Emergency equipment

Parenting is much more an art form than a science. It's open to different styles, various interpretations and has different value depending on who's doing it.

But I think I'm safe in saying the one thing all parenting has in common is it's gonna cost ya.

Both of my kids have gone to out-of-state colleges, one in Texas and one in Iowa. Don't ask. Anyway the one in Texas transferred back here after his freshman year, but he still has a little gift I gave him when he first moved out.

The emergency credit card. They both have one.

It's the peace of mind card, the one that let's them take a cab home when they find themselves outside a club in the senseless murder district at midnight. The one that says use me at urgent care to stop the bleeding, or get antibiotics for the sinus infection. It's the airline ticket if they have to come home in a hurry.

Yes it's the credit card I gave them to be used in emergencies, but I now realize the other thing I should've given them is a long lecture on exactly what constitutes an emergency.

Buying posters from artists you like, new shoes, that cute sweater—you know the one, sushi because it's the best sushi place in Iowa (how many can there be?) are all examples of non-emergencies.

Yet every once in awhile, I put on my little green visor, open up the inter webs and go through the "emergency" charges my darling offspring have made. And almost every time, one or two of them will spring out at me like a Jack In The Box, or a coiled rattler.

That sound you hear is my wallet screaming.

I don't want to make it seem like they're on wild spending sprees with my money. They're not. For the most part, they let me know when they're buying something on the card, or they ask if they can.

But as any parent will tell you, it doesn't matter how old your kids get—they're always testing you and seeing how far they can push it.

And sometimes that means re-zoning the borders of Emergencytown right up against Retailville.

Cleared for takeoff

I've scribbled here before about fundraising auctions at my kids' high school. In fact, because they were so impressively written and made such an indelible impression, you probably recall those posts about the south central L.A.P.D. ride-a-longs I won in previous auctions.

If for some odd reason your memory fails you, now might be a good time to refresh it by reading this post. Or this one. Maybe this one. Who could forget this one? Some think this one was the best. I think this one was one of my finest. And of course, this one is a classic.

I think that's enough self-promoting for one post. Let's get on with it

Last night was this year's auction for the school. Since my kid's are in college and I don't have a horse in the race anymore, I find myself not having to go to their former high school events much. But my wife does work at the school, and she likes to show me off for the trophy husband I am. Plus the auction is an event I've always liked. So we went.

There are two parts to the evening. One is after dinner, where bidders raise their assigned I.D. numbers to bid on items the auctioneer is calling. But before that is the silent auction, where you add your bid to a list for a particular item. When that auction closes, the highest bid wins.

I see it. I guess the highest bid wins in every auction.

Sadly, there were no police ride-a-longs to win this year. However, there was a 90-minute experience in a 737 flight simulator which I wanted. And when I want something bad enough, I usually figure out a way to get it. I'm like the MacGyver of school auctions.

Anyway, the way I did it this time, and every time before, was by sniping. Since it was a silent auction item, I hovered around the list of bids until about thirty seconds before the auction closed. Then, at the last second, right before pens down, I wrote my number and bid on the list—$20 higher than the last bid.

BAM! Auction closed, and I'm on my way to pretend flying a 737 somewhere in Anaheim.

It's part of my Fly But Don't Get My License tour. Years ago, I took helicopter lessons. I have about 30 hours of airtime, but never completed getting my pilot's license. It's a long story. You can read about it here.

Ok, I snuck in one more self-promoting link. So sue me.

I'll be scheduling my 737 flight later in the week. I even get to take a couple people with me. Play your cards right, and maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones to join Captain Jeff on my flight to nowhere.

I can't guarantee it'll be a smooth one, but I can promise even though it's simulated it'll still be a lot better than United.

Tony Shalhoub. What do you need, a roadmap?

In the brilliant Coen Bros. film Barton Fink, Barton (John Turturro) asks producer Ben Geisler (Tony Shalhoub) for advice on getting started on the script he's been hired to write. Geisler takes a beat, then says, "Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you need, a roadmap?"

