"I couldn't pick it up"

I started thinking about my life today. I know, I probably should've put some thought into it earlier, but we are where we are. And let me give you some advice: there's no percentage in it. Introspection, highly overrated. Like someone said, ignorance is bliss (see the irony?).

Anyway, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I much prefer floating aimlessly from one experience, one job, one car to another, and not trying to add up what they all mean or say about me as person.

I may have gotten off track here. In fact, forget I said anything.

But while I was in deep thought about my life, I was also finishing up the latest Stephen King scarefest, The Outsider. I highly recommend reading the first 400 pages anytime, and only reading the rest in the daytime. I was looking at the blurbs for the book on the jacket, and thinking what would the blurbs be about me, my life and my career (laughing hysterically for using the word "career").

And while I can't reach out to all any of the people I'd like to and ask for a blurb, I have a fairly good idea how they might go.

"I'm a master of horror, but nothing scares me as much as Jeff's writing. And not in a good way." - Stephen King

"He's always been there for me and the band, no matter how much we charged for tickets. There's one born to run every minute."- Bruce Springsteen

"Actually no one ever saw the show. Our ratings were so high cause Jeff binged it nine times. Might've been ten." - Bryan Cranston

"He likes the salmon very much." — Taka San, Koi sushi chef

What looks good?

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

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

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

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

At the restaurant, not Amazon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't ask: Borrowing a book

I'm not gonna lie.

My Don't Ask series of posts - 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 - is one of the most popular and requested of all the random musings I slap up here at the last minute.

Even more than Guilty Pleasures, Things I Was Wrong About and The Luckiest Actor Alive. Even more than Why I Love Costco.

To the untrained eye, it might look like linking all those prior posts is just a blatant act of shameless self-promotion. Actually, I prefer to think of it as making quality writing available to the general public.

Anyway, since Don't Ask is the most read series, a new Don't Ask it is. Tonight, it's Don't Ask: Borrowing A Book.

It strikes me odd that for all the huffing and puffing about Kindles and iBooks, people still love the feel of a real hardcover book in their hands. Especially if they didn't have to pay for it. And it's mine.

It's still a free country, and you can ask whatever you want. But if the question is "Hey, can I borrow that book? I'll get it right back to you." the answer is no.

The world is lousy with Kindles, iBook apps and, yes, libraries. Go on them and in them and choose your own book to read. But this brand new hardcover copy of the latest best-seller, the one I've been waiting months for, the one I'll be adding to my Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Anne Ursu. Jonathan Kellerman, Gillian Flynn, Scott Smith, J.K. Rowling collection? This one's mine.

I reserve the right to be the first to smell that new book smell of fresh ink on the pages. To bend back the binding, and hear it crack as I turn the pages faster and faster because I can't put it down.

It's not that I don't trust you. However I believe that all across the city, there exists a library in my name, made up of books I've loaned out in the past. Except instead of one building it's spread across dozens of houses one book at a time. It took me years to build that library. I don't plan on building another one.

So kudos for wanting to read a good story, a tall tale or an educational volume. My heartfelt suggestion would be for you to learn the Dewey Decimal System, break out that Barnes & Noble Gift Card you got last Christmas, or perhaps find another friend who hasn't been shocked and scarred by the ever increasing space on his bookshelf.

However you get the book you want, I hope you enjoy your copy. I know I'll be enjoying mine.

Let there be light

It's dark at night.

I bet that's the kind of piercing insight and keen observation you read this blog for. You can stop rolling your eyes now. I'm not talking about outside - I'm talking about inside my house.

Our living room has always been light-challenged. There are ceiling lamps off to the side in what used to be a dining room, and another off to the other side in what used to be a bedroom. But no one really likes the harshness of those lights, or the amount of coverage they offer. And yes, a lot of rooms used to be other rooms in this house. It's like Disneyland - it'll never be finished.

Anyway, we used to have lamps on the end tables on either side of the couch, which made reading comfortable and easy on the eyes.

