Cutting the cards

It's that time of year again.

The one where I'm making last minute runs to the post office for stamps, and can't stop thinking about that Seinfeld episode where George's fiancé dies from licking envelopes.

What you're looking at is this year's crop of Christmas cards. Maybe some of you loyal readers (stops to laugh for thinking anyone's loyal, or for that matter that I have readers) will be receiving one of your own in the mail. The thing is, I can't guarantee that.

There's a master list of friends and family we send cards to. But from year to year, through a series of seemingly and sometimes actually random criteria, people get added and subtracted from the list. It's like getting a home loan, a job, knowing how planes fly or bread rises. You're never exactly sure how it happens, you just know that it does.

Then there's the picture. For years the cards have had a shot of the kids, or what used to be the kids. Now they're like our kids, except bigger and older. And they're not exactly fond of having to sit for the Christmas card picture. Again. They humor us because, after all, there is car insurance, food and college tuition in play. But frankly, they'd rather we just send out cards with a picture of a surfing Santa, a wreath or lights on a tree.

I'm hopeful that doesn't come across in the picture.

Anyway, if you get a card, you're welcome. And if you don't, it's nothing personal. Try to move past the disappointment, enjoy the holiday, have a merry Christmas, and know the odds are 50/50 you'll probably get one from us next year.

Unless you wind up on the naughty list.

Picture this

Last night was the high school graduation party for young Mr. Spielberg before he goes off to one of the top ten film schools in the country, and his good friend Trevor, who is graduating with him. It was a fun-filled evening, with many of his friends he’s literally grown up with and known all his life.

I’ve also known most of the kids there since they were in kindergarten. Which was great, because I never get enough reminders of how fast time is going by. Wasn’t it just yesterday they were asking me for 5’s instead of 20’s?

Anyway, besides the portable pizza oven catering the party, candy table, impromptu stage where my son (did I mention he plays five instruments?) sang with Trevor, was a wall with items representing who both boys were, their interests, where they’ve been and where they’re going. My boy was on the left. Trevor was on the right.

Each of our families had room for nineteen pictures. So late Saturday, we went online and had a ton of pictures printed out at Fromex. And they came out spectacularly.

The other thing they did was remind me how much I hate digital pictures. Not digital photography, just digital pictures.

Once you have the pictures in your hand, spending as much time as you want with them, they become time machines. They have the ability to take you right back to the moment they’re showing you.

I think too often we get caught up in the technology of seeing pictures on screen, and lose the meaning of the pictures themselves. I was reminded last night of something I've known but had forgotten - I'd much rather pass hard copies of pictures around than watch a digital slideshow any day of the week.

My beautiful son moves to Texas in August. But thanks to these pictures, and the many more I’ll be printing out, I’ll still be able to hold on to him.

What's the attraction

I've always been attracted to a certain theme in art and photography. More than just "That's a nice picture." or "Huh. Interesting." I'm talking about images that draw me in, make me feel something on a visceral level.

Images like this one my friend Ron posted on his Facebook page.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I gravitate mostly to either solitary figures, representations of loneliness or images of disparate people, together and at the same time isolated in their own thoughts like those in much of Edward Hopper's work, especially his classic, essential Nighthawks.

It probably says I need something as a counterpoint to all the happiness and joy I put out into the world. Either that or I need help. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Maybe I'm attracted to them because of the universality of the emotions. Aren't we all a stuffed teddy bear, cast out to the side of the road?

Okay. Maybe not.

The point is there seems to be more of a reality and truth to these images than ones where people are laughing, just a little too happy despite the reality of the world around them. Like the people who dance in commercials because their detergent gets the clothes brighter, or they're finally free of the constipation that's been plaguing them (hard to dance when you're constipated, so I hear).

Many of my friends find it an interesting contrast that I usually go for the joke at any cost, yet I'm a sucker for a sad image.

I would've been great in a Woody Allen film.

Define writer

Seems simple enough. A writer is a person who writes. Just like a drummer is someone who drums. So if you're drumming on your table at Starbucks, waiting for your venti half-caf with an extra shot of cream, does that make you a drummer? No, no it doesn't.

I take a lot of heat from my friends, who I call "real writers" because they are, about the fact I don't post to this blog with any kind of regularity. Clearly they've forgotten that I hold the well-earned title for the least disciplined writer they know. If it's any consolation, and I'm not sure why it should be, it's not the only thing I do without any regularity.

Saving money, buying new clothes, changing the oil in my car, good parenting. It's a long list.

At least when I do manage to have a thought rattling around and write about it, I usually have something to say. Usually being the operative word.

Anyway, I'd like to wrap up this post with some clever, snappy line. But to do that, I'd have to think about it more, and that might jeopardize my least disciplined writer status.