With apologies to the Coens, I'd paraphrase it to "Tony Shalhoub. Great in everything. What do you need, a roadmap?"

I've been a fan of Shalhoub from the first time I saw him as cab driver Antonio Scarpacci on the sitcom Wings. Like some of the actors I enjoy and admire most—Gene Hackman, Will Patton, J.K. Simmons, Richard Jenkins, Chris Cooper, Tracy Letts, the late great J.T. Walsh and the late great Jon Polito to name a few—Shalhoub is just money in the bank. Regardless of the quality of the material, Shalhoub elevates it.

From Galaxy Quest to The Man Who Wasn't There. Spy Kids to Monk. Men In Black to Nurse Jackie. Big Night to Primary Colors. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel to Luigi in Cars, he's simply scene-stealing in every project he's in.

What's so impressive is his range of characters, and level of commitment to them. Nuanced, organic, complete, they're at once interesting, compelling and intelligent—even on rare occasions when they're not written that way.

I suppose with a Masters in Fine Arts from Yale, his intelligence has always been on display. Look at the brain on Tony.

Shalhoub also proved he doesn't need words written by a screenwriter to be funny. He had one of the funniest real-life lines ever when he won one of his Emmys for playing Monk, a detective with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

"To my fellow nominees, whoever they are - I'm not that familiar with their work - I just want to say, there's always next year - except, you know, for Ray Romano."

As the flashy, expensive litigator Reidenschneider in The Man Who Wasn't There, during the trial of Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton), Shalhoub is talking to the jury. At one point he says, "He is your reflection."

The same might be said of Tony Shalhoub.

The goodbye girl

Here's the thing about having a daughter who goes to an out-of-state college. It is a constant, seemingly never-ending series of goodbyes.

And I'm not going to lie to you. I hate it.

I first wrote about this when my son decided to go to UT Austin for his freshman year. As anyone who ships their kids away to school knows, it's heartbreak on a schedule.

I moved her in to her dorm in Iowa and then said goodbye as I left my baby girl behind. She was a mess. Fortunately I was the tower of strength my children have always known me to be. In other words I managed not to start crying like a baby until we were in the car and heading towards the airport—in South Dakota. Don't get me started.

I fly her home for a quick Thanksgiving, then a short four days later we're saying goodbye. She comes back for Christmas break. We have a great three and a half weeks, celebrate the new year and then we're saying goodbye again.

The next goodbye is scheduled for Easter break in March. Maybe I'll be able to ramp up for it.

I suppose the goodbyes would be easier if she were going to school in state. She'd be away from home, far enough away from us, but not sixteen-hundred miles, two plane rides and a three-hour drive away.

What can I tell you? I love my girly. And while I love that she's growing into an independent, educated, wickedly funny young woman who can belch for forty-five seconds straight (it's a skill), I hate that she's doing it in Iowa.

So until March, we'll be burning up Facetime, which is the next best thing to being with her.

It'd be unfair, selfish and manipulative for me to try to sway her into coming back by playing on her emotions and trying to bribe her.

That's why I'm not saying anything about how much her grandmother and her dogs miss her. How she'd have her car here, you know, the one we'll be painting for her. And how'd she'd probably have a big increase in her allowance and credit card spending.

It wouldn't be fair. So let me just say, have fun back at school baby. Make the most of every minute—this will be one of the big adventures of your life. And take full advantage of all the variety, options and diversity that Iowa has to offer.

Corn on the cob. Corn chowder. Corn muffins. Corn casserole. Corn pudding. Corn salsa.

A-maize-ing

Johnny Carson was born there. So was Ashton Kutcher. And The Duke himself, John Wayne. Herbert Hoover is from there. As are comedian Adam DeVine and actor Elijah Wood. TV Superman George Reeves hails not from Krypton, but from Woolstock, Iowa.

The point is a lot of famous things come out of Iowa. Not the least of which is corn.

I had my very first experience with Iowa this past weekend. Instead of going to one of the premier universities in the California system located virtually around the block from our house, my daughter had her heart set on a private college in Iowa, which we moved her into this past weekend.