But then, in an act of sheer hostility and defiance, the lamp on my night table in the bedroom crapped out. It started doing strange flickering things when I turned it on. It was actually a little disturbing, since there was no rhyme or reason to when it would start acting up. I was scared it was either a poltergeist or conspiring to electrocute me. Or both. So I trashed it, and moved one of the ones in the living room next to me in the bedroom.

Ever since, my living room is like the moon: half in light, half in darkness. I was going to say covered in a fine gray dust with footprints from 1969, but why open that can of worms.

The problem replacing the lamp has been trying to find one that somewhat matches the remaining one. I don't know if you know this, but there are literally thousands of lamps to scroll through online - and it's exactly as much fun as it sounds.

I'm getting to the point where I'm ready to run out to Lowe's and just buy one. The wife doesn't want me to do it, but I told her we could look forever and the perfect one might never show up.

She said, "You're telling me."

Throw the book at 'em

Now that most television shows have aired their season finales, the question is what do I do with all the extra time I'll have on my hands.

There are always the go-to programs like a 6th binge of Breaking Bad, or a 2nd binge of House Of Cards. There are shows I never made time for like Treme and Shameless.

But I was thinking maybe it's time to tackle a more intellectual pursuit. Reading. Schopenhauer once said, "We buy books because we believe we're buying the time to read them." If that's true, I've bought myself a lot of time.

On the nightstand next to my side of the bed, which with a wife and two dogs is getting increasingly smaller by the minute, is no less than 27 unread books. I bought every one of them with the intention of cracking it open when I got home from Barnes & Noble.

And yes, I still buy books and I still go to bookstores. Never read a book on an e-reader, never will.

Here's the thing: I go on book jags. I don't read one for a while, then I plow through six or seven in a row. Even when I'm short on time, when I'm on one of the jags I make a point of reading a chapter when I wake up and one before I go to sleep.

Admittedly it requires discipline. Which explains the giant stack of unread books by the bed.

But I've been at a place for a while where not only do I know how Walt and Jessie wind up, I also know every event, character and line of dialogue that gets them there. So it's time to read.

Maybe I'll start with Walt Whitman's Leaves Of Grass, the collection of poems Hank was reading in Gliding Over All, the eighth episode of the fifth season of Breaking Bad. The one where he's on the toilet when he discovers Walt is actually Heisenberg.

Alright, maybe one more binge and then I'll get started on the books.

Glad to help

There's a reason I'm showing you the three books you're looking at. And here it is.

Each one of them was written by a very talented friend of mine. And each one of those friends decided to thank or acknowledge me by name in their book.

It's very flattering. Not to mention very inspiring. Unfortunately not inspiring enough to write a book of my own. That's just crazy talk.

Kidding. Okay, they've inspired me to write a book, or at least finish the several I've started or had ideas for. If for no other reason than I'd be able to return the favor and thank them.

If you recall, and why wouldn't you, I actually wrote a post to thank my one time office wife Janice MacLeod for making me the very first thank you in her spectacular book, Paris Letters. You should make a point to read that post, then read Janice's book if you haven't already. After you do your first instinct will be to thank me for the recommendation. I suggest you write a book of your own and thank me there. You know how much I like that.

I've known my good friend (producer, professor, singer, actress, musician) Rona Edwards for over thirty years. She was kind enough to thank me in her book "I Liked It, Didn't Love It" which takes readers through the process, and arms aspiring screenwriters for the labyrinth that is screenplay development.

It's a road she's traveled often and successfully.

I like to think it's my clear understanding of plot and story, my keen insight into what an audience wants and my ability to punch up a script that motivated her to mention me in her book.

Nah, just messin' with ya. I have no idea why she thanked me, other than the fact she's a kind and generous person, as well as one of my oldest (in terms of time) friends.

I've known my friend Josh Weltman for twenty-nine years. We've been partners at agencies we've worked at. And a little known fact is I've flown more with Josh than anyone else thanks to a freelance gig we had at Foote, Cone & Belding in San Francisco for about nine months.

