On my watch

A long time ago, on wrists far, far away, people wore watches that weren’t smart. Rather they were functional. Fun. Stylish. Elegant.

Instead of the black, battery-charged squares you see on so many wrists, that do everything from answer phone calls to measure your heart rate to tell you how many steps you take in a day, they made up for their lack of Swiss Army utility by doing one thing well: telling time.

They were, and still are, um, timeless.

I was rummaging through my drawers over the weekend— the ones in my dresser, get your mind out of the gutter—and hidden away in there were a few timepieces I’d completely forgotten about.

Like this beauty pictured above. This ACME watch was given to me by the wife when we were in New York back in the day. We were enjoying a fine afternoon of shopping at the now late, great Warner Bros. flagship store on the corner of 5th and 57th, fraternizing with characters like Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Superman, Wile E. Coyote, the Tasmanian Devil, Tweety Bird and Sylvester.

The only silhouette missing on the face of it is the falling anvil.

Another gem, and also a gift from the wife who may have been trying to tell me something by giving me so many watches, was this retro-chic Hamilton Electric timepiece. I can’t remember if it’s from the late 50’s or early 60’s, but it doesn’t really matter.

Bitchin’ then, bitchin’ now.

Then there’s the Xemex—see if you can guess who gave it to me. It belonged to our friend Francois, and I had admired it so much that the wife (dammit, now you know) made a secret deal to buy it from him for me. The watch weighs just under seventy-five pounds. Alright, maybe not. But it feels like it. It’s a huge, heavy, shiny object.

I’ve had apartments smaller than that watch.

Years ago, an art director I worked with named Neil Muller wore this Seiko Chronograph. At the time I didn’t wear a watch (does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?), but I couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful it was. So I ran out and bought the exact same watch for myself.

I still don’t know what most of the dials do, but they look impressive, yes?

Finally, have to go with a classic. This Mickey Mouse watch was purchased on one of my many trips to the happiest place on earth. My Apple Watch lets me have a digital Mickey face on it, but it ain’t the same.

I was going to tie this up with a line about being out of time, coming back for seconds or even tick-tock Clarisse.

But it’s been a rough day. I think I’ll just kick back and unwind.

Encore post: One for Father's Day

I first posted this piece about 7 years ago. The kids sure don't look like this anymore, and I'm certain that beautiful pooch has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge by now.

Be that as it may, the essence of the words are the same.

It's hard not to feel like my life is becoming a Harry Chapin song, especially now that they have successful, happy lives of their own in progress.

But damn if they don't love their old man. When they were young, I used to ask them, "What's the one thing you know for sure?" And their answer would be, "That you love me."

Now that I think about it, some things never change. Happy Father's Day.

They don't look like this anymore. I don't know about the dog. He might if he's still around.

The thing about being a parent is that, as time goes on, I begin to realize all the clichés come true. How fast it goes. How fleeting it is. How one day they're riding tricycles, and the next they' re driving my car (with the same lead foot they must've inherited from their mother). One minute I'm driving them to kindergarten, the next they're off to college.

Father's Day isn't the only time I ponder these thoughts, but it hits a little harder today for some reason.

Here's the thing: I won the kid lottery. I look around at some of our friends' kids - who shall go nameless - and all I can think about is how fast I would've left them on the steps at the firehouse. Don't look so surprised. Think about some of your friends' kids and tell me I'm wrong.

I have two beautiful, smart, funny kids who still kiss their parents goodnight no matter what time they get home. We tell each other how much we love each other all the time. Their pain is my pain, and their joy is my joy. Their successes are my pride, and their failures are my heartache. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for them, with the possible exception of loaning them my American Express card.

Bill Murray put it best in Lost In Translation: "It's the most terrifying day of your life the day the first one is born. Your life, as you know it, is gone, never to return. But they learn how to walk and they learn how to talk, and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you'll ever meet in your life."

Anyway, the days' activities will be getting under way any minute. I know they'll be giving me cards and a few gifts today (new Stephen King book, hello?), and I have a sneaking suspicion the family's going to hijack me to my favorite breakfast place (it's the Coffee Cup Cafe in case you get the urge to treat me sometime).

Whatever they have in store for me this Father's Day, I want them to know the very best gift they can give me, the one I'll never get tired of, the one I want most, the one I'll always want, is more time with them.