Sure, it would've been nice to have her closer to home, but then we wouldn't get to pay out-of-state tuition, take two airplanes, drive two hours and travel 1,692 miles to see her. Apparently she doesn't know there's an east coast and it would've been even further from us. Maybe she'll learn about it in college.

Here's the thing about Iowa: cornfields everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean everywhere.

There's a certain beautiful monotony (Note to Rich Siegel: Beautiful Monotony, The Whiskey '06) to the rows of corn as you zip by them on the two-lane highways. And what it made me think about—besides how I was going to die when the driver of one of the eighteen-wheelers coming the other way fell asleep and slammed into me head on—was just how big a part cornfields have played in some of my favorite movies.

I know people don't like Signs because a) it stars Mel Gibson b) it's directed by M. Night Shyamalan and c) it's a story about faith lost and found, and not aliens (for the most part). But it does have Joacquin Phoenix, German Shepherds and cornfields, so that makes it a must see in my book.

The ultimate father-son film couldn't help but be corny. Field Of Dreams takes place almost entirely in an Iowa cornfield. One of the ball players in the movie asks Kevin Costner, "Is this heaven?" To which he responds, "No, it's Iowa." Boy is it.

The first film anyone mentions when I say cornfield is Children of the Corn. Not exactly quality motion picture faire, but a horror classic for it's kitschiness and that tall, ugly red-headed kid. That short kid is yelling and chewing scenery all throughout the movie. Good thing most of it's edible.

Lions and tigers and corn, oh my. Perennial favorite The Wizard Of Oz not only has a cornfield, but a talking, singing and dancing scarecrow right in the middle of it. Ironically, the song the scarecrow sings is the same one our fake president sings to himself every night.

The other thing Iowa (and South Dakota where I connected through) have plenty of are the nicest people I've ever met anywhere. It's startling how genuine they are. Glad to see you, ready to help, open and honest, it really is a refreshing change of pace.

Now if they could just truck that to the big cities the same way they do their corn.

Yes, Iowa

If you know anything about me—and seriously, if you don't by now then we have nothing to talk about—you know that underneath this winsome, easygoing and slightly-overweight-but-still-brutally-handsome exterior lies the restless spirit of a globetrotting vagabond.

In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't asked for it back - BAM! I'll be here all week.

So knowing that, you might be asking yourself about now what exotic destination my travels will take me to next. Belize? Madagascar? Nepal? Fiji? Sadly, no. My next trip, coming up next week, will find me in two places I've never been in my life. And up until now had no reason to go. First is Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Followed by Orange City, Iowa.

Don't be jealous. It's such an ugly emotion.

Why those two cities? Well, I have to go through the first one to get to the second. And the reason I'm going is to take my daughter to college as she starts her freshman year.

I'll bet you're asking why she's not going to the world-class university located just blocks from us, even though she was accepted there and could live rent free at home. I've asked that my own self. I suppose the answer is I'm not the only one with a restless vagabond spirit.

The good news is the more I learn about Iowa, the more interesting it becomes. No really.

For instance, James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the starship Enterprise was born in Riverside, Iowa.

The Field of Dreams location, yes, that Field of Dreams, suits up in Dyersville, Iowa—a mere four and a half hour drive from Orange City.

Quaker Oats, world's largest cereal company, is in Cedar Rapids.

Meredith Wilson, who, I don't have to tell you, wrote The Music Man, is from Mason City, Iowa.

I'm completely going against my nature here, and not just because I'm taking a connecting flight. I mean I'm trying to be optimistic by looking at this Iowa trek (see what I did there?) as a big adventure.

Besides all the new things and places I'll be seeing, I'll also be a Jewish Democrat in a part of the country I'm pretty sure doesn't have very many of either. So I'll be as novel to them as they are to me.

I hope my girl is looking at it as an adventure as well, because the going-away-to-college years are one of the great life experiences not to be missed.

And, according to her, neither is Iowa.

Au revoir

You don't have enough paper, or a monitor big enough to list all the things I'm not good at. There just aren't enough hours in the day. But if you decided you had nothing better to do than to try, at the very top would have to be saying goodbye to my children when they're taking off somewhere.

