Encore post v2: The right attitude

Happy Thanksgiving. Let's take this day to reflect on our blessings, hold those here and gone in our hearts, be thankful for all we have, and plot how we're going to slice a bigger piece of pumpkin pie without anyone noticing. Pro tip: turn on the TV and ask if anyone wants to watch the parade. That usually gives you a few minutes alone with the pie.

You're welcome. Happy Thanksgiving.

I don't think there's anyone who knows me, as much as anyone can know anyone, who'd argue the fact that I've gotten complaining down to an art form. I'm not proud.

Anyway, I thought it'd be good for me and everyone within earshot if I tried developing a different skill. So I'm choosing gratitude.

It's dawned on me, more than once, that in the scheme of things - the big picture - I have it pretty damn good in almost every area of my life. Not as good as some, but I'd be willing to bet better than most. And it's not that I'm ungrateful - quite the opposite in fact. But what I do know is I could make a more frequent habit of practicing gratitude. Maybe turn it into an everyday thing, because everyday, there's something to be grateful for.

It could start every morning. My pal Cameron always says any day above ground is a good day. So waking up each morning seems like a good thing to be grateful for.

I don't work in insurance or the fast food industry. I don't work on an assembly line. Not that there's anything wrong with those necessary jobs or the essential people that work hard in them. But I'm grateful I have a job that lets me make up stuff and dress like a fifteen-year old everyday.

I could've wound up working with a bunch of stiffs, boring people who make the long days even more excruciating than they already are. Instead, (almost) no matter which agency I'm at, I'm grateful I get to work with some of the funniest, most creative people in any business.

My wife and kids are healthy and love me.

My dog is healthy and loves me.

My neighbors are healthy.

I'm finding it's doing me good to have an attitude of gratitude, even for the little things.

Finding a parking space when I turn in the lot.

Not having to wait in the slow line at the market.

Walking up to the washer just as it finishes the cycle.

I'm grateful for my friends, who support, encourage and uplift me in all my endeavors and wild schemes. I mean my current friends. I cut the whiners and complainers loose long ago - no time for them. I'm grateful I did that as well.

So that's all I wanted to say. No snarky post, no quippy little end line. I'll wrap it up by saying I'm grateful to everyone who reads this on a regular, semi-regular or occasional basis.

That's it. Now I'm done with this post.

See? I even gave you something to be grateful for.

An encore post for Labor Day: Dig it

I thought I'd wish you all a happy Labor Day this year with an encore post from nine years ago about the late labor leader Jimmy Hoffa. As you probably already know, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared mysteriously and has never been found. There's been much speculation he's either in various pieces in different states, or wearing cement shoes at the bottom of a lake.

Or as Tony Soprano would say, "He's in 'witness protection'".

Anyway, thank you to the work force that with dedication and determination keeps this country running year in and year out. It seems like there should be more than one day to celebrate their efforts.

Whatever you're doing today, take a moment to thank them, even if quietly to yourself.

Happy Labor Day. Please to enjoy.

There are some days when I think to myself I could be putting my time to better use. Like the ones when I’m just vegging out on the couch, watching Source Code for the thousandth time on cable and doing my impression of a vacuum cleaner slamming Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies down my throat.

But then I think at least I’m not out digging a hole looking for Jimmy Hoffa.

I don’t actually think that, but I could.

Once again, the FBI has a tip about where the body of the former union leader may be buried in Detroit. And once again, they’re breaking out the backhoes, shovels and forensic kits and going looking for him.

I think we know how this expedition ends.

This time it’s thanks to a tip from a former mob underboss named Tony Zerilli. He was the second in command of the Detroit mafia when Hoffa disappeared. While he doesn’t have direct involvement in the crime since he was in jail the day Hoffa disappeared, he alleges he found out the location of his body once he got out of prison.

By the way, Zerilli is 85-years old now. I'm not in the FBI, but if I were I'd have a lot of questions about how reliable his memory is.

The other question is who gains and who loses in the search? The FBI does both. Their inability to solve the Hoffa matter has been an embarrassment to them for over forty years - that’s why they keep trying. If they find his remains, their perseverance and skills are rewarded. If it turns out to be like Geraldo and The Mystery of Al Capone’s Vaults, they lose. Again.