Josh wrote a recently released book called Seducing Strangers: How To Get People To Buy What You're Selling based on his years in the business, and his time as a co-producer on the show Mad Men.

I hadn't seen Josh in quite a while, until we ran into each other at a mutual friend's funeral a couple years ago. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw my name in the acknowledgements in his book.

Given the time that's passed, it was a nice surprise and appreciated kindness on his part.

Of course, you should know now that I've somewhat committed to writing a book of my own, there'll be many more thank you's in it than just the people here. Many of my friends have been encouraging, supportive, critical in the best sense of the word and patient while I've used this blog as an excuse for doing some real writing.

But now that it seems like everyone I know is popping out a book, I guess I'll have to get going on mine.

So thanks for that.

On tour

It got here much faster than I expected. I mean, one minute I'm changing his diaper, trying to dodge his impression of Old Faithful, and the next minute I'm taking him on college tours.

As any parent who's made the tour circuit will tell you, college means one very important thing. Not that they'll get a quality education and a well-paying job in the profession of their choice. That's just crazy talk.

It means I'll be working a lot longer than I planned.

While junior is out partying Saturday nights, telling me he's studying for finals, and wondering whose kegger to hit next, I'll be long past my prime earning years, clearing dishes at Coco's on weeknights and scraping together my minimum wage earnings so he can have the education he so rightly deserves.

As we tour these institutions of higher education, it makes me realize perhaps my teachers' comment, the one I got year after year, might've had a tinge of truth to it.

"Jeff's a smart boy, but he needs to apply himself more."

Admittedly all this touring makes me want to go back to school. Maybe it's because I'm visiting campuses I never saw before. Or because I realize if I'd had a better education I wouldn't be writing banner ads and sitting through endless meetings about...well, I never actually figured out what they're about.

Still, I make considerably more a day than the average Harvard grad, so there's that.

But the biggest lesson he can learn is it's not all about the money. It's about loving what you do. And I love making money. BAM!

So anyway, applications are out, and a few results are in. He's in at some, out at others. And even though he has plenty of options and will no doubt have more soon, we still have some college sight-seeing left to do. I can't predict the next stop on the tour. It depends on a lot of things. Wherever it is, I know I'll be looking forward to it. I want my son to take it all in, to appreciate the grandeur of these institutions, and participate in the traditions that've made them great.

The scholarly ambiance. The manicured lawns. The stately libraries. The hallowed halls.

There'll be plenty of time later for toga parties, hazing and drug testing.

Act fast, and you'll always have Paris

UPDATE: As a rule I don't usually repost pieces here. But today is different than every other day, because today PARIS LETTERS has been selected as a Kindle Daily Deal. It will be featured on the Kindle deal homepage for $2.99 under biographies/memoirs, as well as on Kindle store on all devices. And you can get your copy today just by going here. So (re)read the post, then get the book. You're welcome.

One time I said to my great friend (more on that in a second) Janice MacLeod, "I'm a giver." To which she replied, "Giver? You hardly know her!"

This of course is one of the many reasons I love Janice.

I met Janice when we worked together at the advertising agency Y&R in Orange County. I remember us both complaining about the commute one day, and we came up with a solution. Every morning, she’d have her coffee, then make the slow, excruciating drive from her apartment in Santa Monica to my house in Long Beach. Then we'd hop in my car and fly in the carpool lane from my place to the agency.

And we'd talk about everything.

The problem was we always seemed to have way more things to talk about than time to talk about them. And while I don’t remember each and every subject we covered, I do recall there was a lot of laughing in the car. It was the best part of the work day for me. I’ll assume it was for her. What the hell, she’s not here to say otherwise.

What with all the talking, confiding, gossiping, joking, planning, singing, eye-rolling in meetings and saying the same thing at the same time, Janice quickly became my “office wife.”

It’s a tribute to Janice and the person she is that my real-life wife approved (which is also a tribute to my real-life wife).

