Don't ask: Borrowing my phone charger

What's better than one sequel to a popular series of blogposts? Several sequels. Which makes today your lucky day as yet one more post gets added to my outrageously successful Don't Ask series.

I assume you're already familiar with the classics (and if you're not, don't burst my bubble - just let me think you are): Don't Ask: Watching Your Stuff, Don't Ask: Working the Weekend, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Writing a Letter For You, Don't Ask: Sharing a Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Picking Up at the Airport, and the perennial Don't Ask: Moving - one of the most popular and requested of all.

While several other series remain dormant on this blog, like Guilty Pleasures, Things I Was Wrong About, The Luckiest Actor Alive and Why I Love Costco, this particular series continues to flourish thanks to the fact there's just no end to the things I refuse to do.

Tonight's entry is Don't Ask: Borrowing my phone charger. Here's the thing: phone chargers used to be expensive, especially if you were buying them at the Apple store. So most people just have the one that comes with the phone, and stays at home. They either charge the phone overnight and hope it lasts, or depend on the kindness of others to loan them their chargers at work.

My charger-loaning kindness is at 0%.

Instead of absconding with my charger—and making me hunt you down to get it back—there's no reason you can't have a backup charger all your own to keep with you at all times. They sell them everywhere. From the checkout counter at CVS (next to the nail clippers) to the checkout line at Nordstrom Rack (next to the hair ties).

They come in all colors, lengths and not only do they improve how long your battery lasts, they also improve how long our friendship will last. Win-win.

Don't get me wrong: next time the battery icon in the upper right of your home screen is in the red, by all means do the sensible thing and ask if you can borrow someone's charger.

Just don't ask me.

The right connections

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

Stop talking, it's a rhetorical question.

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

All the same reasons I like to fly nonstop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The plane truth

Hey pal, can you spare $371 million? I'll pay you back.

You're probably wondering what I want with that kind of green. I'm not gonna lie: I want my own plane, specifically a new Boeing 777.

Now I know what you're saying. Jeff you say, think of how many people we could feed with that kind of money. How many homes we could build. All the college tuitions it could pay for. Yeah yeah, sure sure. In case you haven't read a White House approved news source lately, this is the age of Trump (sorry, I just threw up a little when I typed that). And the new way we're making decisions is "What's in it for me?"

For $371 million, what's in it for me is my own plane.

I've flown commercially for too many years, and frankly, I'm tired of the massive inconvenience of it all. Getting to the airport early. Going through security, even with the TSA express line. Mechanical delays. Crew delays. And two words that should strike terror into the heart of anyone who travels by air: middle seat.

I didn't always want my own plane. However over the past couple years, I've been watching our dipshit president take-off and (unfortunately) land in his own badly painted, ugly jet. Also, the idea of a jumbo jet like Air Force One being fueled and ready to go anytime has always been appealing. But an aircraft doesn't have to be on that scale to trigger my desire for one. Drive to McCarren Airport from the Vegas strip, and you'll go past their private jet tarmac. As Springsteen sings in Cadillac Ranch, there they sit buddy just-a-gleamin' in the sun.

Private jets ready to go on a moment's notice. Or a whim.

I'm all too aware I could avoid the maintenance, cost and headaches of my own jet if I just took NetJet or other private jet sharing services. But I don't for the same reason I've never leased a car. If I'm going to be making a monthly payment on something, at the end I want to own it. (Note to self: check monthly payments on $371 million.)

I suppose there are lots of smaller, starter jets I could have for my first plane. But that would be settling. After all, they don't have a range of 8,700 nautical miles. They can't carry between 350-375 passengers. They don't have larger windows. Or twin-aisles.

You're probably wondering when I'd need to carry 375 people. Well, if you've seen my Facebook page, you know I have more than that many followers. With my brand new 777 they could follow me from the comfort of the coach section.

Buying the jet is the easy decision. There are plenty more to be made. What will the color palette be? Which designer will create the crew uniforms? Who will be the lucky chef who gets to prepare the five-star meals? I'll definitely need to take a few days and think these things through.

I'm not going to give myself a deadline for making the purchase. After all I know it'll take a little time to raise the money. But the second I have it, you'll be able to find me sitting in my favorite position.

Upright and locked.

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.

Turnaround

I was in Austin for a few lovely days, and then flew back last night. I was home about eleven hours, unpacked, re-packed, then was back on a plane to San Francisco this morning.

By the way, lest you get any ideas about paying the house a visit, my German Shepherd, alarm system, wife, and, the thing you should be most afraid of – my teenage daughter – are still on full alert guarding the ponderosa.

It all feels very jetset-y, until you’re waiting at baggage claim and three planes worth of luggage come cascading down the slide onto the carousel, and everybody pushes you out of the way shouting, "Mine's the black one!"

Then it feels like water-boarding would be a viable option, for them. Not you.

There’s a rhythm to travel, hopping from one plane and place to the next, blowing into town long enough to see the family, then heading out again until next time. Like jogging and eating beets, if you do it often enough you build endurance for it. I think what I’ve learned is I don’t do it often enough.

The glamour of air travel is a long, lost notion – something I wrote about here four years ago. As far as I can tell, now it’s just mainly exhausting.

But, and it's a big but, just like the person in the middle seat next to me on the way up here, I have to confess - I still like the process. Getting the flight I want. Choosing my favorite window seat (aisle seats are for people who think flight is just a theory). Seeing what kind of plane I'll be on. I also like the perks that come with sitting in the front of the plane: early boarding, a bathroom less traveled, bigger seats, more space and eavesdropping on the flight attendants as they tell passenger horror stories.