At this point, no one else besides them and whoever is left in Hoffa's family really cares. The chances are just as good Hoffa was tossed in an incinerator and there’s not even a body to find.

Still, it makes for good folklore and so-so movies with Jack Nicolson.

Encore post: The right attitude

This year, Thanksgiving is going to be filled with more gratitude than most, starting with the fact we finally get to gather around the table again with family and friends. Like Joni Mitchell said, "You don't know what you've got til it's gone." The pandemic Thanksgivings reminded us of what we had. And, thankfully, have again.

So let's take this day to reflect on our blessings, hold those here and gone in our hearts, be thankful for all we have, and plot how we're going to slice a bigger piece of pumpkin pie without anyone noticing. Pro tip: turn on the TV and ask if anyone wants to watch the parade. That usually gives you a few minutes alone with the pie.

You're welcome. Happy Thanksgiving.

I don't think there's anyone who knows me, as much as anyone can know anyone, who'd argue the fact that I've gotten complaining down to an art form. I'm not proud.

Anyway, I thought it'd be good for me and everyone within earshot if I tried developing a different skill. So I'm choosing gratitude.

It's dawned on me, more than once, that in the scheme of things - the big picture - I have it pretty damn good in almost every area of my life. Not as good as some, but I'd be willing to bet better than most. And it's not that I'm ungrateful - quite the opposite in fact. But what I do know is I could make a more frequent habit of practicing gratitude. Maybe turn it into an everyday thing, because everyday, there's something to be grateful for.

It could start every morning. My pal Cameron always says any day above ground is a good day. So waking up each morning seems like a good thing to be grateful for.

I don't work in insurance or the fast food industry. I don't work on an assembly line. Not that there's anything wrong with those necessary jobs or the essential people that work hard in them. But I'm grateful I have a job that lets me make up stuff and dress like a fifteen-year old everyday.

I could've wound up working with a bunch of stiffs, boring people who make the long days even more excruciating than they already are. Instead, (almost) no matter which agency I'm at, I'm grateful I get to work with some of the funniest, most creative people in any business.

My wife and kids are healthy and love me.

My two dogs are healthy and love me.

My neighbors are healthy.

I'm finding it's doing me good to have an attitude of gratitude, even for the little things.

Finding a parking space when I turn in the lot.

Not having to wait in the slow line at the market.

Walking up to the washer just as it finishes the cycle.

I'm grateful for my friends, who support, encourage and uplift me in all my endeavors and wild schemes. I mean my current friends. I cut the whiners and complainers loose long ago - no time for them. I'm grateful I did that as well.

So that's all I wanted to say. No snarky post, no quippy little end line tonight. I'll wrap it up by saying I'm grateful to everyone who reads this on a regular, semi-regular or occasional basis.

That's it. Now I'm done with this post.

See? I even gave you something to be grateful for.

The sweet spot

What with the ‘rona and all this year, everyone I know seems to have grown more than a little tired of not just learning to bake all the sourdough and banana bread the world can bear, but actually baking it. If I never see a group of squishy, brown bananas again—don’t get me started.

Needless to say, this frame of mind doesn’t bode well for all the baked goods you promised yourself and your pudgy little cousins you’d be making over the holidays.

So I'm thinking maybe the first gift you ought to give yourself is letting the exceptional Detroit Baker handle all your holiday baking needs.

Full disclosure: the Detroit Baker happens to be my good friend Claire. And, I say this objectively, everything about her is exceptional. She's talented, smart, funny, beautiful and an awesome individual. The world could definitely use more people like her.

But the good news is you can have someone just like her baking all the sweet treats for you and yours this holiday season.

Claire and I used to work together at an agency, and I used to enjoy all her baking for free. Whenever there was a birthday, work anniversary or special occasion, all of us looked forward to her bringing in some incredible, imaginative, original baked treats. They’d be in the coffee room, and throughout the day I’d just casually and (so I thought) inconspicuously keep sauntering in to have another bite.

I’m sure my co-workers would’ve loved some, but he who hesitates and all that.