So maybe take the tie back.

Bed check

I'm not a scientist. And I'm not particularly well versed in the theory of time and space. But after years working in them, I can definitely tell you that time in advertising agency creative departments is a relative thing.

One of the beauties of it is that it's not as structured as other occupations. Creatives usually roll into the office between 9 and 10, and roll out when their work is done—whenever that happens to be. Or not.

Creatives tend to have a tough time shutting down the production line when it comes to thinking of ideas. And even if we make a concerted effort, the ideas just have a way of breaking through.

At the stroke of midnight. In the shower. On weekends. During holidays. At weddings. In the middle of funerals. Almost anywhere, the wheels are always turning. That's because the wheels don't punch a time clock, and they don't always turn as well with all the distractions of the open floorplan office. Don't get me started.

Apparently management at the last agency I worked at wasn't quite in sync with the creative process and the irregular hours it involves. So they did bed check on our group in the morning and late afternoon. One or two people would casually stroll through the office, acting as inconspicuously as possible with their heads swiveling from side to side and a notepad in their hands. Without regard to whether people were at the client, in a meeting, at lunch, working from home or just in the bathroom, they'd tally up the empty desks and report back to headquarters.

My creative director made a point of bringing it up in one of the creative meetings we'd have every few weeks where all the teams would gather to, you know, catch up and be family. Agencies are very big on being family.

The way these meetings usually went is everyone would gather at a long table in the conference room, then be encouraged to talk about how their day was going. What they were working on. Or vent about anything that was bothering them.

What was bothering most of us were these damn meetings.

The creative director said he was taking a lot of heat about the empty desks the management spies saw during bed check. To which I say if you can't take the heat...

Anyway, he made a point of saying he didn't care if we were there or not, as long as the work got done. (Hear that buzzing sound? That's the needle on the lie detector going into the red).

The upshot of it all was that for about three days after, people dragged themselves in at the expected hours, the ones we were reminded were the regular business hours as listed in the employee handbook. But to no one's surprise, the handbook wasn't a bestseller in the creative department. Within days everyone was back on creative standard time.

I think as long as the work gets done, you're available somehow when people need you, it really doesn't matter where the magic happens. There are any number of technologies that make it easy to be on the job without being at the job. And any number of coffee shops with free wifi.

Plus no one's doing bed check at Starbucks.

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.

The always waiting room

Since my four-month gig working on a Japanese car brand (starts with an M, ends with an A) ended last Friday, I decided to take this short week off and catch up on some things that needed doing.

One of those was running my beautiful daughter to a couple doctor appointments. I always jump at the chance to do it, because my girl is pretty smart and extremely funny, and there are few things I enjoy as much as getting the chance to spend quality time with her whenever I can.

I just didn't know we were going to have that much time together.

Yesterday I took her to the eye doctor. Now, me being me, I don't go to just any doctor. I always look for The Guy. Our eye doctor is one of the top guys in the country, so just getting in is an accomplishment.

Her appointment was for 10:30 a.m. And since I'd rather be an hour early than a minute late, we were there around 10:20. We waited patiently in the waiting area as other people got called in. About 11:00 a.m. they came out and then made the psyche move you've seen so many times in doctors' offices. They called her in, and we thought the appointment was going to happen. But they brought her into a room, where an intern or nurse or assistant or someone gave her a quick vision test, then directed us to wait in another badly decorated waiting room.

At 11:30 I went to the front desk and in my nicest, most charming, impatient voice said we'd been there an hour and did they have an ETA on her seeing the doctor.

She was next in line, and about ten minutes later she finally got in to see The Guy.

Today, she had an appointment at 3 p.m. for a problem she's been having with her wrist. She played volleyball for a few years, and has had a some injuries to her hands and wrist. Her current pain is a souvenir from those days.

Her hand and wrist doctor also happens to be The Guy in his field. Directions they provide include how to get there from LAX, where people from all over the world fly in to see him.

Virtually the exact same thing happened - into another room, an assistant asking some questions, and then made to wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, an hour and ten minutes after the appointed time, he breezed in, said sorry about the wait, and proceeded with his brief exam.

I understand the top people are in demand, and a little waiting is to be expected. But how many bad schedulers can there be in the same city? Color me old fashioned, but isn't the idea of an appointment to get there at a time convenient to you? And doesn't waiting over an hour after that time defeat the purpose of making an appointment in the first place?

