Getting wood

I know with that title the picture is probably a let down. But first of all, get your mind out of the gutter. Second of all, this is a family blog. We don't deal in innuendo ("That's the way it is - love goes out the door when money comes innuendo!" - Groucho Marx), or bad language.

Unless of course I happen to be talking about the Traitor-In-Chief, and I say things like fuck Trump, Trump is a festering piece of shit and only one more day of that asshole Trump.

Then I make an exception.

So anyway, what with the weather plummeting at night to an inhuman, unbearable 65 degrees, the wife decided it was time to stop using the termite-free, easily available, brightly burning Duraflame logs we had on hand and start going back to what the original settlers used: wood.

That's why you're looking at a quarter cord of citrus and almond wood. Citrus wood is a softer wood that burns faster and hotter. Almond is a harder wood and burns slower and steadier. At least that's what they tell me. Being a city boy who grew up on the mean streets of West L.A., north of Wilshire, it's all the same to me. Wood is wood.

I know it looks like a lot of wood, and it is. Wood is measured in cords, and a full cord occupies a volume of 128 cubic feet when racked and well stowed. Just like my highschool girlfriend.

That much would last us several winters, so instead we wound up with a quarter cord by splitting a half cord with our neighbors. I'd say do the math, but I just did it for you. You're welcome.

Saturday morning a big old truck—not a saying, it was actually big and it was old—from The Woodshed (apparently the same people who name dog grooming places name firewood providers) double parked in front of our house. Two very nice, strong, hard-working and I'm sure underpaid gentlemen took our share of the wood off the truck, rolled it on a palate to our backyard and then hand carried it behind the garage where they neatly stacked it. We offered them cold Topo Chico, thanked them profusely and gave them both a nice tip.

Because if they didn't do it I would've had to, and honest labor just isn't in my wheelhouise.

Anyway, when night falls now we're all warm and cozy, stoking the fire and listening to the crackle of the logs. It's so nice I hardly even mind the fact we paid $275 for our share.

Because apparently while we can run out of wood, we always have money to burn.

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.

Don't ask: Taking the middle seat

In my ongoing Don't Ask series I've covered such hot-button issues as moving, watching your stuff, sharing a hotel room and loaning you money to name a few. In tonight's installment, I tackle a topic that makes me very uncomfortable. The middle seat.

The middle is a place I've never cared for much. Middle management. Middle America. Middle earth. Middle of the road. Thanks, but no (being a night owl, I don't mind the middle of the night, but we're going to table that for the purposes of this post).

Let's start at the movies. When I go with friends, often they like to sit dead center in the theater. Alledgedly the picture and sound are calibrated for the optimum movie-going experience in those seats. You know who doesn't have the optimum experience sitting there? Me. My comfort zone is on the aisle—right or left, center or side. Doesn't matter. I've been going to movies my whole life, and I don't feel like I've missed much by sitting on the aisle.

There's a method to my no-center-seat madness. For starters, I'm a not a small guy. I'm built for comfort, not for speed—at least that's what I used to tell my high school girlfriend. I don't like feeling crowded.

I also have the bladder of a three-year old. At some point he'll want it back, but until then I'm using it (I'll be here all week). Because of that inconvenient truth, I don't like having to crawl over strangers in the dark, potentially stepping on their toes or knocking over their stupid bag of popcorn that should've been in their lap instead of on the floor. But can I tell them that? I can't, because there's no talking during the movie. And besides, I don't have time to chat. I need to get to the bathroom.

The other place you'll never find me in the middle seat is on an airplane.

Being the pampered poodle I am, it's always my preference to fly in the front of the plane, where middle seats are imaginary, non-existent things like unicorns or responsible Republicans. People always ask me, "Isn't it really expensive to fly in the front of the plane?" I always give them the same answer: that's what the college fund is for.

But on those occasions where I do find myself in a three-seat row on the plane, my seat choice happens in this order: window, aisle or window or aisle in another row.

I don't fly in the middle seat. Ever. Not to sound mean, but I'm not switching to the middle so you can be closer to your wife who's sitting behind us. Or so you can put a little distance between you and your screaming baby. Not because you're scared of flying and my window/aisle seat would make it easier.

I used to be scared of flying, and look how good I am at it now. Know what helped me get over it? Not flying in the middle seat.

If you somehow find yourself traveling with me, or going to the movies, I promise we'll have a good time. But make sure you set your expectations ahead of time, because when it comes to where I'm sitting, there's no middle ground.

So don't ask.

Balancing act

As well as you know me, this won't come as any surprise.