What I might do is take a second to go back over this post and see if there's anything I want to revise.

As I look at it, I think a good place to start would be the part about how I usually have something to say.

Halloween with the girls

I think Halloween is the most fun holiday of all. Not just because you get to dress up in any manner your heart desires. Or because you send perfectly innocent children to complete strangers' doors hoping candy is all they come back with.

I think it's fun because everyone's your friend on Halloween.

Years ago, the wife and I were in New York visiting my good friend Lisa Mehling. It was Halloween, and after dinner we found ourselves in the West Village on Christopher Street, the center point of the early gay movement in New York.

And if there's one thing we know about the gays - they do Halloween up right.

While we were walking around, I saw these three colorful characters walking up the street, laughing up a storm. I handed Lisa the camera and asked her to get a picture of me with them. I then turned to the three of them and said, "Hey girls, can I get a picture with you?" To which they replied, "Sure honey, get over here!"

I think my wife and Lisa were a little shocked by the fact that I even wanted the picture. But if you know anything about me, I'm ready for the party and I don't care who's throwing it.

So here's the picture of me with the girls on Halloween.

If it proves anything, I think it's that I clearly need to add more color to my wardrobe.

Darrin did good

At every agency I’ve ever worked at, someone somewhere has a picture in their office of Dick York as bumbling adman Darrin Stephens from the 1960's television show Bewitched. I suppose it’s always around because they can point to it and say that character is nothing like what they - real life advertising people - are like (in most cases).

The funny thing is, the character is also a million miles removed from what Dick York was really like.

By the time he was hired for Bewitched, he was an accomplished actor with several prestige projects on his resume, including a co-starring role with Spencer Tracy in Inherit The Wind. Unknown to Bewitched producers, he also was an addict, hooked on painkillers as a result of a back injury he got filming 1959’s They Came To Cordura, starring Gary Cooper. Eventually his injury forced him to leave the series after the fifth season.

He never regained his career after that, and along with his wife was forced into homelessness for years due to his inability to work. Eventually, when her mother died, they stayed in her house, with Dick as a shut-in now having been diagnosed with emphysema.

But from that house, he found a way to give to others and bring meaning to his life which he knew was coming to an end.

Their residence became a clearing house for organizations nationwide that helped the homeless and needy. Thanks to Dick York, people who would’ve had to go without food, clothing and shelter didn't.

It’s easy to get caught up in the knit-cap, tattoo, hipster attitude of agency life. It's even easier to laugh at a character from a time long past that’s nothing like you are.

Well, for all the people with the picture of Darrin Stephens hanging in their office, here’s another way you're not like him.

He did something that mattered and made a difference in people’s lives.

12 step program

NEIL: Hi, I'm Neil and I'm a moonwalker.

ALL: Hi Neil.

I'm sure there isn't a Moonwalkers Anonymous. But if there were, the first step would be to admit you've been 239,000 miles from Earth.

There have been 44 presidents. 1153 billionaires. 549 Nobel prize winners. But there are only 12 people in the history of recorded time who've walked on the moon.

I imagine at the annual People Who've Walked On The Moon reunions, who will sadly be one more member short when they next meet, the conversation is always the same:

"Can you believe we were there?"

"That's some view wasn't it?"

"Yep, it's really something."

"See you next year."

There's a famous story about how Buzz Aldrin was pissed he wasn't going to be the first man to walk on the moon. He even went so far as to complain to NASA mission control once they'd landed there. But Neil Armstrong was not only the mission commander, he had the seat next to the lunar lander door. Because of the large, bulky space suits and the small space inside, there was no way Aldrin could've climbed over Armstrong to get out first even if mission control had okay'd it.

If they had, I imagine it would've been an even longer ride back.

Understandably, not many people remember Aldrin's quote when he set foot on the lunar surface: he said, "Beautiful view...magnificent desolation." What he did do that everyone remembers (besides going to the moon) is take the haunting, timeless picture you see above of his footprint that will live on the surface forever.

In case you're wondering, here's a complete list of the club roster:

Neil Armstrong

Buzz Aldrin

Pete Conrad

Alan Bean

Alan Shepard

Edgar Mitchell

David Scott

James Irwin

John W. Young

Charles Duke

Eugene Cernan

Harrison Schmitt

I suppose a better name would be the Dream Makers club. I don't know a single person who saw the landing and didn't dream of going up there, jumping around in 1/6th the gravity of Earth and taking a joyride in the lunar dune buggy.

In the 40 years since the last moon landing, the club has gotten smaller with the passing of Armstrong, Shepard, Conrad and Irwin.

This past month, with it's two full moons and clear nights, I've been thinking that maybe with their passing they're back up there again, looking down at us, once more knowing and experiencing things we mere mortals can never know.

And of course, enjoying the view.

Godspeed.