Lets start here: I want them to travel the world, be explorers and adventurers, have experiences and memories that will shape who they are and widen their horizons.

It's just that I hate saying goodbye to them.

When my daughter went on her 8th grade class trip back east I was a mess. When they left us to fly home from New York together it brought me to tears. When my son went to UT in Austin, you could've mopped the streets with me.

Then when he transferred back and I saw the grocery bills, well, I digress.

So today was another one. He took off about an hour ago for Paris, with a couple of days planned for a side trip to London. He'll be meeting up and traveling with a good friend of his, and he'll be staying with a good friend of mine in London. Plus, if he has any questions at all about Paris, he knows how to get hold of my friend Janice MacLeod, who literally wrote the book on it.

I'm excited for him, but I hate to see him go. But let's be clear again—I do want him to go.

What makes it harder is he's not traveling in the world I traveled in. It's a lot more dangerous, although at least he's going to two cities that are probably among the safest in the world right now for all the wrong reasons.

See, that part right there? You know what that is? That's the parent tax anyone with children pays every day. It's that low, constant hum of white noise in the back of your brain asking "Are they alright? Are they safe? Are they being careful?" You come to understand it's the reason our parents still treat us like kids no matter how old we get. They'll never stop. And I suppose I won't either.

So, I put on my brave face, bid my boy au revoir, wish him a safe, wonderful and exciting (in the good way) trip. And when he returns in a week, his horizons will have been widened, his world view expanded and his budget blown.

But then I was already thinking this was going to cost me a few Euros by the time it's all over.

It won't be like this for long

I know you're getting tired of posts about my son going off to college. But that's what's taking up all the brainspace right now, and writing about it here is cheaper than therapy (and a lot cheaper than tuition). I promise this will be the last one on the topic for awhile (fingers crossed, snickering to himself...).

This startlingly beautiful baby is my boy. It's always been one of my favorite shots of him. It was taken at our great friend Michelle Purcell and her husband John's former house in San Clemente, just before he gave a piano recital of Rachmaninoff's piano concerto number 3 (I recall he was pretty accomplished at number 2 as well - BAM!).

I don't remember how old he is here. I only know he's sure not that age anymore.

We just got back from dropping him off at his dorm room in Austin where, if you don't know by now, in between going to all-night movie festivals, eating barbecue brisket by the pound and locally-sourced quinoa salads, he's majoring in film.

And I don't mean dropping him off in the "here's your hat what's your hurry" sense. More in the "we're going to take six days, fix up your dorm room, buy even more things for you at Bed Bath and Beyond, take you out to eat for every meal and let you stay with us in our nice hotel until you absolutely have to move in" sense.

I won't go into what it was like to say goodbye before we had to leave for the airport yesterday. As I'm sure you've surmised by now from the other posts I've put up on the subject, suffice it to say I was a mess (I know, I'm as shocked as you are).

But twenty-four hours later, you'll be glad to know, it's not one iota easier.

I'm lucky in that I have a kid who wants us to text, call, FaceTime and Skype with him all we want. Or so he says. We won't drive him crazy, but we will be in touch on a regular basis. But he's grown up and he's growing up, and we're going to let him do it - no matter how much it hurts or how counter-intuitive it is.

It's been said they're leaving you from the moment they're born. Maybe, but for sure he's been leaving faster and faster as he's gotten older.

And now, in the blink of an eye, he's off becoming the man he's meant to be.

I'm so lucky, because I can't remember a time when my son and I ended a conversation without saying "I love you" to each other. And I'm not about to start now.

I love you buddy man.

Now I have to go help your sister move into your old room.

Taking measure

It's been a few days since I've put up a post, but it looks like your luck has just run out. Here we go.

What you're looking at above is the floorplan of my son's new dorm room. It's a standard issue, college dorm floorpan for two. Sadly, the illustration is close to actual size. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Ok, but where's the bathroom?" The answer is down the hall.