There are the few rare and in between occasions where I can be what I suppose some people would call compulsive.

I prefer to think of it as laser focused.

For example, at the craps tables. Or getting Springsteen tickets to 47 shows on the tour. Say it with me: Breaking Bad.

But while those are just a few of the pleasurable pursuits I enjoy directing my compulsiveness...er...focus towards, there are other, more practical ways it expresses itself.

Laundry. I challenge you here and now to a towel, t-shirt and sock folding contest (I'm looking at you Carmen Dorr). Seriously, tread lightly and prepare for disappointment. Not only am I extremely good at it, I enjoy doing it. Which is why you don't stand a chance.

Are you the kind of person who thinks they've loaded a dishwasher to capacity, even though you still have a sink and a half full of dirty dishes? Step aside rookie. I'll reorganize your dishes in the washer, put in all the ones in the sink and still have room for that serving dish you were going to wash by hand. I'm like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind: I can see the dishes all in their proper place even before I've put the first one in.

There's one place more than all the rest where I'm relentless about making it work out exactly the way it should—balancing my checkbook.

It's an old school notion, but I still get paper bank statements. I like them. I can write the numbers on them, check off the line items as I reconcile them and easily backtrack if I need to. Almost every time, it balances to the penny, which brings me a kind of happiness few things do.

Occasionally though it's off by either a few cents, or a few hundred dollars. When that happens, I put on the green visor (figuratively-green isn't really my color) and go through my find-my-mistake ritual.

First up is checking the addition in my checkbook register. I know there are apps for that, but I like doing it. I'm Columbo on a case to find the missing pennies ("Excuse me, just one more thing..."). If that doesn't solve it, I start adding the outstanding checks and uncredited deposits. Sometimes it's a few minutes, rarely it's a few hours. But I never give up, and eventually I find the error. And I always wind up with a balanced checkbook for the month.

I know I could get online statements and do it all from my laptop. But it wouldn't give me the same feeling of accomplishment putting pen to paper and figuring it out does.

I could go on and on about the joys of checkbook balancing, but I Love Lucy will be on soon and I have to go warm up the picture tube and find my clicker.

Knock down, drag out

                                          BEFORE                                                                               AFTER

When my pal Janice MacLeod isn't writing about dating, breaking up or Paris, I'm sure she's thinking about what her next literary effort will be. I hope she follows through on one idea she told me about awhile ago. We were talking about her dad and the subject of carpenters came up since that's what he does. She started telling me some of his stories, and mentioned she wanted to write a book called The Secret Life of Carpenters (© Janice MacLeod). From what I could tell, it was going to be a scary book, not to be read at night or during room additions.

The reason that conversation's on my mind is we're about to get started on a remodel here at the ponderosa. And for several reasons, it scares the living daylights (family blog) out of me.

First, as my pal Rich Siegel will tell you, there are things Jews don't do (I think we all remember what happened to the last Jewish carpenter). Anyway, in my house, construction is one of them. Even if it was, I wouldn't remodel my own house. But at least I'd understand what they were doing and know what was going on.

The other thing is when I talk to people who've been through a remodel, they just give me the look. It's the same look you get when you tell someone you're getting married, or buying a house, or having children. The one that says you're about to go through initiation and find out what the club you're joining is like from the inside.

And from what I can tell, it's not pretty.

The consensus seems to be it all comes down to time and money. And how virtually every remodel takes too much of both.

We've saved a little money, but in conversations with our contractors—who we like a lot and come highly recommended by friends and people we trust—we can already see we're going to blow past whatever budget we had (Note to self: avoid the phrase, "While you're here...).

The job is supposed to run about four months. But we're starting right around Thanksgiving because, really, what better time than the holidays to begin knocking down walls and living without hot water. I'm sure the workers taking weeks off for the holidays won't delay the job. Much.

Another thing is I have a hard time seeing the finish line. I look at the plans and it looks great. But I know from the remodel of my daughter's bathroom going on right now that when we start the big job, all I'll see are open walls, exposed pipes, dust and more dust, wires everywhere, and people I don't know traipsing in and out of what was once my kitchen and hopefully will be again.

The good news is I hear it's like having my wisdom teeth out: I go through it once, and then it's done and I can get on with my life painlessly and carefree.

Except in this case, they take the teeth out through my wallet.

Dead wrong

I believe in this election year, the Republican clown car is filled to overflowing much more so than in years past. And Donald Trump is sitting in the driver's seat.

But under the heading of even a broken clock is right twice a day, I'm going to say something I never thought I'd hear myself say. I agree completely with Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz and Donald Trump about one thing: eliminating the estate tax.

