More John Moreland please

Here’s how it happened.

My son and his girlfriend thought it was time the wife and I met her parents and they met us. Nothing loaded about that invitation.

So instead of meeting anywhere near where either set of parents live—because that would've been too easy on the old folks—they decided to have us schlepp out to Gladstone’s on PCH on a hot sunny Saturday morning for brunch.

By the way, note to self: the best thing about Gladstone’s must be the view because it sure isn't the clam chowder. How does a seafood restaurant screw up clam chowder? Maybe next time try to keep it down to one brick of butter. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I spent a lot of the meal braced for some kind of big announcement to be sprung on us by the cute couple but, to my relief, they decided to save that card to play at a later date.

Prior to the meeting, my son sat me down for a son-father talk, and let me know his girlfriend’s father was on the more conservative side of the political spectrum than I am, and I was advised, as was her dad, that in order to keep this first introductory meeting civil we should probably avoid discussing politics. Hard as it is for me to bite my tongue, and resist the pure joy that is embarassing my kids, I said I'd try.

Come to find out there was no need for them to worry. Everyone was on good behavior and getting along great. In fact, come to find out her dad was a very funny, interesting guy who I hit it off with from the get go. I really enjoyed talking to him and am very much looking forward to our next meal together.

That sound you hear is the kids finally letting their breath out.

At one point during the meal, he looked over at me and said, “So, I hear there’s a particular singer you’re pretty fond of.” To which I said, “Why as a matter of fact there just might be.” He then proceeded to tell me if I liked Springsteen—which he did also, so big points for that—I had to hear John Moreland. So on the drive home I fired up Spotify, and it was love at first listen.

First, as you may know I have a thing for singers with a little grit and gravel in their voice. Moreland's voice is uncannily close to Bruce’s, with just a hint of early Tom Waits and a faint bouquet of Warren Zevon.

Then, the songs. Beautiful, heartbreaking, truth-wringing, emotion-filled poetry. Deceptively simple lyrics that are pointed like a knife, and as moving as they are poignant.

Acoustic folk is not where Moreland started. He was a well-known figure on the Oklahoma punk scene—yes there is one—for a very long time. But he’s found his true sound, and it’s wonderful.

The first video here is the happiest melody I’ve heard from him, but don’t be fooled: listen to the lyrics. It's also the only performance with a band, the rest are him and his guitar.

If you’re ready for a good cry, take a look at the other videos and be prepared for a case of the feels.

And not that I needed more to seal the deal, but watch and listen to the last video, and you'll hear why John Moreland feels like home to me.

Stair masters

The agency I’m working at right now is in Huntington Beach, right next to the water (or as I like to call it, tsunami adjacent). It’s an awesome location, an even better view and a dream commute.

Because it’s where it is, the office is in a three-story, low-profile building. No doubt it’s not any taller or wider because it had to be approved by the brain trust that is the California Costal Commission.

Anyway, because it’s not some tall, mirrored high-rise office building in Irvine (is there any other kind there?), many people, myself included, use the stairs instead of the elevator to get from floor to floor. It’s faster, it provides a little bit of exercise during the day, and it’s also a few moments of quiet and privacy if there isn’t a lot of up and down traffic.

Also, people don’t point and laugh at you like they would if you took the elevator.

I know what you’re saying to yourself – “Jeff, you’re such a perfect physical specimen, why would you need any exercise, regardless of how little the amount?” While those are kind words you say, the fact that I need an oxygen tank by the time I get to the top of the stairs tells another story.

The last time I went to the gym with any regularity was when my son was born eighteen years ago. It’s fair to say I may have let myself go just a bit in that time. Although I still get mistaken a lot for that guy who plays Thor. From the toes out you can’t tell us apart.

So trotting up the stairs (down is considerably easier) about a hundred times a day for meetings on different floors is a good workout and an incentive to work out even more.

It is some consolation a few of the people I work with, who’ve been here and have been taking the stairs much longer than I have are also winded at the end of their climb.

But like my art director partner Imke says, she takes the stairs because she can. There’ll eventually come a day when she won’t be able to.

And really, that should be incentive enough.

City of angels

I have a complicated relationship with L.A. It's a love/hate relationship, the kind only someone, like myself or anyone who's ever had a high school girlfriend can appreciate.

And when I say someone like myself, I mean a native. Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else.

All too often, the city grabs my arm, pulls it up behind my back until it hurts and makes me start sentences in that way. "When I was a kid..." and "Back when I was in high school..." and "Let me tell you what traffic used to be like."

The major love/hate component of the city is the weather. I've always been torn. On one hand, I'd love to live in a city with real seasons, for example San Francisco. Yeah, yeah, I can hear all the L.A. people whining about how we have seasons too, just not as extreme.

