Prep school

I’m not going to lie. I had a fun time coming up with different choices for the title of this post:

My Least Favorite Oscopy

Where The Sun Don’t Shine

Up The Down Staircase

The Long And Winding Road

Landing On Uranus

Aw Chute

Bottoms Up

I chose Prep school because it focuses on what, contrary to what you may think, is absolutely the worst part of the colonoscopy “journey.”

At the urging of my doctor, last week I treated myself to this diagnostic procedure. For you lucky bastards unfamiliar with it, a colonoscopy is a medical procedure where a doctor, usually a gastroenterologist (PRO TIP: never a guy in a van), inserts a long, flexible tube called a colonoscope into the rectum.

Which reminds me of a joke.

The elementary school teacher was taking roll call. “Johnny?” “Here.” “Steven?” “Here.” “Billy?” Nothing. “Billy?” Still nothing. The teacher says, “Does anyone know where Billy is?” Mikey raises his hand and says, “Billy had an accident. He was climbing one of those iron fences with the pointy tops, and he slipped. One of the pointy things went right up his asshole. The teacher said, “Michael, we don’t say asshole, we say rectum.” And Mikey says, “Rectum?! Damn near killed ‘em!”

Never gets old.

Where was I? Oh, right. So anyway, a tiny video camera at the tip of the colonoscope lets the doctor see the inside of the entire colon. And according to the twice-impeached, currently indicted, stable genius orange mango, when applied this way the camera light also cures covid.

So, win-win.

The reason the procedure is done is to check for things—none of which I had—like polyps, abnormal tissue, blockages and causes of rectal bleeding, chronic diarrhea and other intestinal problems.

In specialized GOP colonoscopies they also look for brains, hidden documents and Lindsey Graham.

Now for the prep part of our show. Two days before the procedure, I had to go on a soft diet. Then the day before, I was on a liquid diet. On Colonoscopy Eve, I celebrated in the traditional way by drinking eight ounces of a powerful laxative mixed with Gatorade every fifteen minutes until I'd had a total of forty-eight ounces.

Then, there was nothing to do but have a seat in the library and wait for the show to start.

The next morning the wife drove me to the surgical center to check in at 8:30 for a 9:15 reservation. I was done and on my way home by 10:45, still in my propofol haze and craving In-N-Out.

While it's not the most pleasant way to spend a morning, I file it under things could've been a lot worse. So now you know more about me than you probably wanted to, but at least you'll know what to expect should you ever have to roll on your left side and count backwards from a hundred. I mean for medical reasons.

That's it. And of course, there's only one way to wrap up this post.

The end.

Encore post: Non-essential personnel

There’s been a great deal of discussion about essential and non-essential workers these past ten months. In the middle of a devastating pandemic, we quickly found out who we absolutely needed and who we could live without.

And the surprises weren’t all that surprising.

The people we take for granted day in and day out—grocery checkers and stockers, delivery people. Obviously the frontline medical heroes. The under siege postal workers (buy stamps). People who keep security and infrastructure going. As well as a long list of others.

And hey, you'll never guess who wasn’t considered essential. Give up? I hate for you to hear it this way but it's people who work in advertising agencies. I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

But here's something we know deep down in those places we don't talk about: the harsh reality is that was true even before the pandemic. And it’ll be true after.

Truth can be such a cruel mistress.

Come to find out in a non-existent survey not conducted by Gallop, that in the time of Covid, turns out people across every demographic—including some that haven’t even been segmented yet—actually set priorities about what's essential and what isn't.

While people are busy worrying whether a cough is just a cough or whether it's a debilitating virus that's going to have them fighting for their lives in the ER, oddly enough they don’t consider banner ads, screen takeovers, wild postings, commercials of any kind (with the exception of those two Match.com Satan ads), radio spots repeating the phone number three times, bus shelters, outdoor, paid social, email, direct response tchotchkes (no I didn't look up the spelling, yes it's correct), online surveys, YouTube pre-rolls, theater ads that piss you off before the movie (remember movies?), product placement in those movies, brochures, endcaps, welcome kits and more essential.