I've never been much for labels, but if I had to put one on myself (besides "do not feed" and "wash only in hot water") I'd call myself a centrist Democrat. Another thing I've never been much for? Falling in step with the party line, especially positions I don't agree with. And on this one issue, both Hilary and Bernie are dead wrong.

This isn't a new position for me. I first posted about it here a little over five years ago, although not in any great detail. But the reality for me, and I imagine a lot of other people, is that I'm not feeling particularly under-taxed. During my working life, the government hasn't missed any opportunity to reach its greedy, mismanaged, politically-motivated, oversight-free fingers into my paycheck and take my hard-earned (well, hard-earned if I had a real job) money.

Whenever the time comes, and I finally catch the last train out, there's no reason my children should be taxed on what I spent a lifetime building (and paying taxes on) so they could have a better life when I'm gone. Any person who builds a business, savings, real estate or portfolio during their lifetime - and pays taxes on it all along the way - shouldn't have it all taken away or wiped out because the government wants it's share, again, when you finally take the big dirtnap.

In 2016, estates exceeding $5,450,000 in value are currently the only ones who pay the tax, which means most people don't. But that number isn't written in stone. It's written in the legislative branch and that makes it subject to change. As you can see on the chart, Hillary and Bernie both want to lower the threshold to $3.5 million. Who's to say if the government needs a little more money, maybe the next administration lowers it even further.

Here's the truth: most of the millionaires who do have to pay it actually worked hard and earned their fortunes. They didn't inherit it. They shouldn't have to pay a penalty because they succeeded, and neither should their families. The battle cry that they can afford it so they should pay it is pure nonsense designed to create class war. Do you want the government taxing or taking away what you've earned? Didn't think so.

When it comes to government, I've been taught there are some truths we hold to be self-evident. One of them should be that it's fundamentally and morally wrong to have an estate tax in the first place. It's double taxation any way you slice it, and it de-incentivizes and deters people who would otherwise bring valuable contributions and ideas to the world. It also encourages offshore shelters and keeps money flowing out of the country.

The fact there's even an estate tax at all reminds me of a line in the movie Quiz Show, when one of the characters says, "It's not exactly Jefferson and Lincoln down there anymore."

Ain't that the truth.

Just another roll of the dice

If there's one thing I have a lot of experience at it's waiting for Springsteen tickets. I've been doing it a long time. I can even remember back to the days before the interwebs, when my friend Kim and I would line up at the now extinct Music Plus store in Westwood or the Marina, and wait in line fifteen hours with throngs of the faithful, swapping war stories and seating victories, and promising we'd all see each other at the show.

The difference between then and now is at Music Plus, you knew you were going to walk away with tickets.

This morning at 10 a.m. tickets went on sale for the March 19 show at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. I, like so many other of my Bruce tramp friends, was online the minute they did, credit card in hand. And from the very first click, Ticketmaster threw up a sign saying "No tickets available for this event." Poof, they're gone.

After hitting refresh a few times, I managed to get four tickets which the family and I will enjoy. They're not front-of-the-plane seats we've become accustomed to, but we're in the building, it's Bruce and that's all that matters.

I'm not going to give you the predictable whine about Ticketmaster. From the price gouging fees to selling directly to brokers, their evil ways have been documented time and again. My personal feeling is it doesn't matter. There's always a huge market and not much incentive for them to change.

I'm optimistic about some things, realistic about others.

The truth of the matter is I endure the wait, the frustration and the anxiety of it all every time and I'll keep doing it. Bruce tickets have always been like a box of chocolates. Fortunately, I've been in a position for many years to either afford alternative channels (brokers), or have friends with contacts wrangle some mighty fine seats for me.

But as I said, when it's Bruce, just being in the building is enough.

For thirty years, my aforementioned friend Kim has been with me at every Bruce on sale drama, and almost every show I've been to - including the very two Madison Square Garden reunion shows where his DVD Live In New York was recorded.

Over the last nineteen years, my friend Alan has traipsed up and down the California coast with me more than a couple times, and to Arizona, enduring some very sketchy hotels to follow Bruce.

And thirteen years ago, I met my red-headed woman Jessie at an agency we worked at together. Her office was plastered with Bruce posters and pictures, including one of her with him. When I was telling another person who worked there how much I like Bruce, she said, "I've got someone you have to meet." Jessie has been at all the shows with us. In fact, Jessie twisted my arm and had me get GA seats at a show in Pac Bell Park in San Francisco. We were on the rail, five feet away from Bruce - best seats ever.