Being my son, you'd have thought he'd have chosen a room with a private bathroom. I know it's what I would've done. But here's why he's so much smarter than I am. If you have a private bathroom, you're responsible for keeping it clean and stocked with supplies. However if you share a community bathroom, the school cleans and stocks it twice a day every day.

Plus, by a total luck of the draw, the bathroom is literally ten steps outside his door. His first class doesn't start until eleven, so he misses the bathroom rush hour.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: being an only child, the concept of sharing - rooms, food, cars - is completely lost on me. And never having lived in a dorm, so is the concept of a small room with a roommate.

Of course, being the backer of this entire "college thing," I more than anyone appreciate the economy of doing it the way he's chosen to do it. He's already demonstrating a financial savvy, and classes haven't even started yet.

Still, being the pampered poodle I am, if it'd been up to me, I'd have gone in a slightly different direction with the dorm room.

Conflict

I'll keep it short tonight for a couple of reasons. One is I have to travel early tomorrow. The other is I feel like I've visited this well a little too often and you, dear reader, may be yearning for another subject.

To which I say, see the "Next Blog" link at the top left there? Have at it. My blog, my subject.

And tonight's subject, as you can probably tell already, is conflict.

My son leaves for college tomorrow. On one hand, I couldn't be more proud and excited for him as he starts this next season of his life. Not to get too Seussian, but oh the places he'll go. The adventures he'll have. The friends he'll make. It will be rewarding for him in ways neither of us can even imagine.

On the other hand, my baby boy is leaving home. For eighteen years I've lived with him and quite frankly I don't know how to live without him. If you follow me on Facebook, you know I posted a link to an article Rob Lowe wrote about sending his son to college. He absolutely nails it. The experience is as joyous as it is heartbreaking.

I've tried, and admittedly done a lousy job, to keep a game face around him (my son, not Rob Lowe). I don't want him to feel like he can't leave me because I'll be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Which I will, but he doesn't have to see it.

Anyway, tonight's post has been brought to you by Vent. Vent, when you just need to ramble on about it.

On a personal note, I know he doesn't read every single thing I post on here (thank God). But James, if you're reading this one, pack this in your suitcase: I love you and have always loved you more than either of us will ever know. You're more talented in more ways than any hundred people I know. And your heart is bigger than the state you're moving to - and that's saying something. I know I've told you already, but I just can't seem to stop saying it: I'm beyond proud, and can't wait to see the great things I know you're going to accomplish. You done good.

I like to think it's good parenting.

Party major

As we get ready to send young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state film school, I find myself enrolled in a continuing education course about his university of choice.

For example, I just learned last year the Princeton Review rated his university number eleven on the list of party schools. However this year, it didn't even make the top twenty.

Not to sound like a parent, but I consider that an improvement. If I'd wanted him to go to a party school, I would've sent him to UCSB. Or any school in Arizona.

The timing was curious, because I learned this just as his school started emailing me information about alcohol abuse, and how to talk to my student about it.

It's enough to drive you to drink.

There are two things I know about my son: he has never liked alcohol, the smell of it, the thought of it, the effects of it. And he likes to keep his wits about him. There's nothing attractive to him about hugging the porcelain throne after a night of keggers, chasers and beer pong.

Of course, he did say he'd like to moderate a film festival screening Days Of Wine & Roses, Barfly, The World's End, The Hangover, Leaving Las Vegas, Sideways and The Lost Weekend.

But he's going to be a director, so I know he understands things like motivation.

Like if he screws up, his tab is closed.

College boxing

I spent a lot of time today looking at stores with names like The Box Store, The Box Zone and The Box Spot.

As y'all may know, one week from today my son is shuffling off to a blue dot in a red state to attend film school.

So, completely counter-intuitively and not reflective at all of our track record, we decided not to wait until the last minute to get him packed and ready. Hence my shopping in the aforementioned stores.

The final take was five book boxes, and four flat wardrobe boxes. And I still think it's way too much. Our house has a large room in back that was added on - not by us - before we bought it. It's my son's bedroom, and he's used to having a lot of space for his stuff. He's also used to having a lot of stuff. So not surprisingly, he wants to take a lot of it with him.

