so I want to try it out on my dog first. Is that considered animal testing?"

A few weeks later, the wife and I were shopping on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica (where we lived at the time), and we wandered into this antique furniture store. We were looking at one of those two-person desks when Shandling walked in. We reminded him we'd all had lunch in New York, and had a nice conversation with him for about twenty minutes.

Here are a couple things he told us: he started out as a copywriter in New York, and ironically had written on Suntory Whiskey - an account I'd worked on at Wells Rich Greene early in my career (stops to laugh hysterically for using the word "career").

Early in 1998, I sat down and wrote two episodes of his influential and landmark Larry Sanders Show. I thought they were pretty good, and I asked Kevin if he'd read them and, if he liked them, would he mind passing them on to Garry.

Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is Kevin liked the scripts. The bad news was it was right at the point when Garry was pulling the plug on the show. In comedy, timing is everything.

A couple years ago, the wife and I saw Shandling again at Kevin's birthday party. While it was a star-studded affair, we both felt a personal connection to him. We didn't know him well, but we'd been fortunate enough to spend time on the receiving end of his remarkable humor and unmistakable kindness.

I could go on about how revolutionary both It's Garry Shandling's Show and The Larry Sanders Show were, but you'll be hearing and reading a lot about that in the coming days. Besides, the work speaks for itself.

Sadly, and all too soon, as of this morning the world is a far less funny place. However, if you know anyone in heaven, you might want to let them know there's going to be a killer set tonight around 9pm at The Laff Stop on Cloud 9. Two drink minimum. Look for the brick wall and the mic.

You're in our hearts forever. Goodbye Garry. Rest in peace.

Sticking the landing

When I freelanced in San Francisco for nine months, I was living in Santa Monica. I'd fly up every Monday morning, and back every Friday night. Occasionally, I'd have to come back a time or two mid-week. What I'm saying is lots of take-offs and landings.

Landings, with all they imply, are a welcome part of any flight. It means the screaming baby in 11B will soon be a thing of the past, you'll be able to take your iPhone off airplane mode and, provided you don't clobber someone taking your carry-on out of the overhead, you'll never have to see, make small talk or apologize to any of these people again.

What I've noticed a lot, especially in the age of discount airlines, is that when landing, a lot of times pilots simply come in hot. They have schedules to make, flight attendants to diddle (make sure they're fastened low and tight across your waist) or another plane to pilot. They're in a hurry to touchdown.

We've all been on that flight where you feel your bones rattle when the plane slams onto the runway, and then a flight attendant blows the dust off some old joke over the P.A. like, "As you may have noticed, we've just dropped into Kennedy."

Rare is a pilot who manages to stick the landing. I was fortunate enough to have one on my flight this morning.

It's family weekend at young Mr. Spielberg's university. So the wife and I hopped JetBlue to the red state to see our boy. When we touched down, it was barely noticeable if you weren't looking out the window and watching the ground come up. The wheels hit the asphalt with a gentle, feather touch. Both of them in sync, making contact at the same time. No loud screech of the rubber hitting the road. No one gear down and then the other. There wasn't a person within earshot who could stop talking about how perfect it was.

So kudos and many thanks to the JetBlue pilot(s) this morning. You gave a cabin full of sleepy, weary travelers a gentle reminder how the talents of a skilled pilot can make getting where you're going much more pleasant.

To everyone who flies, I wish for you what I had today. Happy landings.

His aim is true

There's a special running on cable right now called Elvis Costello: Mystery Dance. As you might expect, it deals with the life and career of the other Elvis.

Like most people, the first time I heard Elvis was on his album, My Aim Is True. Alison was the number one hit, and I loved it. So when Elvis came to the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, along with Nick Lowe and Link Wray, I was in.

I don't remember much about how the music sounded. What I remember most is that after about a twenty-five minute set, Elvis kicked over one of the giant speakers and stormed offstage. Punk movement. Angry young man. You get the picture.

I've seen Elvis many, many times since. And I'm always in awe of two things: how prolific a songwriter he is, and his endless versatility. From rock, to jazz, to country to classical, Elvis attacks every genre and infuses it with originality and the uniqueness of his sound.

One of the great concerts the wife and I went to was Elvis with the Brodsky Quartet at Royce Hall. We sat sixth row center, right in front of Jackson Browne (maybe if he had some connections he could've gotten better seats). My wife used to play classical violin, and she loves Elvis. So this was the perfect concert for her.

It was perfect for everyone. It was exceptional.

A few years ago, Elvis opened for Sting at the Hollywood Bowl. During that performance, he invited the fifteen-thousand people there to a free midnight show he was doing at the El Rey Theater later that night.

I don't have many regrets, but not showing up at the El Rey at midnight that night is definitely one of them.

Anyway, just a quick post to say I love his music.

And I'm pretty confident he won't be leaving the building anytime soon.

Riding the news cycle

If you've been anywhere on planet earth this week, you know Harrison Ford crash landed his vintage plane on Pen Mar Golf Course in Santa Monica. As you'd expect, the farce and con that is social media ran rampant with Han Solo, Millennium Falcon, Chewie, Indiana Jones and Brian Williams jokes. I've included a couple of my favorites.