I'm not exactly sure how many years I've known Chris, but he is a spectacular Bruce friend who always manages to find out everything we need to know long before anyone else does. He also manages to find the music before anyone else has heard it. Enough said.

I don't know if it's a religion or a cult, a compulsion or a necessity. Maybe it's all of them. I do know every single time, what I've gotten out of it has been more than worth everything I've had to go through to get there. And I've been there so many times I've lost count.

I'm grateful I have my Bruce tramp pals who're ready to go through it all with me unwaveringly each and every time.

Sure I wish it were easier to get good seats for the shows. But over the years all of us have been lucky enough to learn the same lesson over and over.

When it comes to the ticket train, faith will be rewarded.

Direct deposit

Not long ago, I was freelancing at this agency that had a national car account, and wasn't too far from the beach. Which describes almost all of the agencies I freelance at.

But at this particular one, they had a little service they offered freelancers that others didn't. One that made my life easier. Ask anyone that knows me - I'm all about easy.

As far as I was concerned, this service was pure magic both in its concept as well as execution.

I speak of the freelancer's little helper, Direct Deposit.

Being a little compulsive, and always liking to keep a close eye on my money, for years I'd get a paycheck then make a mad dash to get to the bank before closing time and deposit it. But not anymore.

Now, I sign up whenever and wherever I can. Magically, my money appears in my account a day before payday. I can see it online. I can write checks against it. I can talk to it late at night, tell it my hopes, my dreams, my fears.

I might be getting off topic here.

The point is I used to be afraid of giant corporations being able to get their big corrupt hands on my bank account, and now I'm not. That's true for a lot of things in my life. Flying. Sushi. Adam Sandler movies.

Alright, I'm still afraid of Adam Sandler movies.

If you have the opportunity to get Direct Deposit where you work, I strongly suggest you do. It's nice when your company makes money appear in your account.

Of course, it'd be better if they could do it as fast as I make it disappear.

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.

You're out of order

The blog is now in session. Continuing my week of reposts, here's a courtroom classic from July 7, 2010.

Today I had my day in court. Well, actually more like my five minutes.

Without going into a lot of detail, because, my lawyer has advised me not to on here, I was sued in Small Claims court. Somebody felt I lied to them about something, then made a decision to do something that cost them money. And because they felt I lied - which I didn't - they felt I should pay for what they decided to do.

Vague enough? Then I'll continue.

If you've never seen Small Claims court in action, I'd highly recommend it. It's right up there with Disneyland and Las Vegas both in terms of people-watching and entertainment value.

First the bailiff runs down some basic rules: address all comments to the bench. No talking while court's in session. Turn off your cellphones. Don't raise your voice. Don't make a grab for my gun then go on a wild shooting rampage (alright I made that one up).

Then the court clerk, who sits in a little pen with an outdated computer right in front of the judge, has everyone in the room stand, raise their right hand and take an oath swearing to tell the truth.

Just like on Law & Order, except your hand's not on a bible.

My case wasn't being heard until 10:30a.m., but I arrived at the courtroom at 8:30. Maybe it's because I'm in advertising and have done so many presentations, I wanted to get a feel for the room I was going to be playing to. I wanted to see how it all worked. I wanted to see if I was getting a hanging judge or Judge Ito.

The funny thing is I didn't get a judge at all.

In Small Claims, you get a judge pro tem, not a regular judge but a lawyer volunteering to act as judge since there are so many cases the real judges can't hear them all. If you're okay with that, which I was, you sign a document giving your consent. If you insist on a real judge, they'll insist on rescheduling you for another day. Then there you are - all dressed up and no place to plead.

Since Small Claims is for complaints $5,000 and under ($7,500 if it's not a business), many of them were landlords/property management companies suing for back rent. And winning.

In Small Claims, like so much of life, you're on your own. You're not allowed to have a lawyer represent you (although you can have one if you lose and appeal the decision). However you can do what I did which is have your lawyer prepare a trial brief arguing the case and citing legal cases and precedent on why the judge should rule in your favor. For the amount I was being sued for, $775, having my lawyer write a trial brief seemed a little like rabbit hunting with an elephant gun. But my feeling was I'd rather be over prepared than under.

I mentioned all dressed up before because that's what my lawyer told me to do: dress slacks, nice shirt (tie optional). It shows respect to the court, and while it shouldn't affect the judges decision, how I look could definitely affect his attitude towards me. He also said I'd be shocked at what people wore to court, and he wasn't kidding.