We're trying to impress on him the fact that a) he won't have nearly the room he's used to when he gets to his dorm, b) whatever little space he has will be cut in half thanks to his roommate and whatever he's planning on bringing, and c) if he gets there and has room for more we can always send it to him later.

But for now it's a matter of culling the numbers, curating the items and thinning the herd. None of which is easy, for him or us.

Every object we pick up has a memory attached to it. That toy he played with as a kid. The picture of me holding him minutes after he was born. A book I made for him, filled with pictures of one of our many trips to Comic Con.

What am I saying? I'm saying there are two reasons he'll need to pack light. First is the small space he'll be working with when he gets there. And second is if he leaves most of his stuff here, I know he'll be back for it.

Until he is, those memories are mine to hold.

No Del hotel

For the first time in thirteen years, I won’t be spending part of the summer looking out at this view from our hotel room (the ocean is off camera to the left). Yes, sadly the family and I won’t be spending our annual week in August at the Hotel Del Coronado.

For starters, our great friend Donna who was the manager there has moved on to a much more rewarding position where her talent, experience and insights are being recognized and appreciated on a daily basis. We couldn't be happier for her, but the place definitely wouldn't be the same without her.

Next, with the arrival of the new general manager a couple years ago, rates at the Del – which were always stupid high – are now exhorbitant. A more cynical person might suggest jacking up the rates is an easy way for the recently installed general manager to artificially inflate the bottom line in the short term to make the numbers and himself look good to his corporate overlords in Chicago at Strategic Hotels, the latest owners of The Del.

But why bring that up at all.

I love the Del, and every summer for the last thirteen years it's been our home away from home. But for $719 a night, not only would I need a better ocean view - they’d have to bring the beach up to the room.

Last but not least, the week we’d normally go happens to be the same week we’re moving young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state university to attend one of the nations’ top-rated film schools. So instead of enjoying cool ocean breezes at the Del, we'll be baking in the brick oven that is August in Texas.

I suppose the truth is if we wanted to, we could probably manage to squeeze in an abbreviated trip to the Del before he's off shouting "Action!" - at least a couple days. Unfortunately if the choice is spending $719 a night on a room or putting it towards his out-of-state tuition, the room loses.

So as much as it pains me to say it, goodbye to the Del. At least for this summer.

And while there's consolation knowing the money is going towards his education, there's even more knowing that when he lands his first three-picture deal we'll be back at the Del.

In the big suite.

Managed risk

I worry too much.

I come by it naturally, being a member of the tribe and all. But I'd like to work on worrying about the things that merit it, as opposed to cluttering my anxiety with things that don't.

For example, my son is going off to college soon. And frankly, I'm thrilled for him but not so much for me. All the worry I have about my kids on a daily basis - the usual parent worries - now have to travel across twelve-hundred miles, two time zones and the fact he'll be a plane ride instead of a quick drive away. But I think that's a legitimate worry, as long as I don't let it be all consuming.

A good example of something I didn't need to worry about was getting to the theater on time today before Tomorrowland started. First, because the theater wasn't even half full on a holiday weekend, and - SPOILER ALERT - I could've gotten there when it was over and it would've been fine.

Despite how it reads, I'm getting better at not worrying so much about the things I can't do anything about. Like crazy, cell-phone using drivers on the road. Or crazy, cell-phone using creative directors at work.

I've found the best thing I can do for myself to get the anxiety needle out of the red is adopt the Elvis Costello theory: I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused.

Plus I'm told one of the benefits of less stress and anxiety is a more youthful appearance (still waiting for that to happen) and a longer lifespan. Crap, now I'm worried about having to buy younger looking clothes and if I'll have enough money for those extra years.

Oh yeah. Son in college. Guess I don't have to worry about the money.

I'm a wreck

It finally hit me. My boy is leaving for college.

It's not until August, but suddenly the idea of not seeing him every day is crushing. I've taken more pictures of him the last two days than I have in the last eighteen years.

