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.

Thumbs down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't ask: Taking the middle seat

In my ongoing Don't Ask series I've covered such hot-button issues as moving, watching your stuff, sharing a hotel room and loaning you money to name a few. In tonight's installment, I tackle a topic that makes me very uncomfortable. The middle seat.

The middle is a place I've never cared for much. Middle management. Middle America. Middle earth. Middle of the road. Thanks, but no (being a night owl, I don't mind the middle of the night, but we're going to table that for the purposes of this post).

Let's start at the movies. When I go with friends, often they like to sit dead center in the theater. Alledgedly the picture and sound are calibrated for the optimum movie-going experience in those seats. You know who doesn't have the optimum experience sitting there? Me. My comfort zone is on the aisle—right or left, center or side. Doesn't matter. I've been going to movies my whole life, and I don't feel like I've missed much by sitting on the aisle.

There's a method to my no-center-seat madness. For starters, I'm a not a small guy. I'm built for comfort, not for speed—at least that's what I used to tell my high school girlfriend. I don't like feeling crowded.

I also have the bladder of a three-year old. At some point he'll want it back, but until then I'm using it (I'll be here all week). Because of that inconvenient truth, I don't like having to crawl over strangers in the dark, potentially stepping on their toes or knocking over their stupid bag of popcorn that should've been in their lap instead of on the floor. But can I tell them that? I can't, because there's no talking during the movie. And besides, I don't have time to chat. I need to get to the bathroom.

The other place you'll never find me in the middle seat is on an airplane.

Being the pampered poodle I am, it's always my preference to fly in the front of the plane, where middle seats are imaginary, non-existent things like unicorns or responsible Republicans. People always ask me, "Isn't it really expensive to fly in the front of the plane?" I always give them the same answer: that's what the college fund is for.

But on those occasions where I do find myself in a three-seat row on the plane, my seat choice happens in this order: window, aisle or window or aisle in another row.

I don't fly in the middle seat. Ever. Not to sound mean, but I'm not switching to the middle so you can be closer to your wife who's sitting behind us. Or so you can put a little distance between you and your screaming baby. Not because you're scared of flying and my window/aisle seat would make it easier.

I used to be scared of flying, and look how good I am at it now. Know what helped me get over it? Not flying in the middle seat.

If you somehow find yourself traveling with me, or going to the movies, I promise we'll have a good time. But make sure you set your expectations ahead of time, because when it comes to where I'm sitting, there's no middle ground.

So don't ask.

Start spreading the news

Even though you could probably guess, I'll say it anyway—I love New York. It's the best city in the world, and it vibrates with talent, creativity and possibilities.

As a theater arts major, the fact there's a city where I can go to a Broadway play or two every day is a little bit of heaven on earth for me. I'm always looking for reasons to hop a plane and go there. Fortunately, over the past few years, I've had a couple very good reasons to visit.

The first was to see my friend Holland Taylor perform at the Vivian Beaumont Theater at Lincoln Center in ANN, the play she wrote and starred in about former Texas governor Ann Richards. It was a master class in acting watching Holland literally inhabit the spirt of Ann Richards.

Now you say, "Oh sure, of course he'd say that. He knows her." Just to be clear, she received a Tony nomination for Best Performance By A Leading Actress In A Play for her performance, so apparently I wasn't alone in my thinking.

This past April, the family and I hopped a plane to NY to see Hamilton. We'd had the tickets for a year, and even though it was coming to Los Angeles, we wanted to see it on Broadway. It's one of those rare plays that transcends the massive hype around it—for all you've heard, it's even better than that.

This October, I have yet another reason to head east. I don't know if you know this, but there's this singer from New Jersey I like quite a bit. Come to find out he's doing an 8-week residency on Broadway at the Walter Kerr Theater. It will be a night of stories, music, with just him, the guitar and piano. It's a 946-seat theater, the smallest venue Bruce has played in 35 years. And I'm going to guess at that size, there are no bad seats.

For as hard as it is to get tickets to a regular Springsteen concert, I'm going to wish it was that easy come August 30th when they go on sale. I've already seen one estimate that said it'll sell out in 45 seconds.

While Bruce has never done a show this intimate, I imagine it will look and sound a little something along these lines, minus the farm:

I'm going to say my prayers, keep my fingers crossed, live right, and be nice to everyone I know in New York and just hope I can see this once-in-a-lifetime Springsteen show. I know, I can hear you saying, "Geez, hasn't he been to a billion Springsteen shows? When's it going to be enough?"