I can't tell who I enjoyed more - the greasy, strung out forty-five year old with the Led Zepplin t-shirt, torn jean shorts and flip-flops, or his crack-friendly wife who was literally, having minor grand mal seizures (or withdrawal) about every fifteen minutes.

Then there was Mr. Ralph Lauren: deck shoes, khaki cargo shorts, polo shirt and windbreaker. Every two minutes he kept looking at his TAGHeuer watch. Apparently the yacht was double parked.

I should mention prior to today's court date, the party suing me and I worked out a fragile peace. In fact I was told the case would be dropped and not to even bother showing up. My reply was that I'd need something a little more concrete than that - say a document from the court showing the case was withdrawn. I never got it. So I showed.

The person suing me did not. I guess that was his way of dropping the case because since he didn't show it was dismissed.

After the ruling, the judge made a point of complimenting me on the trial brief, saying he didn't know many lawyers who could prepare one as thorough and well written as mine.

I think he thought I was the one who did it, and I let him think that. It's not like anyone was under oath.

Oh, wait a minute.

Secret identity

I'm just going to say it: Bruce Jenner's story and struggle resonated with me. And in light of Rachel Dolezal’s revelation she’s always identified as black, I feel inspired and moved to come out, and reveal the truth about who I feel I really am in my heart and soul since I was born.

I can now say this with pride: I identify as rich.

I relate to the rich experience. As long as I can remember, I’ve spent money when, where and as much as I’ve wanted, never concerned about running out or if more will come to replace it. I've gone to great lengths to change my appearance and behavior to look rich.

For example, I enjoy sushi immensely. And really, do people who aren’t rich drop a c-note on raw fish and sticky rice for dinner nearly as often as I do? Of course they don't. No sane person does.

Would a non-rich person take their car to the dealer to be repaired, knowing full well they'll pay at least twice what they'd pay at an authorized independent mechanic? I have my car serviced exclusively at the dealer. I have for years. My rich inner self wouldn't have it any other way.

I’ve operated for years on the philosophy that “if I spend it it will come.” This approach been particularly evident on my visits to Las Vegas. Speaking of which, there are dozens of low-price hotels there, but instead, I choose to stay at the Venetian or Bellagio. I realize what one night costs at these establishments is probably three nights at a significantly lesser hotel like the Tropicana or Flamingo. But I feel like need a shower for even mentioning those other hotels.

It's a reaction the rich often have.

Identifying as rich hasn’t been an easy road. Sometimes the bank, credit card companies and my kids’ piggy bank try to convince me I’m really not rich by birth. Well sure, not on the outside.

On the inside, I'm all champagne dreams and caviar wishes.

Someday I hope society will accept me for who I am and not judge. But until then, I’m willing to suffer the indignities that come with identifying as rich: waiting for the valet. Trying to get change for a hundred. Wearing socks more than once.

Thank you for your understanding and support as I introduce my rich personality to the world.

If you need me, I’ll be at the sushi bar.

Floored

The kitchen, as we know it, cannot continue.

I’ve written here before about the small dip not so gradually turning into a large canyon in our kitchen floor. The time for action has arrived.

And by action, I mean spending money.

We spoke with one contractor my fabulous art director and supermodel friend Imke recommended. We discussed the floor, as well as what a minor kitchen remodel (if there is such a thing) might look like.

SPOILER ALERT: It looks like about thirty grand.

We liked him, but he was slow in getting back to us, although he eventually did.

One problem is our house is 65 years old, and the original plans don’t exist anymore. So we have to pony up about five g’s to an engineer to come draw up new plans to work off of.

Meanwhile, while I’ve been busy trying to figure out how many days I have to work to make this happen, I’ve also been on Yelp looking up contractors. And asking friends for referrals (got any? You know my email).

I’ve never done any kind of remodel on the house, and frankly, I’m terrified at the prospect. Although the idea of taking a sledgehammer to the walls is appealing. Especially if I can draw a picture of one of my former bosses on it before I do it.

Naturally the necessity of the floor repair coincides perfectly with sending my son off to a major university with a check for tuition. I could fix a lot of kitchens for the education he damn well better be getting.

Anyway, I’ll be making calls and setting up contractor appointments in the next couple weeks. Like job interviews, we’ll talk to everyone. Then we’ll make a decision. Then we’ll panic. But at the end of it all, even though we’ll be poorer for the experience, we’ll have a great looking kitchen without a floor that doubles as a skate park.

We’re already tight on the budget. Fortunately, I know the three words you never say to any contractor.

While you’re here…

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.