I once told Claire about the fact that I'm allergic to chocolate. She looked startled and said, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Anyway, visit her site at DetroitBaker.com, and order some of the many sweet treats she has to offer. Or if you have something specific in mind, she'll make it one-of-a-kind custom just for you.

And while you’re there, do me a favor and remind her about my chocolate allergy, and let her know I'm still waiting for the oatmeal raisin cookies.

Christmas, November 2018

I know it's Christmas Eve day right now. But for me, the truth of the matter is no present I get tomorrow morning is going to be better than the one I'm expecting next November. And by the way, it's not just a present for me—it's for the world.

My hope is that the November midterm elections will restore control of the house and senate to the Democrats. Then, from net neutrality to tax cuts for billionaires to eliminating environmental controls to reducing liability for banks to the war on women, gays, minorities, immigrants, Muslims and many, many more, they can start systematically reversing every single awful, destructive, uninformed, self-serving, racist, oppressive, shitty decision the current liar-in-chief and Russian operative has made.

And they can do it the same systematic way he's tried to undo every good thing his predecessor (are you sure he can't run for a third term?) did.

While Republican dipshits who voted for a tax code that lines their pockets at the expense of the middle class will have long cashed out by then, despite what you've heard about those cuts being permanent they're not. It's only legislation, and fortunately, with the right people in office it can all be reversed with the stroke of a pen.

So, a merry Christmas to all today and tomorrow. But my hope is the real present is coming next November, which should also make it a happy new year for all.

Until then, please accept this as my little (emphasis on "little") gift to you. It's sung to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Please to enjoy.

You better watch out

You better not cry

Better not pout

I'm telling you why

Democrats are coming to town

They're making a list

And checking it twice

They already know who's naughty and nice

Democrats are coming to town

They'll start impeachment proceedings

Like all polls say they should

They'll re-write executive orders

So they'll actually do some good

You better watch out

You better not cry

Better not pout

We're not gonna die

Democrats are coming to town

School lunch programs will be funded

Infrastructure will improve

Obamacare will save thousands of lives

Even though Republicans disapprove

They'll be draining the swamp

For real this time

Immigrants won't have any

Stupid walls to climb

Democrats are coming to town

Democrats are coming to town

Democrats are coming to town

De-Christmafied

Not so merry now, is it?

It's been twelve days since Christmas, and on the twelfth day my true love gave to me a house de-Christmafied. The wreaths are down, the ornaments have been boxed and put away until next year. And the tree has been kicked to the curb.

As I wrote about here a couple years ago, I've always had kind of a love/hate relationship with our Christmas tree. On one antler, I love the fun, hopeful and joyous spirit it brings to the house during the season.

On the other, I always see it taking the house down in flames.

I'm always sad to see the holidays end, but this time it was less of an ending and more an act of mercy. Our tree stopped drinking water about the third day we had it, and it was dry to the touch and slightly brown. Plus the needles had started to fall all over the place. And since Santa didn't bring me a new vacuum, I wasn't particularly excited about that development.

That's not our tree in the picture, but it may as well be. It's one of the many you'll see lining the curbs if you drive down my block today. All ghosts of Christmas past, they're waiting for the city trucks to come by tomorrow morning starting at 6:30 to pick them up.

There is of course still the matter of the lights that decorate the exterior of the house. The further away from Christmas we get, the fewer houses still have their lights on at night. We happen to be one of those houses. But the lights don't have a shelf life like the tree does, so they're always the final act in the de-Christmafying process.

So tomorrow, when the recycling truck driver takes the tree
Then gives his team a whistle
They'll fly past the homes like the down of a thistle
And I'm sure I'll hear him say as he drives until night
Merry Christmas to all, let's get this trash out of sight.

Think inside the box

What do Jeopardy, Angry Birds, Star Wars, Sports Illustrated, Jeff Foxworthy, Mr. Rogers and the Dali Lama all have in common? Besides being mentioned in an internationally loved, critically acclaimed, extremely prestigious blog? The answer is they all have box calendars.

And they're not alone.

The other day I was killing time in Barnes & Noble while the wife and daughter were shopping in Ulta. I would've gone with them, but they don't carry the foundation or blush color I use. And besides, I think we all know I'm beautiful enough as it is. Anyway, I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to see that virtually every book title, sitcom, dog breed, video game, celebrity, magazine, website, car manufacturer and radio talk show host has a box calendar.

