Encore post: One for Father's Day

I first posted this piece about 7 years ago. The kids sure don't look like this anymore, and I'm certain that beautiful pooch has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge by now.

Be that as it may, the essence of the words are the same.

It's hard not to feel like my life is becoming a Harry Chapin song, especially now that they have successful, happy lives of their own in progress.

But damn if they don't love their old man. When they were young, I used to ask them, "What's the one thing you know for sure?" And their answer would be, "That you love me."

Now that I think about it, some things never change. Happy Father's Day.

They don't look like this anymore. I don't know about the dog. He might if he's still around.

The thing about being a parent is that, as time goes on, I begin to realize all the clichés come true. How fast it goes. How fleeting it is. How one day they're riding tricycles, and the next they' re driving my car (with the same lead foot they must've inherited from their mother). One minute I'm driving them to kindergarten, the next they're off to college.

Father's Day isn't the only time I ponder these thoughts, but it hits a little harder today for some reason.

Here's the thing: I won the kid lottery. I look around at some of our friends' kids - who shall go nameless - and all I can think about is how fast I would've left them on the steps at the firehouse. Don't look so surprised. Think about some of your friends' kids and tell me I'm wrong.

I have two beautiful, smart, funny kids who still kiss their parents goodnight no matter what time they get home. We tell each other how much we love each other all the time. Their pain is my pain, and their joy is my joy. Their successes are my pride, and their failures are my heartache. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for them, with the possible exception of loaning them my American Express card.

Bill Murray put it best in Lost In Translation: "It's the most terrifying day of your life the day the first one is born. Your life, as you know it, is gone, never to return. But they learn how to walk and they learn how to talk, and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you'll ever meet in your life."

Anyway, the days' activities will be getting under way any minute. I know they'll be giving me cards and a few gifts today (new Stephen King book, hello?), and I have a sneaking suspicion the family's going to hijack me to my favorite breakfast place (it's the Coffee Cup Cafe in case you get the urge to treat me sometime).

Whatever they have in store for me this Father's Day, I want them to know the very best gift they can give me, the one I'll never get tired of, the one I want most, the one I'll always want, is more time with them.

So maybe take the tie back.

The most important burrito of the day

One of the many benefits of being a freelancer, besides working at home in your underwear—and let's hope it's your underwear—and setting your own lunch break (mine is from noon to 4PM), is that the city is lousy with ad agencies you can choose to dial for dollars or actually work at.

It seems there are almost as many agencies as Starbucks. In fact, some of them are in Starbucks.

Anyway, when I have the luxury of deciding which ones I want to work for, there are several criteria I take into consideration before taking the gig.

First and most obvious is the caliber of the work. Is it smart, entertaining, memorable and effective. You know, like me.

Next, the caliber of people. Besides knowing what they're doing—which is far rarer than you think—are they people I want to work with, that I want with me in the trenches. I don't have to have drinks with them after work or share our deepest secrets, but I don't want to be stuck with people I can't stand for the length of the assignment.

Location, location, location. I've had offers from agencies in cities all over the place, for example New York, Detroit, San Francisco, San Diego and Bakersfield. Guess which one I said no to?

After all how many pickup trucks and country stations can a city boy take, amiright?

But it finally dawned on me there's another important factor to think about before making any employment decisions. Do they serve a breakfast burrito, and how good is it.

When I worked at Chiat, the breakfast burritos were exceptional. Dare I say even good enough to get me in to work early on occasion. Chiat has their own restaurant upstairs (note to all other agencies), so not only could I order a breakfast burrito, I could get it exactly the way I wanted it.

As an only child, having it the way I want it is something I just take for granted.

The agency I'm currently at serves breakfast to the employees once every couple weeks. Today was my lucky day—it happened to be breakfast burritos. They weren't bad, but they weren't custom either.

To make it easier, they color-coded the wrappers. The red was made with ham, the green with bacon and the black with no meat at all (that's just crazy talk).

They were cut in half like the picture, and there was hot sauce and sour cream in bowls next to them—that's about as customized as they got.

Still, since my agency's tsunami adjacent, I can look out the window at the ocean, or eat out on the patio and feel the breeze, and somehow it makes the burrito taste much better than it otherwise would.

What am I saying? Just that if you're serving a quality breakfast burrito, odds are you're going to attract a higher caliber of talent.

And if you have Taco Tuesdays, dammit, I'll sign on the line.

The finish line. Again.

Five years ago, I put up this post about my run up to the new year.

Sad to say it's a relevant now as it was then.

Sure, I could've thought up a brand new post to start the new year off. But then I would've had to put down my bagel with cream cheese and lox, cookies, egg quiche and homemade waffles.

Of course I wasn't eating them all at once. But every time it occurred to me to get a post up, I did seem to have something in my hands on the way to my mouth.