Even more non-essential? People who create them.

But fear not fellow agency people. Remember that many great artists aren't appreciated in their own time. Eventually this too shall pass, and people will come out of the plague culture and discover they hold a deep appreciation and fond nostalgia for all the ads they saw that began with "These are challenging times..." and ended with "We're in this together."

Someday the world at large will see the sense in theoretically normal-thinking adults putting their health and the health of loved ones at risk to bring them commercials that involved people breaking into dance for no reason, running footage, bite and smiles and people who aren't doctors but play one on television.

You know, the same as usual except now the people in them wear masks.

I've heard the arguments: we're keeping the economy going during a bad time. Bringing information people would have no. other. way. of getting. Setting an example by being at work, etc.

I got news for you. Essentially, you're kidding yourself.

Non-essential personnel

There’s been a great deal of discussion about essential and non-essential workers these past ten months. In the middle of a devastating pandemic, we quickly found out who we absolutely needed and who we could live without.

And the surprises weren’t all that surprising.

The people we take for granted day in and day out—grocery checkers and stockers, delivery people. Obviously the frontline medical heroes. The under siege postal workers (buy stamps). People who keep security and infrastructure going. As well as a long list of others.

And hey, you'll never guess who wasn’t considered essential. Give up? I hate for you to hear it this way but it's people who work in advertising agencies. I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

But here's something we know deep down in those places we don't talk about: the harsh reality is that was true even before the pandemic. And it’ll be true after.

Truth can be such a cruel mistress.

Come to find out in a non-existent survey not conducted by Gallop, that in the time of Covid, turns out people across every demographic—including some that haven’t even been segmented yet—actually set priorities about what's essential and what isn't.

While people are busy worrying whether a cough is just a cough or whether it's a debilitating virus that's going to have them fighting for their lives in the ER, oddly enough they don’t consider banner ads, screen takeovers, wild postings, commercials of any kind (with the exception of those two Match.com Satan ads), radio spots repeating the phone number three times, bus shelters, outdoor, paid social, email, direct response tchotchkes (no I didn't look up the spelling, yes it's correct), online surveys, YouTube pre-rolls, theater ads that piss you off before the movie (remember movies?), product placement in those movies, brochures, endcaps, welcome kits and more essential.

Even more non-essential? People who create them.

But fear not fellow agency people. Remember that many great artists aren't appreciated in their own time. Eventually this too shall pass, and people will come out of the plague culture and discover they hold a deep appreciation and fond nostalgia for all the ads they saw that began with "These are challenging times..." and ended with "We're in this together."

Someday the world at large will see the sense in theoretically normal-thinking adults putting their health and the health of loved ones at risk to bring them commercials that involved people breaking into dance for no reason, running footage, bite and smiles and people who aren't doctors but play one on television.

You know, the same as usual except now the people in them wear masks.

I've heard the arguments: we're keeping the economy going during a bad time. Bringing information people would have no. other. way. of getting. Setting an example by being at work, etc.

I got news for you. Essentially, you're kidding yourself.

Nailed it

I've known for days something was afoot. I know, I'm already sorry I wrote it. But it's going to be that kind of post, so you may as well start getting used to it.

This is not an actual picture of my foot. For starters, my story is about my right foot not my left one. My legs are also considerably more muscular from the exercise they get walking from the bedroom to the refrigerator several times a night. It's all about the calves.

Anyway, I've had an ingrown toenail on the big toe of my right foot for a while now. It had gradually gotten more and more painful, finally to the point where I had to do something about it. So I went to my podiatrist, Doug Richie, who also happens to be Jerry Seinfeld's podiatrist when he's in town. Hope I don't hurt my foot again dropping a name on it.

With my vast medical background, I figured Doug would trim the nail properly, the pain would be gone and that would be that. Were it only that easy.