There are so many things to admire about Janice it’s hard to know where to start, so I’ll start here – Not only did she think about leaving her job in advertising, a job that was making her profoundly unhappy, to pursue the life she wanted, she actually did it. That new life included traveling the world, unburdened by time or possessions, and leaving herself open to whatever experiences she chose to have along the way. She planned it, figured out how much money she’d need and saved for it.

Dare I say it’s a dream shared by, what’s the word I’m looking for…oh yeah, everyone.

I had dinner with Janice at Joe’s in Venice the night before she left for France. It was a great dinner, one of those “why don’t we do this more often” dinners. Here's one thing I remember from that meal: I don’t want to spill any state secrets, but let's just say her fall from a full vegan diet may have started a little before she fell in love with and married a butcher.

Another thing to admire is she wrote a book about the experience. Paris Letters is the third book Janice has written in the warm, humorous, observational, razor-sharp, inclusive style that is her voice.

She is what I like to call a real writer.

As opposed to myself, who’s still waiting to be found out by the word police.

The book journals her decision, her travels, meeting and falling in love with her now real-life husband Krzystzof, who is a butcher by trade and apparently has invested heavily in the consonant market.

In Paris Letters, there is a Thank You page, and the very first person Janice thanks is me. Shortly after that, she thanks Bruce Springsteen for writing Thunder Road.

Coincidence? I think not.

I haven’t read the entire book yet, but so far the Thank You page is my favorite part.

But if I’m going to be honest with myself – and if you know anything about me you know how rarely that happens – it is I who should be thanking her.

She was the one who encouraged me to start this blog when I told her I have nothing to write about (something that after 472 posts, many people would still agree with). She always says that venom is my best medium, but that’s mostly about the snarkier posts. She is equally supportive of the vast majority of them that are not written in that tone. She is living proof that there is nothing getting in the way of your dreams but yourself - always a good lesson to keep in mind. And she comments on my posts, which of course all bloggers love.

At that dinner the night before she left to travel the world, I told her that if it didn't work out to just say the word and I'd fly over and bring her back. That offer still stands.

Although I'm beyond happy for her knowing that with her new life, the life she's made for herself, the life she wanted, she won't be taking me up on it.

No no, thank you

One time I said to my great friend (more on that in a second) Janice MacLeod, "I'm a giver." To which she replied, "Giver? You hardly know her!"

This of course is one of the many reasons I love Janice.

I met Janice when we worked together at the advertising agency Y&R in Orange County. I remember us both complaining about the commute one day, and we came up with a solution. Every morning, she’d have her coffee, then make the slow, excruciating drive from her apartment in Santa Monica to my house in Long Beach. Then we'd hop in my car and fly in the carpool lane from my place to the agency.

And we'd talk about everything.

The problem was we always seemed to have way more things to talk about than time to talk about them. And while I don’t remember each and every subject we covered, I do recall there was a lot of laughing in the car. It was the best part of the work day for me. I’ll assume it was for her. What the hell, she’s not here to say otherwise.

What with all the talking, confiding, gossiping, joking, planning, singing, eye-rolling in meetings and saying the same thing at the same time, Janice quickly became my “office wife.”

It’s a tribute to Janice and the person she is that my real-life wife approved (which is also a tribute to my real-life wife).

There are so many things to admire about Janice it’s hard to know where to start, so I’ll start here – Not only did she think about leaving her job in advertising, a job that was making her profoundly unhappy, to pursue the life she wanted, she actually did it. That new life included traveling the world, unburdened by time or possessions, and leaving herself open to whatever experiences she chose to have along the way. She planned it, figured out how much money she’d need and saved for it.

Dare I say it’s a dream shared by, what’s the word I’m looking for…oh yeah, everyone.

I had dinner with Janice at Joe’s in Venice the night before she left for France. It was a great dinner, one of those “why don’t we do this more often” dinners. Here's one thing I remember from that meal: I don’t want to spill any state secrets, but let's just say her fall from a full vegan diet may have started a little before she fell in love with and married a butcher.