Anyway, tomorrow or the day after I'll start bringing the funny with brand new posts again. In the meantime, please to enjoy this gem one more time.

I'm going to get dessert.

I do it every year. The resolution about losing weight. And before the clock strikes midnight on New Year's, I also do something else every year.

I pack it away like Oprah in a cupcake factory.

I'm not proud. I'm not hungry either.

It's just that I know with the resolution made and the food deadline looming, I want to make sure and stuff my face while I still can.

Without the least bit of the restraint or will-power I've resolved to exhibit in the new year, the run up to midnight is filled with cramming down every last bit of sugar-filled, cholesterol-causing, artery-clogging, waist-growing, clothes-tightening, mirror-avoiding food I can possibly get my hands and mouth on.

I'm like a runaway train. Except my train is all dining cars.

I know what you're thinking - it can't possibly be that bad. The reason I know is because that's what I thought too. Right up until I got on the scale this morning.

Truth be told, it's not quite as dire and desperate as I've made it sound. And even if it were, it's a new year and I'm on it.

After all, I made a resolution. What could possibly go wrong?

One for Father's Day

They don't look like this anymore. I don't know about the dog. He might if he's still around.

The thing about being a parent is that, as time goes on, I begin to realize all the clichés come true. How fast it goes. How fleeting it is. How one day they're riding tricycles, and the next they' re driving my car (with the same lead foot they must've inherited from their mother). One minute I'm driving them to kindergarten, the next they're off to college.

Father's Day isn't the only time I ponder these thoughts, but it hits a little harder today for some reason.

Here's the thing: I won the kid lottery. I look around at some of our friends' kids - who shall go nameless - and all I can think about is how fast I would've left them on the steps at the firehouse. Don't look so surprised. Think about some of your friends' kids and tell me I'm wrong.

I have two beautiful, smart, funny kids who still kiss their parents goodnight no matter what time they get home. We tell each other how much we love each other all the time. Their pain is my pain, and their joy is my joy. Their successes are my pride, and their failures are my heartache. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for them, with the possible exception of loaning them my American Express card.

Bill Murray put it best in Lost In Translation: "It's the most terrifying day of your life the day the first one is born. Your life, as you know it, is gone, never to return. But they learn how to walk and they learn how to talk, and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you'll ever meet in your life."

Anyway, the days' activities will be getting under way any minute. I know they'll be giving me cards and a few gifts today (new Stephen King book, hello?), and I have a sneaking suspicion the family's going to hijack me to my favorite breakfast place (it's the Coffee Cup Cafe in case you get the urge to treat me sometime).

Whatever they have in store for me this Father's Day, I want them to know the very best gift they can give me, the one I'll never get tired of, the one I want most, the one I'll always want, is more time with them.

So maybe take the tie back.

Batter up

I've always been an omelette kind of guy. But when push comes to shove, I'll have to admit I enjoy the occasional flapjack.

When I was growing up, my parents used to take me to the International House of Pancakes. That's what it said right on the sign. This was before the texting-friendly abbreviation IHOP cut it down to size.

They were easy restaurants to recognize, what with their powder-blue A-frame buildings. They had bottomless coffee pots (which meant nothing to me then or now), and all kinds of different flavored syrups on the tables, even though maple was the one that was always empty.

My best memory of IHOP - I'll call it that for expediency - wasn't the Half-Dollar pancakes, the sticky tabletops or the orange aprons the waitresses wore. It's the time I had breakfast there with Tommy Smothers.

Bet you didn't see that coming.

I'd met Tommy at a release party for Groucho's album, An Evening With Groucho. It was a star-studded release party in Beverly Hills, and my friend David Weitz and I were hired to dress as Groucho and work the room (if you're wondering how I met Groucho, you can read about it here).

At that party, I'd also met and spoken to Tommy Smothers. He was in fact the nicest person there. Fast forward months later. I walked into the IHOP on Fairfax just north of Wilshire, and sitting at a table by himself was Tommy Smothers. I debated for a second about bothering him. But then I realized this situation would never present itself again, so I went for it.

I introduced myself to him, and reminded him we'd met at the Groucho album release. Tommy invited me to sit and have breakfast with him.

I ordered, and we talked about the party, the Smothers Brothers and the state of comedy and television. It was an extraordinary morning. When the check came, he insisted on paying for my breakfast.

In the years since, I've been lucky enough to see the Smothers Brothers perform at both a private function, as well as the Cerritos Theater of Performing Arts. Sadly, since they're now retired, I won't have the chance again.

Since he joined Twitter, I've actually had a few exchanges with Dick Smothers. I asked Dick one time why Tommy wasn't online, and he told me Tommy is too busy with their vineyard and other things.

Whatever he's up to, I hope he's happy and healthy. I'll never forget my breakfast with him.