He said apparently what happened is the shape of my toenail has changed, something fairly common as "one gets older", a phrase I can never really hear enough. He then informed me the best way to stop it from reoccurring was to do a minor surgical procedure called a wedge resection.

This little piggy screamed ouch.

Basically, it consists of numbing the toe, then trimming the wedges on both sides of the toenail so they don't grow into the toe. Ever again. Part of the procedure involves putting acid—not the fun kind—on the roots where the trimmed nails were to make sure those suckers are gone for good.

When it's over, he wraps the toe up and it looks like the toe in the picture. Actually, by the time I got home, the bandage looked a little more, shall we say, colorful. Which is why I'm sparing you a picture of my actual foot.

So if you need me over the next few days, I'll be sitting here soaking in epsom salts while I finish bingeing Hannibal.

By the way, I don't know if you noticed, but I got through this without any "arch" enemy or "He's a heel" jokes.

And we had a ball anyway.

Bedside manner. Again

So here's how my night went.

I drove from my place of employment in Huntington Beach up to downtown Los Angeles to meet my great friend Sandy, who I've known forever, at the Water Grill for yet another one of our fabulous dinners we have from time to time.

I had every intention of posting a new article tonight when I got home, but after the day and the drive, like last night, bed is calling. And it's not taking no for an answer.

So I went into the archives, and found this sweet piece I'd written exactly five years ago To. The. Day. I know, right?

Since I've been revisiting older posts this week, I might continue the trend for the rest of the week. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I've got my jammies on, flipped the pillow to the cold side, set the T.V. on the sleep timer (still one of the greatest inventions since carpeting and air conditioning) and I'm ready to hit the hay.

Have a swell rest of your night, and please to enjoy this post. Again.

.

Every once in a while - a great while - my faith in humanity is momentarily restored. This is one of those times.

A while ago I had seen this letter from an emergency room doctor to a man who's wife he'd treated. Sadly she later passed away, but she'd left such an impression that this doctor felt compelled to write his first letter ever to a family member. What strikes me is the time he took to write this letter, which is clearly carefully and deliberately worded, was probably longer than he gets to spend with most of his patients.

In an age of cost cutting, managed care, debates by monkeys in congress over healthcare and the traditional distance doctors keep from the personal lives of their patients, this letter is nothing short of remarkable.

I never want myself or any member of my family to have need of an ER doctor. But if it's unavoidable, I hope they get someone as compassionate as this.

More power to me

There are a lot of powers I'd like to have.

I'd like to be able to fly like Superman. It'd get me where I need to go a lot faster, I wouldn't have to deal with those pesky TSA people, and I look absolutely fabulous in a cape.

Or so I've been told.

Invisibility would also be a good one, being able to move through the world unnoticed (of course I could accomplish the same thing by having a show on NBC), slipping into places unseen by anyone. This is definitely a power I would've put to much better use in high school. Now I think I'd use it mostly to get around taking out the trash and unloading the dishwasher. "Where's dad? He was here a minute ago."

Telekinesis is a favorite. I'd love to be able to have a driver flip me off on the freeway, then be able to flip them off the road by sending their car over the side rail just by thinking about it. Seems fair.

Sadly, I don't have any of those powers. The one I will have shortly is one I hope I never have to use. Power of attorney over my son's health and affairs.

As you might know, young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the finest film schools in the country. That's the good news. The bad news, besides the tuition, is it's not in the same state as I am. So just like my weight, taxes and where my next gig is coming from, I file this power under things I don't want to think about but have to.

My boy will be a two and a half hour flight away, and that's provided the planes are leaving when I need to go. God forbid if something should happen where he's unable to make decisions for himself, either myself or my wife are going to have to make them for him. No parent ever wants to think about this. But the only thing worse than it actually occurring is not being able to do anything about it. I asked him to grant my wife and I power of attorney, and he'll have to sign documents giving it to us. As I was stumbling around trying to explain it to him, he took the opportunity to explain it to me: "It's like a fire extinguisher. You never want to use it, but it's good to have around if you need it."

Clearly he's already much more mature than I ever was at his age. Or even my age.