86 the 1099

It's the very definition of buzzkill. You work a certain number of days for an agreed rate, and you expect to see that amount on the check. Then payday rolls around, and you're as giggly as a 13-year old on her way to a One Direction concert. But when you open the envelope, thanks to Uncle Sam, the check is about a third lighter than you expected.

That giant sucking sound? It's all the things you were going to do with the money disappearing.

Here's how it used to work.

You'd go into an agency, do the work, then send them an invoice. Maybe they'd ask you to sign a NDA. Maybe. Then, you'd get a check for what you invoiced. Every cent. The rate you'd agreed on. The amount you expected.

It was called 1099 income. And it was a beautiful thing. But that was then and this is now.

Apparently those boys at the IRS have no sense of humor when it comes to not getting their payroll taxes from the working masses. Which is what was happening with freelancers in agencies.

So now, agencies are only allowed to hire someone freelance for a very short period of time before they're required by law to put them on staff as a temporary employee. But most of them go straight to temp employee status.

The way it works now is you go into an agency, fill out a stack of employee forms as thick as the Yellow Pages, that range anywhere from the Confidentiality Agreement to the Sexual Harassment Policy (SPOILER ALERT: Don't do it). You also sign a W-4 form which, unlike the 1099, means taxes are taken out for you and you get a W-2 form at the end of the year with the breakdown.

It also means you don't get the freelancer's second best friend next to free food: deductions.

In a nutshell, W-2 money is good and bad. Good because you don't have to remember to pay those pesky quarterly taxes like you do on the gross 1099 income, and the agency pays half the employee tax. Bad because you don't get all the samolians.

I've always been good with money - go figure. So I prefer 1099 income. I'd rather juggle my money accordingly and pay my own taxes. I also have this little pet peeve about the government reaching into my pocket, or paycheck, and taking money out.

Among all the papers you sign for W-2 income is an agreement that even though you're considered a temporary employee, you're not entitled to any benefits.

Including getting the full amount you're owed on your check.

Standard issue

Wander around agencies today - especially those on the west side, not that I'm making certain assumptions - and you'll see a lot of similar accoutrements.

There is of course the open office seating plan, designed to increase communication, stimulate creativity, create departmental interaction and drastically lower agency overhead and reflect better on the annual P&L audit by not having to build out offices for everyone.

Guess which one of these it does best.

You'll probably also see the Peet's Coffee machine, offering lattes, extra shots of vanilla and chocolate, hot chocolate made with water (just like mom used to make), as well as dark, strong coffee's bastard red-headed stepchild, tea.

There'll be no shortage of hipster planners with knit caps, tight jeans, iPhone 6's, piercings and piercing insights into the clients business. Things like "People buy (CAR NAME HERE) because they want an innovative, reliable car."

You'll see The Meeting Place. This can be a basketball court, an inside park or even a large centrally located staircase where staff meetings can be held for any number of reasons. Winning a client. Losing a client. Pep talk. Annual work review. Birthdays for that month. The reason isn't really the important thing. The important thing is it's usually about an hour no one has to do anything except eat bagels and pretend they're listening.

More often than not, what you'll also see is a foosball table. It's usually located near the vending machines, or in a former conference room along with a well-worn leather couch and some leftover swivel chairs.

Riddle me this: what's the deal with foosball?

I can count on one hand how many times I've actually seen anyone using them. Of course, I can also count on one hand how many times a planner has given me an insight worth a tenth of what they're being paid. I might be getting off topic here.

The point is, how about 86'ing the foosball table for something people actually use to blow off the stress of coming up with outdoor headlines like, "The 2015 (CAR MAKER) (CAR MODEL)."

Sure, we make it look easy. But it's not.

I'd like to suggest a pool table, because everyone likes holding the cue and pretending they're Paul Newman in The Hustler. Since there's no smoking allowed within twenty feet of the building, you won't be able to let a cigarette with a burned down ash dangle from the corner of your mouth the way Newman did. But maybe if no one's looking you can get away with a vape e-cig.

Or a ping pong table. The ball makes a nice sound, and it's easy to ace the other player if you're serving. Plus you can take that half crouching, swaying side-to-side stance that, combined with the creased brow and intense stare, makes it look like you're playing a game that really matters.

I believe foosball tables have seen their day. The time has come for them to be relegated to history's scrapheap of agency furnishings we once thought we couldn't live without: The bean bag chair. The cork wall board in offices (when they had offices). The oversized Lichtenstein print.

Classic foosball tables can run over $5,000. If an agency is going to spend that kind of money, it may as well spend it on something more meaningful and worthwhile.

Like a higher quality pizza at the 2 a.m. regroup.