That's easy. Never.

Flying Solo

Very often people confuse Hollywood movie stars with the characters they play.

For example, I'm fairly sure Christian Bale isn't Batman. James McAvoy doesn't have twenty-three different personalities. Tom Hanks doesn't sit on park benches eating chocolates. And apparently Harrison Ford isn't quite the pilot Han Solo is.

In his second publicized airplane event, Ford mistakenly landed on the taxiway instead of the runway at John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California. In the process, he flew dangerously close over an American Airlines 737 that was on the taxiway waiting for clearance to take off.

Contrary to popular belief, after airport officials questioned him, his first question was not, "You mean this isn't Alderaan?"

Landing a role isn't like landing a plane. And unlike his Star Wars aircraft, there was no chance his old biplane was going to make the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs.

Instead, it just sputtered to a bad landing, which may cost Ford suspension or even revocation of his pilot's license.

This incident comes on the heels of bringing his plane down for a hard landing on a golf course in Santa Monica a couple years ago, and being seriously injured in the process.

Commercial pilots have a mandatory retirement age of 65. Ford is 74. And even though there's no such age limit for recreational pilots, and while he's an experienced, respected one, there does come a time when reflexes, vision, concentration, memory and alertness just aren't what they used to be.

For me that time is in status meetings.

Anyway, in the same way I believe drivers of a certain age should be required to regularly prove their abilities before they get behind the wheel, pilots should also have to be tested to see if they're airworthy.

My guess is that Ford will just get a temporary suspension of his license, and then be back in the air. It's one of the perks of being one of the biggest movie stars in the world. And naturally, however long that suspension is, at the end of it he'll be even older than he is now.

Or as Han would say, "Here's where the real fun starts."

A way out

If you follow me on Facebook, you know what was once a snarky, funny, advertising-bashing feed has turned into one long, deservedly anti-Trump rant 24/7. In light of that, this post may surprise you with its sympathetic tone.

Here's what we all know: Mr. Trump never thought he was going to win the presidency, which was fine with him because he never really wanted the job. What he wanted was publicity and his name in the papers and broadcast news everyday. Then he was going to leverage his provable popularity into a favorable deal for a Trump Network, where one can only assume you'd be able to find reruns of man-crush Sean Hannity, and yet another reboot of the Odd Couple starring Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh (SPOILER ALERT: Limbaugh's the sloppy one).

I know the nation wants a way out, and doggone it, judging from how tired he looks and incoherent his thoughts seem to be, I bet Mr. Trump does too.

I'd like to suggest he write a resignation letter, a bold, unexpectedly honest letter to the Secretary of State—who is the person who accepts that letter—and the nation, and simply explain the situation.

And because I'm a giver at heart, I'd like to offer him this draft:

Dear Mr. Secretary of State,

Well, it's been a crazy few weeks. Certainly far more active in every sense than I would've expected. Executive orders, banning Muslims, repealing Obamacare, the protests. Frankly, I'm spent.

Here's the thing: I never wanted the job. I had the kind of life many people admired. Money, beautiful wife, children I like a great deal, my own building in mid-town Manhattan. Don't forget the jet—pretty nice rolling up to runway 25 Left and seeing that baby fueled and ready.

Anyway, the point is I'm tendering my resignation as President of the United States. I believe my biggest campaign promise of bringing the nation together has been done. Mission accomplished. Have you seen those protests? You tell me the last time people were united like that. You're welcome.

Effective immediately, Mike Pence will assume the office of President. Now, Pence is not the ideal man for the job, and let's face it—I'm a tough act to follow. But he knows how government works much better than I do, and he's less likely to launch the missiles over a disagreement. I can admit it, I've got a temper. I'm working on it.

Besides, I was never going to help my base anyway. Did they really think I cared if they had jobs or not? I mean, I could hire a few of them to pull weeds on the back nine at Mar-A-Lago, but that would still leave a lot of them needing jobs.

I know the mayhem I've caused. But it was a wild ride, no? And Pence will look like a hero just for not getting everyone killed. You're welcome Mike.

I also miss Melania. She never cared for D.C. very much, and I can't blame her. I want to be back at Trump Tower, tweeting without all these people telling me not to, and not causing havoc when I say what's on my mind. Which, as you know, is subject to change even within the same sentence.

Frankly, the longer I'm here the more I recognize two things. First, who needs the aggravation? And number two, Obama handled this much better than I can. He's smart, he's calm, he's well spoken. For a guy born in Kenya, you can't do better.