I'm not really sure who their mom liked best. But in my book, they're both great.

T'was the day after Christmas

T’was the day after Christmas and all through the house
Gifts were scattered - a book, a toy, a blouse
The socks that were hung by the chimney with care
Are gone now as if they’d never been there

The family was here, there are telltale signs
Wrapping paper everywhere with Christmas designs
Some gifts were great ones, some not so much
Trinkets, knick-knacks, re-gifts and such

When the family wakes up, there’ll be such a clatter
But the day after Christmas it just won’t matter
They’ll stumble to the living room and look at the tree
But without all the presents it’s not much to see

Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen
Can start on the sleigh, it needs some fixin’
For next year will be here before they know it
And with so much to give, they don’t want to blow it

For breakfast there’s always cookies and cake
Leftovers are ready, we don’t have to bake
We’ll just stuff our faces like the holiday’s not over
Then after we’ll sit and feel bad about ourselves and wish we hadn’t and wonder what the hell we were thinking.

Waits and measures

This is going to come as a surprise to a lot of people who know me, but raspy, gritty, gravel-voiced singers seem to be the ones I'm most drawn to. That would explain the Springsteen thing. But I haven't always been the hardcore Springsteen fan you know me as today. Before there was Bruce, long before, there was Tom Waits.

When I was growing up, I lived in West Hollywood not too far from the Tropicana Motel where Waits lived for years. There was a restaurant called Duke's downstairs from the motel (it's since moved to Sunset Blvd. near the Whiskey), and it was for a long time the best breakfast in L.A. My friends and I would eat there a lot, and more often than not - if it was early enough - we'd see Waits there. I never spoke with him, but I do recall a few nods were exchanged.

Anyway, by any criteria, Tom Waits is that word that's used all too often to describe considerably lesser talents. He is a musical genius.

There are a few genuinely great, timeless songs that transport you to another place, or capture an experience and moment so well they just grab you by the throat. Or the heart. Their sad poignancy and melancholy, with visual lyricism so precise it's as if you're watching a movie instead of listening to a song, washes over you completely. For me, one of those songs is The Heart Of Saturday Night.

Over the years I've heard him perform it many times in concert. This video - which is actually just the audio off the album of the same name - is how I first heard the voice of a young Tom waits sing it.

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Waits has always experimented with all kinds of sounds and instrumentation throughout his career. And while he's never strayed too far from music, over the years he's also carved out a respectable and varied acting career for himself.

Which I think is a good thing. Because, and I'm braced for the flack I'm going to get for saying this, after years of smoking, drinking, carousing and vocal strain, it is impossible to listen to the Tom Waits of today and enjoy it.

Every singers voice changes with age. Some get richer, deeper. Others lose the ability to hit the highs and lows. But where once the grit in Waits voice lent his songs their melancholy, power and romanticism, for me the truth is now he's unlistenable.

Take a listen to this recent recording and see what you think:

I guess it could be described as beautiful noise. Or a bold expression of his art.

For me, the Tom Waits of today sounds like gravel and broken glass in a garbage disposal.

I realize how harsh that sounds. But I'm angry that the Waits I loved didn't care better for his instrument, and let it have the emotional impact of his early years even if in a more mature sound.

To those who think I've turned on him, I haven't. I will always respect and admire his genius, and will always have his library of songs to listen to.

Only now, it's not the songs that make me sad.

The most important meal

That part about no guarantees in life? So not true. Especially when it comes to an awesome breakfast.

This morning I had a long overdue breakfast with my pal Mardel at The Coffee Cup Cafe. I've been going there fairly regularly for a couple years now.

Not bad for a place that was an accidental discovery.

The family and I were looking for a place to eat that we hadn't been, and the wife went on UrbanSpoon. The Coffee Cup came up, and we've never looked back.

Great breakfast. Great vibe. Great location right in the arts district in Long Beach (I know, it's all an arts district, but still...).

As you might imagine, the line to get in on Sunday mornings is just the nature of the beast, but worth the wait. The good news is because you are where you are, you can watch all the Prius owners driving silently around the block looking for parking. It's like a little eco-friendly Hot Wheels convention happening right in front of you.

And for environmentally friendly fun, you can always do what I do - make fun of them. They're asking for it, and it makes the wait go faster. (By the way, just so you know, some of my very best friends drive a Prius, bless their gas-sippin', statement-makin', environment-savin', Earth Day-celebratin', diamond lane-takin' little hearts.).

Like the Apple Pan, the Coffee Cup Cafe is so good you wonder why they don't open more of them. But of course if they did, it wouldn't be nearly as good. Or local. Or fun.

Besides the Coffee Cup Cafe, I've only posted once before about an awesome restaurant I've been to. When I find 'em, I'll let you know in case you're in the area.

And in case you have something funny to say about a Prius.