Paper trail

My pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen put up a post today that got me thinking, nostalgically, about the non-advertising jobs I’ve had.

It’s a long list.

I won't take you through them all, although delivery boy for Leo's Flowers and driver for Bob Hope's best friend did have their post-worthy moments. Another time.

For today, under the heading of “What were you thinking?!” jobs, one of my first was a paperboy for the Los Angeles Herald Examiner. If that name isn't familiar, it's because the Herald doesn't exist anymore and hasn't for a long time. It was a great newspaper, from a bygone time when L.A. was a two paper town.

I’d get the papers tossed off the truck in bundles in front of my house. Then I'd have to fold and rubber band them, put them in the giant canvas bags that hung and swung from the towering handlebars of my Schwinn Stingray, and try not to lose my balance as I went wobbling on wheels down the street delivering them.

The only thing worse than the daily paper was the Sunday Herald. Thick, filled with crappy ads someone wrote (who would want that job?), hard to fold and heavy to throw, I figured out early on why Sunday mornings were a time for prayer.

In all modesty, I have to say I did develop into a pretty good pitcher, chucking those papers dead center on to the Welcome mats of subscribers homes I rode past. If major league baseball had been scouting paperboys, things might've been different.

Back then, the way I got paid was to go and get it. There were no credit payments, PayPal or online payments. At the end of each month, I’d go door-to-door, my receipt book in hand, and try to collect payment for the month of papers my subscribers had already received.

See if you can figure out how many ways this was a bad idea.

Child knocking on doors at dinnertime? Child carrying money on him? Child arguing with adults about getting paid? Adults swearing at child about paying for the paper? Suffice it to say that even though I was making some change, the end of the month was not something I looked forward to.

Like the papers, the job eventually folded (see what I did there?). But I learned a lot about myself, a great lesson on how I felt about starting the day early, working hard and getting the job done.

It's a lesson I remember each and every day. When I get in at 10.

Don't ask: Loaning you money

From the series of posts that brought you Don't ask: Sharing a hotel room, Don't ask: Picking up at the airport and the wildly popular Don't ask: Moving, now comes the one you've all been waiting for.

Money's a touchy issue with most people. In my experience, friends don't like to talk about it when they have too much, and they don't like to talk about it when they have too little.

You know when I don't like to talk about it? When you're asking me for some.

I don't mean to sound like I've never loaned friends money, I have. But the whole, "You remember you owe me some money?" "Oh yeah, yeah, I have some cash coming in soon and I'll get it to you..." dynamic is never a comfortable exchange. And in my experience, that cash coming in usually arrives around the 12th of never.

I remember one time, out of the goodness of my heart, I loaned a friend $250 to pay his rent. A few months went by - months I should mention where I never said a word about the money - and he finally sold something, got a job or whatever. He told me how happy he was, because he was able to pay back all the people who'd loaned him money. Then he started listing names and, I know this will come as a shock, he didn't mention mine.

Whether it's professionally or especially personally, I don't like chasing my money down.

There's also something that rubs me the wrong way about the assumption I have money just lying around to loan to friends in need. I wish that were the case. But the fact is I have a wife, two kids and a German Shepherd. I'm not naming names, but two of them have college coming up, one of them needs his shots and I have an anniversary with one of them in the near future.

Any money I had, have or will have is already spoken for well into the foreseeable future.

Again, don't mean to sound unsympathetic. I understand the price of everything is sky high. Jobs are shaky and in short supply. Bank accounts are red-lining.

All I can say is if you need a little cash to hold you over, you should check between the couch cushions. Or the car seats. Raid the kids piggy bank. Dip into the penny jar.

And if all that fails, remember, there's no shame in calling for help.

Just as long as you're not calling me.

King of pain

Maybe his real name's the one Steve Martin introduced him with on Saturday Night Live.

Stingy.

Today Sting announced not only do his kids not have trust funds, they also won't be getting any of his money when he goes to that Royal Albert Hall in the sky. Apparently, he has two reasons: one is there probably won't be any left. And the other is he plans on spending it all.

So the second reason makes the first one a certainty.

I'm sure that'll just add to all the good feelings his kids have already when they think about dad missing all their formative years with them while he was out earning a living and getting after show, um, backrubs (this is a family blog) from 20-year old groupies.

He's quoted as saying his vast wealth would just "be albatrosses" around the necks of his six children. I'm very sure it's a burden they could learn to live with.