So that's it. United the people. Put America first. Got Alec Baldwin a steady gig. It's time to go back to private life. Johnny, fuel Trump One for take off. Moscow, then Manhattan.

It's been tremendous people, but we're done here. God bless me, and God bless the United States of America.

Although they won't need it nearly as much now that I'm gone.

Yours truly,
President the Donald

Travelin' man

Depending how much you enjoy packing five days worth of clothes into a carry-on, TSA pat downs, crying babies (on the plane, not at the agency), and off brand hotels your per diem more than covers (always a bad sign), travel can be one of the better perks of working at an advertising agency.

In the early stages of my career (pauses to consider fraudulent use of the word "career"), it seemed everyone was looking for a reason to walk the jetway as often as possible. It usually boiled down to one of three: an out-of-town client meeting, shooting on location (“We open on the Eiffel Tower...”) and the occasional new business pitch (“Every agency needs a casino…”).

A fourth reason that comes up a few times a year is award shows (Cannes) and seminars (wherever Adweek’s having one this week), but those are usually reserved for agency brass. After all they're the ones who've been working on their acceptance speech for your work for a couple weeks, so they should at least get to go.

Traveling for work on someone else’s dime is an easy inconvenience to get used to. Right up until you come home and realize the baby you left a week ago grew two inches while you were away.

Or you missed the piano recital your middle-schooler has been practicing for two months.

And that thing you wanted to do around the house didn’t get done by itself.

Travel happens to be on my mind because I’m currently on an out-of-town gig in San Francisco. A city I love, working with people I enjoy a great deal. If I wasn’t being put up in a hotel that's like the Hotel Earle in Barton Fink - without the warmth - the trip would be perfect.

Since the advent of digital, email and FaceTime, the need to travel doesn’t rear its head very often. I’ve worked for agencies in cities all across the country right from the pampered poodle comfort of my own living room. And let’s just say when I did I was always dressed for the office. Mine, not theirs.

For whatever reason, this San Francisco agency, who I’ve worked with from home for a year and a half, decided for this particular project they wanted me in the office live and in person this week. Happy to oblige.

So here’s the bottom line: Yes I miss the dog (when he’s behaving). Yes I miss the family (when they're behaving). I do miss having my own car (when it's behaving), although I’m getting to be the Lyft king of San Francisco and now know more about Lyft drivers than I ever wanted to.

On the flip side, at the end of the day, I get to walk out the door, be smacked in the face by the breeze coming in off the bay, and I'm in San Francisco. I like to file this under "things could be worse."

To sum it up then, travel is good this time. Missing home is tolerable (I'll be back tonight). I'm in a great city, with lots of chowder and sourdough. And, most importantly, the checks clear.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go present a storyboard to the creative director.

In the first frame, we open on the Eiffel Tower.

Flying with your eyes closed

I was at lunch with one old and one new friend yesterday, and one of the topics that came up was the ability to sleep on planes.

Yet another skill I can add to the list of ones I don't have, along with card counting, lion taming and crowd estimating.

It's an eclectic list.

I have nothing but admiration for people who can do it. It must be nice to fall asleep as the plane is taking off in L.A., and open your eyes just as you're landing in New York.

Of course then you don't get to pick out all the hidden nuclear missile silos in the middle of the country (Here's a hint: the big circles with no crops around them).

My wife is blessed, and not just by being married to me. She has the talent, skill and God-given ability to close her eyes and sleep no matter where she is. When we fly places, she's literally out before the plane pulls out of the gate. Me? I keep busy making sure the in-flight entertainment has Comedy Central and I have enough magazines to get me across country.

On some flights, I can manage to get as far as drowsy. But I just can't go all the way. Which reminds me of something my high school girlfriend used to tell me.

Anyway, kudos to those of you who can dream of clouds while your head's in them. I wish I could do it.

If we're ever flying together and I have the window seat, I'll try not to wake you when I have to crawl over you to get to the bathroom.

And if I do, I'll just say you were dreaming.

Five good things about advertising. You read that right.

I don't know whether you've noticed, but every once in a great while I use this blog to rag on advertising, the monster egos, the hipster planners and the open space seating (don't get me started).

But don't get the wrong idea. Despite my occasional rants, there are great things about working in advertising you don't get in, say, the insurance industry. Or working for the DMV. For example getting to dress like a fourteen-year old every day. Free food every single place you turn. Enjoying some of the most creative people you'll ever meet in any business on a daily basis.

Plus covered parking if you get to work early enough. So I hear.