Another thing to admire is she wrote a book about the experience. Paris Letters is the third book Janice has written in the warm, humorous, observational, razor-sharp, inclusive style that is her voice.

She is what I like to call a real writer.

As opposed to myself, who’s still waiting to be found out by the word police.

The book journals her decision, her travels, meeting and falling in love with her now real-life husband Krzystzof, who is a butcher by trade and apparently has invested heavily in the consonant market.

In Paris Letters, there is a Thank You page, and the very first person Janice thanks is me. Shortly after that, she thanks Bruce Springsteen for writing Thunder Road.

Coincidence? I think not.

I haven’t read the entire book yet, but so far the Thank You page is my favorite part.

But if I’m going to be honest with myself – and if you know anything about me you know how rarely that happens – it is I who should be thanking her.

She was the one who encouraged me to start this blog when I told her I have nothing to write about (something that after 472 posts, many people would still agree with). She always says that venom is my best medium, but that’s mostly about the snarkier posts. She is equally supportive of the vast majority of them that are not written in that tone. She is living proof that there is nothing getting in the way of your dreams but yourself - always a good lesson to keep in mind. And she comments on my posts, which of course all bloggers love.

At that dinner the night before she left to travel the world, I told her that if it didn't work out to just say the word and I'd fly over and bring her back. That offer still stands.

Although I'm beyond happy for her knowing that with her new life, the life she's made for herself, the life she wanted, she won't be taking me up on it.

Borders line sadness

This isn't the Borders bookstore near me. But it may as well be.

The company has filed bankruptcy, and as part of the restructuring is closing 200 of 659 stores nationwide. Including all the ones in my beachside city.

Now I'm the first to admit I'm completely old school about things like books and newspapers. And by old school, I mean I still enjoy reading them. That's the reason this makes me very sad.

I went in to my Borders today, the first day of its going out of business sale, and the line of about 150 people snaked throughout the store. The place was jammed in a way that ironically it never was when it was doing fine.

People were crashing into each other, grabbing everything they could just to save 20 to 50% off books they probably wouldn't have read if the store were not in this situation. They'll be back when the mark downs go to 50 to 75%, then 75 to 90% once inventory dwindles to nothing in the coming days.

I know many people think this is payback for them - along with Barnes & Noble - for putting so many mom and pop bookstores out of business. And it's easy to understand that sentiment. But somewhere along the way, the same public supporting that theory decided to stop supporting mom and pop, and instead shop where they'd get 20 to 40% off everyday hardcover prices. So the argument rings a bit hollow.

Besides, Costco and Target have discounted books almost from the beginning. And before Borders and Barnes & Noble there was Crown Books ("If you paid full price, you didn't buy it at Crown!"). Book discounting isn't new.

But there's a larger sadness for me, and it didn't just start with Borders closing. It started with eReaders.

I can't imagine giving up the tangible, visceral experience of holding a book in my hands while reading it. The texture of the binding, the smell of the print, the sound of the spine cracking when it's first opened. To me it's a deeper, richer and more satisfying experience than reading on a Kindle or iPad (as bitchin' as the iPad is). And since I've read books one at a time my whole life, I've never seen the need to carry a thousand of them with me wherever I go.

Even though sometimes I read the L.A. Times online, for the most part I'm also set in my ways with newspapers.

In one of my versions of heaven - not the one where Halle Berry stops pretending she doesn't know I'm alive, the other one - there's a coffee shop and the Sunday paper fresh off the presses waiting for me. I know some news has happened since the paper was delivered, but not enough to make it not worth spending time with.

If I want up to the minute, I know where to find it.

It'd be an ironic twist that as these giant bookstores begin disappearing, and people like me still want published, physical books, a resurgence of mom and pop stores suddenly start springing up to carry them.

Hopefully it won't be an either/or situation, and there'll be room for brick and mortar as well as digital bookstores to coexist.

We'll see what the next chapter holds.