As so many multi-millionaires have said, they don't want their children to have a sense of entitlement. I'm not sure when the idea of good parenting and leaving your kids financially comfortable became mutually exclusive. Seems to me you can teach children to be responsible, have a good work ethic, be good and charitable people, and at the same time provide them enough financial support to let them focus on doing what they love, and making a difference in the world.

The environment is competitive enough as it is today. I can't even imagine what it'll be like when my kids are out on their own in the world. If I could give them a head start and a soft landing when it comes to keeping themselves afloat, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I wish my parents had been able to do it for me.

And while we're on it, what's the deal with Sting cutting them off entirely? Even Warren Buffett said, "I want to give my kids just enough so they would feel that they could do anything, but not so much that they would feel like doing nothing."

That sounds about right.

Lest we forget, the one percent of money left after Warren gives it all to charity while he's alive will still be more than most people earn in their lifetime. Sigh.

But maybe Sting is just being pragmatic. He probably realizes that, based on his most recent album sales, his next experimental Neo-soul electronica jazz fusion Peruvian Ska African Norse album featuring folksongs in their original Aramaic from the sixth century isn't going to sell as well as Synchronicity did. He's just planning ahead.

Meanwhile, I'll keep trying to explain to my kids why they can't go to an Ivy League school, and try to convince them that trade schools are very underrated.

The back room

A few years ago, for about nine months, I had the good fortune to work at FCB in San Francisco. It was a fun, jet-setting kind of gig because I had to commute back and forth from Santa Monica, where I was living at the time. I’d leave Monday morning, and fly back Friday night. Racked up lots of frequent flyer miles, and also got to know a lot of the airport personnel by name. Thank you for the free upgrades.

That was the good news.

The bad news is it was on Taco Bell.

If you’ve followed this blog for any amount of time – and if you have, thank you, but you really need to spend more time outside – you may remember I wrote here about my time up north. One thing I happened to leave out was the night I went looking for trouble.

Normally, trouble usually has no trouble finding me. But on this night, I decided to act on something I’d heard. I don’t remember if it was in a noir motion picture from the fifties that took place in San Francisco, or whether the concierge at the hotel had mentioned it to me in passing. I'd heard there were all sorts of backroom crap games in Chinatown, and I was setting out to find myself one.

I also don't remember where I heard this little tidbit: the best way to find one was ask one of the many Asian cab drivers.

So, very late in the evening, I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Chinatown. When we got near it, he asked for the exact address, and I told him I didn't have one. I wanted to be taken to a crap game.

He laughed, shook his head and told me there weren’t any. By the way he said it, I could tell I’d struck gold with this driver.

I told him not only did I know there were, but I knew that he knew where they were. I was insistent he take me to one of them. After a lot of back and forth, denial and more denial, he finally said he did know of one. But he wasn’t going to take me there.

When I asked why, he said because the games were closed to outsiders, especially Caucasians, and if I went into one I might not come out.

Even if I didn't hear about them in a movie, it was beginning to sound like one.

You know how seeing a police car in the rear-view mirror after you’ve had a couple beers sobers you right up? That’s how fast I lost my desire to play in a back-room crap game.

He took me back to the hotel, where I tipped him generously and thanked him for being so honest with me.

He said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Pay as you go

When it comes to credit cards, I like to know I'm at least getting a little reward for my completely undisciplined spending. That's why I have two airline affinity cards I use to help me rack up the miles.

Funny thing about credit card companies - they expect you to pay them. I know, right?

Sometimes, as any freelancer will tell you, the bills get there before the checks do. The cash flow isn't always as prompt as you'd like it to be. It's not that it's not there, it's just not there right now.

A few months ago, I managed to run up one of my cards to a healthy sum. It fact, at that point in time, it was a healthier sum than I had coming in.

Eventually I paid it off, but I'm not a guy who likes to have debt. I'm not comfortable with it, never have been. I used to pay my phone and electric bills a year in advance just so I wouldn't have to think about them (I also used to spend my rent money at the track, but I don't do that anymore either - long story).

Now before you say it, don't say it. I know I could've invested that money instead of letting the phone and power company earn interest on it. But to me, my peace of mind and retaining the ability to breathe knowing those bills were paid was a good investment.

Anyway, as a result of having run up that card - little suckers just sneak up on you don't they? - I now do something I've never done. I pay as I go.

At the end of every day, I go on the credit card site and see how much I've charged. Then I transfer money from my checking account to cover the daily balance. With a keystroke, I'm current on the card.

It also helps because knowing how much is in my checking keeps a tighter rein on my spending since I know I'll have to cover it the next night. At least that's the theory.

But with 467,000 frequent flyer miles, I'm not sure how well it's working.