I'm taking this as a learning opportunity for both of us. I get to teach him to read this document - all documents - carefully before he signs them. He gets to teach me he's a capable, grown man - something I sometimes have trouble remembering (and realizing).

I finally understand why parents treat you as kids no matter how old you get. He's always going to be my baby boy no matter what state he's in or how old he is.

The other thing the wife and I are forced to consider is that plane ride I was talking about. If events were moving fast, there's the very real possibility we wouldn't be able to reach him before decisions needed to get made.

Fortunately, I have a great friend named Cameron who lives in the city where he'll be. He's graciously offered to be my son's boots on the ground while we're not there, and not just for emergency situations but for homecooked meals, advice and anything else he needs as well. Cameron's included in the legal document as the alternate after the wife and I, so there won't be any question about his authority should it ever come to that. I'll never be able to convey how much of a relief it is knowing he's there for my son, or how thankful the wife and I are.

So tomorrow morning, we sit down with our lawyer and he'll sign the papers. And I'll try not to think about what they actually mean.

I guess that is one more power I have. The power of denial.

Half calf

Okay, so this was scary.

To the untrained eye, it looked like I was sleeping on the couch last Thursday afternoon. But actually I was, um, letting my subconscious work on a slew of ideas that would bring me fame and fortune. As that was happening, suddenly I was jolted awake by a piercingly sharp pain in my lower left calf. It wasn't an ongoing pain, just one sharp stab.

When I took a look at my leg, my calf was slightly swollen and larger than my right one.

So I thought if there's any place that'll know what this is it's the interwebs. What I learned was there may actually be a little too much information available online.

What the symptoms were shaking out to looked like DVT, or Deep Vein Thrombosis. That's a blood clot deep in an interior vein in the leg. The problem with that is the clot can break up, and go to the brain or heart causing a stroke.

I'm not a hypochondriac. I'll sit with a pounding headache for hours before I resort to taking something for it. Most of the time, I just tough it out. However, clot, swelling, stroke? Not so much. But instead of racing to the ER like I probably should've done, I waited until Friday morning when I went to my doctor's office.

Because I needed to see my doctor, naturally he was on vacation. So instead I met with his physician's assistant, who come to find out was awesome and probably more involved than my doctor would've been.

She took a look at my legs - and I do have fabulous legs so I'm used to this - and agreed it was swollen for no apparent reason. She sent me to have an ultrasound of my calf. She said if they saw a clot, they would immediately send me to the ER and start me on anticoagulant meds to stop further clotting. If they didn't see a clot they'd send me home.

The technician was great in that way someone is when you know they've seen this a million times before. She took about a thousand images like the one you see here. Now technically, the technician isn't allowed to tell me the results. A doctor has to read the images, write a report and then send it to my doctor.

But after the ultrasound was done, and I asked her if it was a boy or a girl (BAM! Thank you. I'll be here all week.), she looked at me and said, "You're free to go home." She waited a second, then said, "Do you understand? You're free to go home."

Relieved, I thanked her, put my pants on and went home. Another thing I'm used to.

However, all weekend long, my calf would swell up, then I'd take Aleve and ice it, and the swelling would go back down. But because I hadn't heard the official ultrasound verdict from my doctor, I felt like a ticking bomb.

So first thing this morning, I went back to the physician's assistant. She showed me the report that said everything was fine, and we decided I'd probably injured my calf on something and didn't remember. Her prescription was continue the Aleve and ice for five days, and give it about three weeks to heal completely.

And if anything changes we'll reevaluate the situation. But she doesn't think it will.

Me being me, I spent most of the weekend worrying and telling my wife over and over how to spot a stroke (something everyone should know). My kids had a track meet and a jazz concert this weekend, so I put on a brave face even though all I could think about was how disappointed they were going to be by the inheritance.

But thankfully, it looks like they won't have to worry about it for a long while.

So now, I'm fit and ready to get back to what I was doing when this all started.

After all, it's a very comfortable couch.