Listen, I've lived here my whole life. There are only two seasons: summer, and construction.

However if I may be allowed to contradict myself (not sure why I'm asking permission for something I do on a daily basis), there are stunningly beautiful days when the east coast is buried in a blizzard or being hit by hurricane Roker and it's ninety and sunny here.

It's the kind of weather that sets Facebook on fire, with everyone posting the same sunny picture of wispy white clouds, the tops of palm trees or the ocean and sarcastic, mocking greetings to the eastern brethren.

Another cause of so much of my agita (look it up) about the city is the fact it's just such a whore. L.A. won't waste a second tearing down its history to put up a strip mall or new fusion sushi restaurant. Cliché but true.

I've watched it tear down or lose places that gave it character and personality. For every Tommy's or Pink's, there's a Spanish Kitchen that's now a beauty salon. Or a Wilshire Blvd. Bob's Big Boy that's a BMW dealership. At least the former Pan Pacific Auditorium is a park people can enjoy. The city gets older but no wiser.

There are even websites, like this one, that revel in articles why L.A. is the worst place ever.

My entire attitude reminds me of the old joke: "Do you have trouble making up your mind?" "Well, yes and no." That's my ongoing debate about the city of my birth.

But I'm nothing if not Mr. Glass Half Full, although not with rain water because we're in the seventh year of a statewide drought. Which in L.A. only means one thing: waiters are required to serve Evian at brunch.

Anyway, for the moment I'm not going anywhere. Even though there are states where I could buy city blocks for what I could sell my house for, I just can't seem to leave L.A. behind.

One last thing that bothers me about this urban sprawl of a city is that, bar none, at every restaurant they always..oh crap, look at the time. I gotta get to my audition.

Hold that thought.

Tsunami adjacent

One trick to making the day a little better when you’re working at an agency is to work at one that follows the tried and true first rule of real estate: location, location, location.

I’ve worked at agencies located in industrial parks, in the corner of run down shopping malls and alongside an airport runway. As I’m sure you know by now, I’m not particularly picky as long as – say it with me - the checks clear. But it is infinitely more pleasant to be someplace with a spectacular view to distract me from having to come up with the next earth shakin’, product movin’, sales increasin’, consumer viewin’, client pleasin’, award winnin’ banner ad.

Which is why I quite like where I happen to be working right now.

It’s an agency in Huntington Beach. I don’t have to get on a freeway to get here – I just fly down PCH from my house for about twenty minutes, and enjoy the view of the naval ships refueling, and rearming, at the Seal Beach Naval Weapons station. I try to count the bumper-to-bumper cargo ships backed up in the ocean because of last week’s dockworkers strike at the port. And then, a little further down the road, I watch the surfers and wish I were one of them. I don’t surf, and I’d probably get smacked in the head with my own board, drown and die, but you know what I mean.

This agency is spread out over four buildings, and the picture above is the view from the one in front. The one with the café. And the happy hour on Thursdays. And free breakfasts on Fridays. I file it under things could be worse.

Of course, being me, while I sometimes appreciate the full impact of gazing out at the ocean in the middle of the workday, another thought does cross my mind no matter how hard I try to keep it out.

It looks like this:

Now, this isn't the first time I've posted about tsunamis. About three and half years ago I put up this post. But when I wrote that post, I was just passing through. Now, I spend at least eight hours a day tsunami adjacent, not counting my leisurely lunches I love so much.

I don't think it matters if I see it coming or not, because either way, once it hits, I'm going to be one big, fat, soggy piece of humanity floating down Main St. past Sushi On Fire and the Pizza Lounge.

I just light up a room don't I?

Anyway, I'll enjoy the view for now and try not to worry too much about tsunamis.

On the bright side, it's Huntington Beach. I can always get a pair of board shorts in a hurry if I need them.

What does this remind me of?

It's deja vu all over again.

Have you ever seen or heard a story that reminded you of a place you've been, or know so well, and it's right on the tip of your tongue but you just can't manage to say it?

That's what happened when I read about the Lyubov Orlova, a 300-foot cruise ship that snapped it's tow line on the way to being scrapped, and has been adrift on the ocean for a year. It's what us seafaring folk call a "ghost ship", with no crew and filled with hundreds of diseased, cannibalistic rats named Hannibal.

Just kidding. I don't know how many of the rats are named Hannibal.

The point is, I was reading the article about it, and oddly enough, the idea of this once great ship, now years out of its prime, this giant of its industry, once filled with life and purpose, that at one time brought joy not only to those who worked on it but also those who experienced the fruit of that work, now floating powerless, wandering aimlessly adrift wherever the currents take it - so far off course for so long it can never get back.

I just feel like I've been on that boat. It all sounds so very familiar.

Especially the part about the cannibalistic rats.