Don't ask: Borrowing my phone charger

What's better than one sequel to a popular series of blogposts? Several sequels. Which makes today your lucky day as yet one more post gets added to my outrageously successful Don't Ask series.

I assume you're already familiar with the classics (and if you're not, don't burst my bubble - just let me think you are): Don't Ask: Watching Your Stuff, Don't Ask: Working the Weekend, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Writing a Letter For You, Don't Ask: Sharing a Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Picking Up at the Airport, and the perennial Don't Ask: Moving - one of the most popular and requested of all.

While several other series remain dormant on this blog, like Guilty Pleasures, Things I Was Wrong About, The Luckiest Actor Alive and Why I Love Costco, this particular series continues to flourish thanks to the fact there's just no end to the things I refuse to do.

Tonight's entry is Don't Ask: Borrowing my phone charger. Here's the thing: phone chargers used to be expensive, especially if you were buying them at the Apple store. So most people just have the one that comes with the phone, and stays at home. They either charge the phone overnight and hope it lasts, or depend on the kindness of others to loan them their chargers at work.

My charger-loaning kindness is at 0%.

Instead of absconding with my charger—and making me hunt you down to get it back—there's no reason you can't have a backup charger all your own to keep with you at all times. They sell them everywhere. From the checkout counter at CVS (next to the nail clippers) to the checkout line at Nordstrom Rack (next to the hair ties).

They come in all colors, lengths and not only do they improve how long your battery lasts, they also improve how long our friendship will last. Win-win.

Don't get me wrong: next time the battery icon in the upper right of your home screen is in the red, by all means do the sensible thing and ask if you can borrow someone's charger.

Just don't ask me.

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.

Office shuffle

No matter how close you're watching, you still won't know where it winds up.

You don't have to work at an advertising agency long before you go through it. In fact, you'll probably go through it several times if you're there for more than a few months. It starts innocently enough, usually with a casual stroll through reception. Everything seems normal, but then your Spidey sense alerts you to the boxes, bins and packing tape sitting against the wall, trying desperately not to be noticed. And then the realization hits you—it can only mean one thing: you're being moved to another office in the building.

Every once in a while, someone "upstairs" gets an itch that can only be scratched by inconveniencing and relocating dozens of employees who were perfectly happy and productive right where they were. The reasons, like the creation of the universe or how a dipshit like Trump got elected, might never be fully known. But when it comes to educated guesses, there is always the list.

We're putting each group all together.

We're growing and need more room.

We're giving everyone a fresh start.

And the ever popular, we're shaking things up (or in agency speak: disrupting things).

Whatever. Before I was one person in an office of four. After the move, I still am—except the office is virtually half the size of the old one. And since the desks, monitors, chairs, ideas and my stomach haven't gotten any smaller, needless to say it's going to be a tight fit.

But damn it, I'm paid to solve problems day in and day out. So after putting a little of my pricey brainpower against this issue, here's a solution I've come up with.

For starters, maybe instead of wasting everyone's day with a move they don't want they could just leave things the fuck alone since they were working fine before. Even if it wasn't perfect, to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, "Agency life finds a way."

The other thing I'm sure isn't calculated in the bottom line is how much time is wasted while people walk around trying to find where their colleagues are sitting now.

"Oh, you're here now?" There's a seating chart, but so far no one's carrying it with them.

I'll stop my whining now (you're welcome). It's not the worst thing that's happened in my life, and I'm sure eventually I'll get used to the new world order, as I always do. Besides, it'll only be the new world order until they decide to move everyone's office again.

In a month.

It won't be like this for long

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you buddy man.

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

Conflict

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like to think it's good parenting.

College boxing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until he is, those memories are mine to hold.

Moving experience

Here at international headquarters of Rotation and Balance, we've had quite a year so far. You may have noticed the postings have been happening at a feverish pace, and by that I mean more than one a month.

Also, with the staff additions (new refrigerator for the Corona Lights and a second-hand La-Z-Boy recliner), we've outgrown our current office space near the Port of Los Angeles, just east of the refinery.

C'mon, what did you think that smell was? (Don't say the writing).

Anyway, since this is the worldwide interwebs, and RNB is read by people as far away as Finland, Nigeria and Vladimir's hometown, the board of directors decided in a contentious 7 - 3 vote that headquarters needed a more international presence.

Randy Greenwood, former director of Arby's real estate operations has been brought on as our VP of International Real Estate Acquisitions. Welcome aboard Randy. Having been with Arby's for over 25 years, and having gone backpacking in Europe for three weeks with his high school sweetheart after graduation, we have the utmost confidence Randy will get us a space we can be proud of and continue to grow in.

Hopefully in a country without corporate income tax.

Anyway, his first few weeks have been spent negotiating for office space on the 148th floor of the Burj Khalifa, the world's tallest building located in Dubai. He tells me they shot one of the Mission Impossible films there, although he's not sure which one.

I'm not really certain the desert is where I want to be. I sweat if it goes over 60 degrees, and frankly unless I'm lying down in sheets I don't look very good in them. White is not a flattering color on me. It just isn't.

But my objections may be moot after all. Our accountants at H&R Block tell me that the revenue generated by this site is well over seven figures. All zeroes.

Which probably means we'll have to say goodbye to our Burj Khalifa office space, and keep our international headquarters right here in the states.

Not to worry. Randy has been working on some contingency plans, and says he's found a space that may suit us in a very desirable mall on the edge of town, just on the other side of the tracks.

We've already got the people from Fastsigns scheduled to come measure for the brand new Rotation and Balance sign. It should look great between the donut shop and massage parlor.

Don't ask: Moving

You have to look closely to see it. This is a picture of me helping you move.

I know what you’re thinking: it looks like a couple on a tropical beach, enjoying a few beers and some special time together, far removed from all their cares. And yours.

Yes. What I said. Me helping you move.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at a certain age - maybe around 40 - I made the decision there were just certain things I wasn’t going to do anymore. Like help you move. In fact I decided I don’t have any friend I like well enough to help move.

So don't take it personally.

Sure, there was a time when renting a van or borrowing a friends pickup, dragging your stuff down the flight of stairs from your old place up the flight of stairs to your new place, and being rewarded with cheap pizza and beer at the end of it all sounded like a good time.

But that time has come and gone. Now it just sounds like lousy pizza, warm beer and a bad back.

I'll be happy for you and your new place, and I'd absolutely love to come over and see what you've done with it once you're moved in. Which actually should be pretty easy since there are over 25,000 moving companies in the United States.

It's just that now, I'm not one of them.