Of course I'm happy for him. And I'm as proud as a parent can be. I've heard rumors parents actually survive this time. I imagine I will as well.

Last night, we went to see an artist I've loved for years named Dirk Hamilton. He was playing at McCabe's in Santa Monica. We drove up there, met another friend and saw an awesome show.

As his schedule gets busier and busier, life becomes more and more like a Harry Chapin song. I'm grateful for any time we can have together.

I understand from people who've gone through it this is a time of growth, maturity and the start of becoming an adult.

I hear he'll go through some changes as well.

Getting educated about college

It's been one day since the son got accepted to a prestigious out-of-state college, one that's a shining blue spot in a big red state. I'm not naming names.

But it has a tower. A Longhorn steer. And a bass drum named Big Bertha.

Along with his out-of-state college comes the out-of-state tuition, which is four times what it would be if he were an in-state resident.

I was expecting the hefty tuition tab. What I wasn't expecting, or at least didn't figure into the worksheet (as if I did a worksheet) was the travel expenses. For us going there, and for him coming home.

Since yesterday, we've already fired up the credit cards and racked up a few thousand in airline tickets and hotel reservations for Family Orientation. Then there's getting him settled in when he leaves for the school in August. Another parents of freshman get together in October. And then we have to bring him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas (we figure the guy we've rented his room to will be already be gone for the holidays).

The other thing all this "education" means is, since he starts in August, our annual vacation to the Hotel Del Coronado will not be happening for the first time in fifteen years. Instead, we'll be holed up in a room at the Doubletree Hotel, enjoying the chocolate chip cookies they give us on check in, and buying him everything he needs for his microscopic-sized room at the university.

And when I'm not doing that, I'll be complaining about not being at the Del.

In those rare moments I can get past how much this is all going to cost, I forget about the fact since young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the top film schools in the country, I'll have to work writing banner ads and manifestos until I'm ninety.

But that's overshadowed by the enormous pride I have for my boy in going after his dream, getting in the school he wanted and having a clear vision of the path he wants to take. Even though because he's so talented in so many ways, there are a wide variety of paths open to him.

Besides, credit card applications are like buses. There's always another one coming along.

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.

Twelve chairs

From agency to agency, as a freelancer you have to adapt to all kinds of situations: tiny workspaces, unreliable wi-fi, uncovered parking, bad agency coffee. However those are much more easily overcome than what I think is the worst mountain you’ll have to climb – the communal writing table (or its equivalent, open cubicle seating).

I just returned to an agency gig after a three-month stint on the client side. While there, I had something I haven’t had in a very long time – no, not a 32” waistline – an actual office. With a door. That closed.

Not only was it a trip down memory lane, it was also extremely helpful in shutting out the world and the noise that comes with it. It was significantly easier to concentrate on my writing, or to make that extra special personal phone call to my doctor, banker or wife.

In one form or another, besides the few actual offices with doors reserved for upper management, almost every agency today has an open seating plan. I like to blame Chiat\Day and it’s phenomenal failure, the “virtual office” experiment almost 20 years ago.

The idea was run an office like a college campus. No one had any assigned personal space. You’d come in, see the “concierge” and check out a powerbook and cell phone. You were then free to work from anywhere you liked in the office. What this lead to was petty turf wars, people scurrying for private space and a high absentee rate since you could literally phone it in from anywhere.

The thought was all this togetherness would foster a more creative, collaborative environment and improve the quality of the work.

It did neither.

The other thought was that instead of building out spaces and moving walls to accommodate titles, it'd simply be cheaper to throw everyone into the mix and let them fend for themselves.

Chiat abandoned the experiment when they moved to their current Frank Gehry-designed space in Playa Del Rey. It's wide open, but at least (most) people have desks to call their own.

Whether it's open space or communal seating, it's like trying to work in the world’s largest Starbuck’s, where 200 baristas are yelling orders and names non-stop, and it all echos off the open-ceiling, exposed duct design. Or as I like to call it, Chiat-lite.

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for a time when effort was better spent doing the work instead of trying to block everything else out so you could focus on it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to throw these babies on and get back to it.