Apparently there's so much wisdom out in the world the holiday shopping public doesn't know about, it takes 365 days to dispense it all—one day at a time.

I imagine these bright, little squares make great stocking stuffers, not to mention secret Santa presents and gifts for people you really don't want to spend anything on, but feel like you should give them something. Whatever the reason, they take up two of the large tables at Barnes & Noble, so they must be selling just fine.

As I was perusing the vast assortment of them, the thought struck me that I'm overflowing with words of wisdom my own self, and I'm pretty sure I could stretch them out to fill up 365 days worth. So I'm going to do something I rarely do here—I'm going to make a promise to you. Because I know you'll want it, and more importantly you'll buy it, I'm going to start working on my own box calendar, and have it ready to go just in time for next year's holiday shopping season. I know, right?

And unlike my diet, unfinished screenplay, accordion lessons, sticking to a budget or my high school girlfriend, I actually intend to follow through on this promise to you dear reader(s).

First of all, it seems fairly easy to me. And if you know anything about me, you know I'm all about easy. Next, judging by the back of these box calendars that show a sample of what's inside, it looks like a lot of white space with very few words. If you've read this blog for any amount of time, you already know the less I write the better I am. In fact, the better we all are. Also, I have plenty of art director friends I can call on to design the colorful, whimsical, eye-catching box for whatever subject I decide to focus on.

Will it be a distilled rehashing of the most popular Rotation and Balance posts? A searing, snarky, advertising buzzword-a-day calendar? A skewering posting of the things account planners say day to day (you know, a comedy calendar)? It might just be daily pictures of my German Shepherd, which sounds really appealing because that means I don't have to write anything (about easy, remember?).

I guess we'll all have to wait until next year to find out.

Until then, I recommend the Keep Calm And Carry On box calendar to hold you over.

The gloves aren't off

In theory, Facebook is a good thing. I can find people I've lost touch with, catch up with celebrities and even talk to them if it’s really them posting on their page. I can follow my favorite brands for discounts and special offers, view endless vacation photos, baby pictures, inspirational sayings, favorite musician YouTube clips and German Shepherd pictures (which I personally can’t get enough of) that friends feel compelled to share with the world. It can be a fun, informative, time-killing app if used correctly.

Where it comes undone for me is the preaching, guiltifying, lecturing and cage-match quality bickering some people feel compelled to administer in the course of my Facebook feed.

I stopped getting into Facebook fights a long time ago. In fact, the post I wrote here almost five years ago was the last time I remember really losing any semblance of control, and continuing an online argument for no reason other than to hammer my point home to someone who was never going to hear it.

Oh, wait a minute. There was another time in the recent past I got into it online with a writer/director/voice-over talent/creative director/agency-owner friend I've known over thirty years. I had no idea about his extreme right wing political beliefs, but all it took to find out about them was posting something favorable about Obama and not so flattering about the way he was being treated by the Republican congress. You know, something factual he didn't want to hear.

What can you do. Some people walk around loaded for bear.

Anyway, after a certain number of back and forth posts, there comes a point in any Facebook argument where it becomes less about the topic at hand and more about energy and endurance. It forces me to ask the tough questions, like how bad do you want it kid? Will it all be worth it in the end (if it ever ends)? Am I willing to go the distance?

What I've discovered about myself, when it comes to Facebook fights, is that I am not.

I put up a post today about the general blahs of being back at work after a holiday weekend. To my way of thinking, not very controversial. I’m pretty sure it’s a universal feeling that after a three-day weekend, no one—regardless of what industry they're in—wants to be back at work after enjoying time off. AmIright?

I got some comments agreeing, and a few likes, but I also got a comment that said, “You’re booked. You should be grateful.”

Let’s disassemble that comment, shall we?

First of all, my post was a little joke, based on a universal truth. And by the way, jokes are so much funnier when you have to explain them aren’t they?

Next, does the fact I made a joke about not wanting to be at work exclude me from being grateful to have the gig? I think not.