If I sound like I'm sending mixed signals, it's because I am. I like it, and I don't like it. Not unlike my high school girlfriend.

It's hard to believe years ago I used to have a crippling fear of flying considering how much I love it now. I guess if I'd known about that front of the plane thing I would've gotten over it a lot sooner. I used to take what I called my "Flights To Nowhere," four or six flights a day between cities just to rack up mileage so I could maintain my Premier status in United's frequent flyer program. Like Clooney in Up In The Air, I didn't do anything, buy anything or stay anywhere that didn't reward me miles towards my goal. I even had a nickname: Flyboy.

Anyway, these days flying for me has become utilitarian instead of recreational. Which is okay.

Because the truth is now that I've racked up all those miles, I'd hate to use them.

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.

Eye in the sky

Sometimes I really love technology.

For example, today my daughter had a flight on Delta from Los Angeles to Nashville. I can already see you being judgmental from here, but just know it wasn't me who put her on Delta. I'm not that kind of parent. It's a school trip to a singing competition, and the choir director was responsible for booking the flight.

I'd have gone with Jet Blue or American, and my little princess definitely would've been sitting in the front of the plane because she's the best daughter in the world and deserves first class all the way.

I've scored enough dad points for one night.

The technology I love is the FlyDelta app. It let's me track where my baby is in real time with all the essential information: departure time, estimated arrival time, altitude, time in flight, time remaining and a map of where she is at any given moment.

Every airline has a similar app, but Delta's, unlike the airline itself, is fairly intuitive.

I like knowing when she lands. That way when she calls me an hour and a half later and says "I just landed." I have a card to play later on I can use as leverage for things like room cleaning, or laundry doing, or car borrowing (not that she'd ever do that, because she's as honest as the day is long - more dad points).

My son also flies back and forth a lot from his out-of-state university, and when he does I have my eyes on his airline flight app as well. My babies mean the world to me and I like knowing they've arrived safely.

To me, the airline apps that let me track flight status is technology at its peace of mind given', stress relievin', parentally reassurin', easy breathin' best.

I just hope I can find one to make sure she doesn't listen to country music when she gets back.

I bought myself some Time

Today I did something I love to do, and don't do nearly enough (pausing for a minute while you get that thought out of your sick little head). I bought the latest issue of Time magazine.

My dad worked at a newsstand for years, so I think I come by my love of magazines honestly. Right up there with Springsteen concerts, Breaking Bad and eating sushi, buying magazines hot of the presses brings me great joy.

When I fly, I get to the airport early to peruse the magazines at the gift shop. It's especially rewarding because they're always the first to get the latest issues. I give careful consideration to them, but I always walk out with the same ones: usually an Esquire, GQ, People, Fortune and Entertainment Weekly. Occasionally one of the car rags, but because I get enough of those at work they're not always on the top of my list.

I talked here about how I'll never use e-readers and why I prefer the experience of real books and magazines. I still feel that way, even though I admit I find myself doing more reading online on news sites about topics I would've picked up a magazine for in the past.

The reason I picked up this weeks' copy of Time was because it's the Answers issue. Ironically it didn't have the answers I was looking for.

Anyway, this isn't going to be the start of a new magazine subscription frenzy. My family got Newsweek for over forty years, and I continued the tradition right up until they stopped publication. That was the longest magazine subscription I ever had or will have. I even managed to save a few of the more important issues (like the Springsteen cover) and have them locked away in storage ("Hello, eBay?").

Right now I have subscriptions to Fortune, FastTimes, Los Angeles Magazine and Entertainment Weekly.

But unless my bathroom or my coffee table get bigger, I don't see getting more anytime soon.

Pod squad

You simply cannot overestimate the rejuvenating effect of a serious power nap.

This is apparently something the fine people at the Abu Dhabi airport appreciate. They've installed these GoSleep sleeping pods that you can rent for an hour, or a few hours, and catch up on some shut eye while you're waiting for your connecting flight.

The beauty of these beauties is they recline 180 degrees, and you can leave them partially open or close them completely to block out the light and noise.

When they're completely closed, they look like those plastic pencil cases we used to use in elementary school. So, not just sleep friendly. Also retro chic.

I think the reason these appeal to me so much is because I haven't slept eight solid hours in years (I love my kids, I love my dogs, I love my kids, I love my dogs, I love my kids, I love my dogs...). So if there's even a chance, a glimmer of hope, the slightest possibility I can do some catching up, I'm happy to fire up the charge card, lay myself down, close myself up and sleep tight for as long as I can.

If it turns out that these pods really provide the rest they promise, I'll literally roll out of bed, go to the airport and roll back into bed.

Of course, airports aren't the first ones to appreciate what an quick nap can do for you.

And if you work in an ad agency, you know they're not even the first ones to have sleep pods.

Don't ask: Picking up at the airport

So, this is the second in my series called Don't ask. The first was on moving, and now airport pickup.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I've never picked anyone up from the airport. It's just that unless you're my wife or one of my kids - and I'll know if you're lying - I'm not doing it.

I know what you're saying. If I don't pick you up, how will you get home? Admittedly, it's a dilemma. If only there were some kind of transport, a carriage service if you will that you could hire with the currency of the realm to give you a ride to the address of your choosing.

See where I'm going here? Because where I'm not going is to pick you up after your flight.

So safe travels, smooth sailing, and happy landings. I'll see you when you get home.

Right after the cab drops you off there.