Anyway it occurred to me I've had some great things happen as a result of being in the biz, and I don't talk about them nearly enough. But all of that's about to change. Here are five good things that've happened because I'm in the business I'm in:

1. I met my wife.

Of all the things that've happened and I've experienced since I've worked in advertising, I have to say the very best has been meeting my wife.

And when I say I have to say, I mean I have to say.

She was on an agency tour her first day, and they brought her around to the creative directors' office where I happened to be. I saw her in the doorway and thought "She's kind of cute." She saw me and thought, "OK, I can work with this."

She is the wind beneath my wings, the woman behind the man. She is my editor - yes I have one - and my best friend. She has the patience of a saint, although she doesn't really need it because being married to me is a walk in the park. Central Park at midnight, but still.

She makes me, my writing and my life better than it had any chance of being without her.

Well I think I've banked enough marriage points for one night, don't you? Love you honey.

2. I saw Springsteen in Atlanta.

I've worked on Taco Bell at three different agencies in my career (pauses until giggles are over for using the word career). And all three times, I had a great relationship with the client.

The first agency I worked on the account, the client was also a Springsteen fan. So when she went on a thirteen-market store tour, one of the stops was Atlanta, and it happened to be the same night as Springsteen was playing at the Omni.

She called their local market agency, and had them get some killer seats for the concert (media people can do anything). Then she called my agency in L.A., and told them to fly me to Atlanta so I could see the show with her and a few franchisees. My creative director told her I was swamped and wouldn't be able to make the trip. She told him she wasn't asking.

Next thing I knew, I was in a Lincoln Town Car on my way to LAX for a flight to Atlanta. That was a great day in advertising. And it was a great show.

3. I talked to Lee Clow about German Shepherds.

If you're not in advertising and don't know who Lee Clow is, suffice it to say he's an advertising legend. The real deal. Google him now.

If you're in advertising and you don't know who Lee Clow is, then you're not in advertising.

I freelanced for almost a year at Chiat Day, working on the Uncle Ben's account. I sat right behind Lee's office. Since Chiat is an extremely dog friendly agency, one day I brought the world's greatest dog, my long-haired German Shepherd Max to work with me. He was two and half at the time.

I started to walk Max past Lee's office, and Lee, who was with a group of people across the agency, saw him and immediately came over to us. He got down on his knees, started petting Max and asking me about him. Then he took us in his office, where he showed me pictures of his shepherds, both past and present. One of them looked startlingly like Max.

We talked about a half hour, not just about the dogs but about advertising in general, life, family, and then the shepherds again. Then he had to get back to the meeting he'd left when he came over to us. When Max and I came out of his office, the Associate Creative Director who'd brought me in for the job saw us walking out with him. He came up to me after and said, "What was that about?" To which I replied, "Geez it gets so old. Every day, it's 'Jeff, how would you do it?'"

4. I overcame my fear of flying.

You'd never know it now, but I used to have a horrible fear of flying. Now I just have a horrible fear of flying coach.

I'd go out of my way and do just about anything not to get on a plane. One time, I took at train to San Antonio, Texas for a client meeting. At the time, the head of the agency thought I was being creative. Today he'd just think I'm an idiot.

Anyway, years ago I wound up freelancing at Foote, Cone and Belding in San Francisco. I lived in Santa Monica. But I figured it was only an hour flight twice a week, and the odds were in my favor I'd be fine.

Turns out my first week, I flew to San Francisco, then to Dallas for focus groups, then back to San Francisco, then to Atlanta (also for focus groups), then back to San Francisco, then to L.A. for a friend's going away party, then back up to San Francisco. Seven flights the first week. There were also weeks I'd go back and forth from L.A. two or three times.

I earned a lot of United miles, got upgraded frequently and learned to love flying. A friend of mine even gave me a charm that says Flyboy. Of course statistically, flying is still the safest way to travel. And the nicest. Did I mention the upgrades?

5. The friends I keep.

Maybe the best thing about working in advertising are the people I get to work with (for the most part - you know who you are). I get to hang with exceptionally creative people I learn from, and who force me to raise my game every time. We're in the advertising foxhole together, and it makes even the worst days more bearable.

There you have it. Now you can't accuse me of not saying anything nice about advertising. And if I'm going to be truthful, there are many other good things to say about it. So much so, I was thinking maybe I should turn this into an ongoing series of posts, like my wildly successful Don't Ask, Guilty Pleasures or Things I Love About Costco series. But then, I had another thought.

Let's not get carried away.