And while I’m on the subject, I actually don’t need people telling me what to feel and when to feel that way. I don’t accept that from strangers, I didn't accept it from my high school girlfriend and I’m certainly not going to take it from friends (well, Facebook friends, not real life friends).

I’m not saying people shouldn’t put up how they feel about things. It's a free country, free speech, your right and all that. And I recognize that by posting anything, and being a part of the Facebook community, I leave myself open to whatever comments anyone with a keyboard and access to my feed wants to make.

But, like in a nice restaurant, 90% of the game is presentation. It'd be better—and, even though it might not sway me, it'd probably make me more receptive to hear their point of view—if people commenting on my posts framed it in a way that expressed their opinion without condemning me for not sharing it.

And by the way, this idea I should or shouldn't do or feel a certain way just doesn't fly. Not a big fan of the word "should"—people "should" know better than to use it with that hand-on-hip, reprimanding, wagging-your-finger tone.

To me, it's just as frustrating and insulting as people who ask you to copy and repost what they’ve posted for one hour to prove to them you’re against cancer, bullying, parting your hair on the right or whatever. I’ve written here about how I feel about those people (“What do you mean ‘those people’” “What do you mean ‘Those people’?” - see below). How much validation does one individual need?

Besides, if you're looking for it from Facebook posts, you have bigger issues than whether or not people share your point of view.

I know you all won't agree with me, but if you do copy and paste this post on your page for one hour.

This way out

I hope you appreciate how long it took me to find a Thanksgiving post picture that not only was relevant, but also looked, if you squint, like a pumpkin. You're welcome. Let's get started.

Today, like many Thanksgivings over the years, I'll be heading down to one of the relatives' homes in Orange County to polish off my quota of turkey (cooked to perfection), stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls and butter, pumpkin pie and whipped cream plus whatever other holiday fare finds its way to the perfectly set table.

I do this every year with the family, which is why Thanksgiving always feels a bit like Groundhog's Day. Not the one with the buck-toothed rodent. The one with Bill Murray.

Year in, year out, it's the same people. The same family stories. The same gossip. The same arguments. The same observations. The same questions. After the meal, we all retire to the same living room, sit on the same flattened couch cushions and watch the same TV shows while we all try to recover at the same time from overstuffing ourselves.

There's a certain familiarity to it all, and for the most part, it's fairly enjoyable. Especially the part with the pie.

But every few years, the old adage about how you can choose your friends but not your family roars to life in a loud, opinionated, foul-mouthed, conversation-dominating, high-as-a-kite, thick-headed way.

Not naming names, but there's a relative who in the past has occasionally, whether by accident or intentionally, managed to find the unlocked portal that goes from the deepest pit of hell to the natural world and made their way up to my Thanksgiving dinner table.

And of course, brought their own special brand of misery and "Do I kill myself or them?" to the proceedings.

Anyway, at one point there was some mention this person might be joining us this year. And, as anyone who knows me would expect, I reacted in the most mature, polite, measured, holiday-spirited fashion I know how.

I said if they show up, we're going home.

Then I proceeded to worry about it almost every minute of every day. Figuring how I'd make my stand, recruit my family to join me in storming out (God bless 'em they were all in), and most important, if it happened before we ate, planning where we'd have our Thanksgiving meal. Philippe's was a contender. So was The Venetian. But The Venetian is always a contender no matter what the question is.

In the end, come to find out all my worry was for nothing. This year, the particular individual I speak of has decided to brandish their special recipe for holiday gloom somewhere else.

So now, not only do I get to enjoy the holiday with the people I truly love, I also have one more thing to be thankful for.

Are you available the 25th?

Here's what you need to know about Santa Geoff. His dreams have come true. It says so right there in the small print.

"Since he was a boy, Santa Geoff has dreamed of delivering presents to all the good boys and girls around the world."

I'm a big believer in dreams coming true. Good for Santa Geoff. Because it's something he's always wanted to do, I'm sure he makes an extra effort to do the job as well as he can. No threadbare spots on the red velvet. No matting in the beard. No twinkle only in one eye. This is a man who's literally living the dream.

"Santa Geoff is accredited by the Professional Santa School..."