Fortunately Mr. Ford survived the landing with a cut head, broken ankle and fractured pelvis.

He's a big star so it's a big story. But here's the thing: is this story about his wife racing to the hospital to be at his side news?

Obviously Calista Flockhart has read the celebrity wife manual, which states very clearly in section 4a, paragraph 3.1.1, that a wife must race to her husband's side if he's been in a plane crash.

It's a good thing she has the manual, because how else would she have known what to do?

It's sad when something so natural and decent and expected becomes a news story. It exploits their pain, and even though they're public figures I believe they have a right to privacy - such as it is with the interwebs - just like the rest of us.

Besides, if the news uses headlines to report on a wife going to her husband after an accident, it means I have to look harder for the story about Kim Kardashian dying her hair blonde.

Seeing red

There's good news and there's bad news.

The good news is that for the past week, and the next couple coming up, I'm working in Santa Monica. I lived here for almost 20 years, and the city feels like home to me. I can see the ocean from my office, the sunsets are stunning and I know the shortcuts when I need to get where I'm going.

The bad news is those shortcuts don't do jack for me at quittin' time.

See that red cross going from where the 10 freeway starts to where it intersects with the 405? That's what I have to navigate every night to get out of the west side, and then crawl the rest of the way home to Long Beach.

As I've said many times here, I grew up on the mean streets of west L.A., north of Wilshire. And I don't want to become one of those guys that starts a lot of sentences with "back then", but back then this was a precision driving town. People knew how to maneuver. They knew how to go with the flow.

Which is hard to do if the flow's not going.

It's also gotten a lot more crowded since I was a kid. I blame it on the Rose Parade.

Every January, at the same time the rest of the country is digging out from fifteen feet of snow, playing hopscotch over downed power lines and holding on to lamp posts so they don't blow away, they're also watching the Kiwanis Club float celebrating "Togetherness Through Diversity" and the Davis High School Marching Band on television, and seeing the clear, beautiful and often warm sunny January days we get to enjoy here.

So everyone watching sells their house and moves here. The majority of them from the east coast. The thing about the east coast is they actually have public transportation that works, so many times the car they're driving here is their first one.

Which is no news to you if you've ever been on the 405 at rush hour.

Cruising the root canal

I went to the dentist today.

I try to keep my visits down to the twice a year cleanings, and not just because of the usual reasons. So happens my dentist is in Santa Monica, which works out to a 60-mile round trip. Yes they have dentists in Long Beach, but mine is not only the world's best dentist, the practice happens to be owned by my very good friend's uncle.

And in dentistry, like Hollywood, it's who you know.

Anyway, the reason for the visit, or so I thought, was to get a filling for a cavity. Wasn't too happy about it. I've been a member of the No Cavity Club for a long time, and as of today I had to surrender my membership.

Turns out I had more than a cavity to be unhappy about.

The cavity was fairly close to the gum line (queasy yet?), and once my dentist started drilling, he decided he better stop and take an x-ray to see how far down the decay was. It was far enough to need a root canal.

I'm not new to the root canal circuit. I've had two before, plus crowns, both in the back bottom teeth. My first thought was "Gosh, another root canal. I'm so glad we're doing this! He'll save the tooth and it'll be better than ever!"

No it wasn't. My first thought was "Crap, the last time this cost $2500 a tooth."

Until I'd had my first root canal - and you never forget your first - I was terrified of them. I imagined incredible pain, swollen chipmunk cheeks, sleepless nights and soup through a straw for days. Come to find out root canal technology has advanced along with everything else. It really was no worse than getting a filling.

The only thing that hurt afterwards was my wallet.

P.S. If I could've embedded the Bill Murray root canal clip from Little Shop Of Horrors I would've. Does that answer your question?

Goodbye Epstein

Robert Hegyes died today. He was 60 years old.

Those old enough to remember know him best from the '70's show Welcome Back Kotter, where he played Jewish-Puerto Rican student Juan Epstein.

But that's not where I know him best from.

Robert Hegyes was my neighbor when I lived in Santa Monica. I lived on the 17th floor of twin high-rise towers right at the beach (don't get me started), and Hegyes lived downstairs from me on the 16th floor. I saw him almost daily in the hallways, elevators, laundry room and by the mailboxes.

We spoke often, and he was just a great guy. High energy, always had something going - a pilot, a screenplay, a meeting.

A couple of times I saw him in the elevator with his pal John Travolta (remind me to tell you about the time my roommate brought Travolta to our apartment in Brentwood while I was sleeping and didn't wake me up - it's okay, I'm over it). Anyway it was funny because on those occasions Travolta would just look down at the floor and not say a word, and Hegyes would be just as chatty and personable with me as ever.

He always insisted on being called Bobby, and, despite the fact we weren't really close friends, was always interested in what was going on with me and what I was up to.

I always wanted Bobby to find the kind of success he'd had with Kotter. It seemed to me with all the positive energy he projected out into the world, and the happiness he'd brought so many people in the past, that he deserved it.

Over the fourteen years since we moved from Santa Monica, my wife and I have thought of and talked about him, his wife and his kids many times.

He has always been in our very best thoughts.

Which is exactly where he is tonight.