It's the difference between a handyman and a licensed contractor. An amateur and a professional. A Santa who's been to the professional Santa school (apparently there is one) and all the others. I imagine it's a rigorous curriculum of HoHo'ing 101, Chimney Diving, Reindeer Veterinary Care and Advanced Gift Wrapping. They also offer Beginning Sleigh Repair & Maintenance, but I think that's an elective. Anyway, somewhere at the North Pole there's a degree with his name on it, and that's good enough for me.

"...and has undergone a full background check so you can feel confident that Santa Geoff is the best Santa for the job."

Background checks are a good thing - especially when it comes to fat strangers in red suits who may at some point have your child on his lap. Besides things like drug abuse and a prison record, I wonder what else comes up in a Santa background check. Hosting back room reindeer fighting with Michael Vick? Loitering at Christmas tree lots? Listing Bad Santa as his favorite movie? By the way, the last one would be enough for me to hire him.

"Always cheerful and jolly, Santa Geoff loves being Santa and is dedicated to being the best Santa Claus possible and making every event memorable for both children and adults! Just ask Santa Geoff how to make your experience even more unique."

Clearly, Santa Geoff is going to do his gosh darn best to make your holiday event merry. The part that concerns me is asking him how to make it even more unique. Frankly, it conjures up some fairly un-Christmas-y naughty and not-so-nice images. It also brings a whole new meaning to "decking the halls."

Anyway, if you need a Santa - and really, who among us doesn't - it seems like you could do a lot worse than Santa Geoff. Plus as you can see by the area code, he works in Orange County.

Although I think we all know that's not the home office.

Yum Kippur - 2015 edition

Why is this day different from any other day? Because today, I'm going to do something I don't usually do. No, not write a post worth reading. Instead I'm going to post a three-year old post about Yom Kippur. The holiest holiday on the Jewish calendar starts this evening, and yet my feelings about it haven't changed in the last three years. Hence the repeat posting. Like someone once said, "Why do they call it a fast if it goes so slow?" I got nothing. Anyway, enjoy this well-aged, classic holiday post. And when YK is over, eat bubbie, eat.

Quick, how many Jews does it take to blog about Yom Kippur? All of 'em.

Not that the internet needed another blogpost about it, what with this fine post at Round Seventeen, and this swell one at Ad-Aged. But I thought what the hell, I'm just sitting here: I may as well write one. After all, we're not supposed to eat today, but apparently typing is still on the table (see what I did there?).

As I've posted before, I'm not really much of a practicing Jew. I don't know if it's because of four long years of Hebrew school and being bar mitzvah'd, or in spite of it. But as a result, whether I want to be or not, I'm still hard-wired to recognize the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. And because Catholics, despite what they think, have never had the market on guilt cornered, I can't help feeling like I should be more of a participant in the customs and traditions of this day. But here's the thing: for me, actually observing it would be a bit hypocritical. Somewhat akin to all the Jews who, since they're not supposed to drive today, make a proud point of walking all the way to the synagogue.

From the parking lot.

Yom Kippur is the one day we're supposed to reflect on and atone for our sins of the past year. I'm not bragging, but I think we both know it's going to take more than one day.

Besides, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not constantly thinking about my sins. Since we're supposed to be fasting on this holy day, each year Yom Kippur only serves to narrow down the sin I should be focusing on most.

Gluttony.

Happy Labor Day

We're into the long weekend, and tomorrow is Labor Day. So what better time to celebrate by listening to some fine music celebrating the tone and spirit of this deserved holiday that honors this country's Labor movement and the working men and woman who led it.

Alright, not all of these songs actually honor the movement - some have a little fun with it.

From Elvis to Alabama, maybe you'll know a few of these. If you do, or even if you don't, please to enjoy. And be sure to make the most of your holiday weekend.

You worked hard for it.

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.

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.

Ned Reyerson & Mother's Day

I had this idea for a post about Mother's Day being like Groundhog Day. The movie, not the holiday. It was going to talk about how, like all holidays, it's the same year in and year out. How through a carefully planned program of brunch and flowers we show our appreciation for all the moms in our life.

Something we should be doing every day.

Frankly, it was going to be a thin thread connecting the two. And the only real reason for it was because I wanted to post this clip from the movie.

So consider the clip my gift to all the moms out there. Enjoy your day.

Over and over again.