Naive I know.

All this waiting does at least give me a chance to use a line I like to use when I ask how long it'll be. I go up to the desk and ask, then I say "I had black hair when we came in here." If you knew me, you'd know how funny that is (hashtag Silver Fox).

Anyway, doctor visits are done for a while now, and what with school and her social life I probably won't get to spend as much quality time with my girl as I'd like. But at least I know she'll still make time to talk with me every day.

"Dad, can I borrow your car?" and "Do you have a twenty?" counts as talking, right?

Time after time

Every ad agency has their own way of recording hours employees put toward each job. And you couldn't blame anyone for thinking that, being the creative places they are, they might have a more inspiring way of going about it.

But sadly, like insurance offices, mortgage companies, law firms and other traditional businesses, agencies use timesheets to track hours, and reconcile them against the budget and scope of the assignments.

It's the only way they can find out if they’re allocating their resources properly (laughs hysterically – they never allocate properly), and if not, fine tune them to at the very least break even.

In days of old, back around 2003, agencies still required paper timesheets. Creatives would guestimate the number of hours they put against each job (why do you think they call it creative?), and then hand them in to a smiling, welcoming HR person waiting to make sure every thing goes perfectly with regards to you getting paid for your efforts (Cough, cough, couldntcareless, cough, cough).

Digital time sheets soon followed, but even so most agencies today still require you to print a hard copy then hand it in. Which begs the question why bother with an online version at all.

Of course, agencies beg the question "Why?" all the time.

Why pitch an account they’re completely unqualified to service.

Why embarrass themselves fighting to keep an account that’s been out the door since it arrived, and is making a beeline for it no matter what they do.

Why keep hiring alcoholic posers in leadership positions who've been “quitted” from their last five jobs (perhaps I've said too much).

Online timesheets also require you to account for every minute of every day. And if you don't happen to be slammed wall to wall every day, there's always a job number for a category called "General Overhead." It's the column where you list time spent for things like Facebook, Words With Friends, watching Apple movie trailers, (ahem) writing blog posts, going to lunch and reading What Would Tyler Durden Do.

On the spreadsheet the client sees it's called Research.

The point is - and yes I have one - that it doesn't matter how well agencies manage to finesse their digital timesheet algorithms. It seems that, for the foreseeable future, even though they're going to tout the convenience and efficiency of filling out timesheets online, they're still going to want you to print out a hard copy for accounting to hang on to.

You know, for the lawsuit.

I bought myself some Time

Today I did something I love to do, and don't do nearly enough (pausing for a minute while you get that thought out of your sick little head). I bought the latest issue of Time magazine.

My dad worked at a newsstand for years, so I think I come by my love of magazines honestly. Right up there with Springsteen concerts, Breaking Bad and eating sushi, buying magazines hot of the presses brings me great joy.

When I fly, I get to the airport early to peruse the magazines at the gift shop. It's especially rewarding because they're always the first to get the latest issues. I give careful consideration to them, but I always walk out with the same ones: usually an Esquire, GQ, People, Fortune and Entertainment Weekly. Occasionally one of the car rags, but because I get enough of those at work they're not always on the top of my list.

I talked here about how I'll never use e-readers and why I prefer the experience of real books and magazines. I still feel that way, even though I admit I find myself doing more reading online on news sites about topics I would've picked up a magazine for in the past.

The reason I picked up this weeks' copy of Time was because it's the Answers issue. Ironically it didn't have the answers I was looking for.

Anyway, this isn't going to be the start of a new magazine subscription frenzy. My family got Newsweek for over forty years, and I continued the tradition right up until they stopped publication. That was the longest magazine subscription I ever had or will have. I even managed to save a few of the more important issues (like the Springsteen cover) and have them locked away in storage ("Hello, eBay?").

Right now I have subscriptions to Fortune, FastTimes, Los Angeles Magazine and Entertainment Weekly.

But unless my bathroom or my coffee table get bigger, I don't see getting more anytime soon.

Take a beat

As yet another unintended consequence of technology taking over our lives, there's now a new experience for every driver on the road to look forward to.

The beat.

That moment, seemingly frozen in time, when the asshat in front of you is so deeply involved in their texting that they don't realize the light's turned green.

Whenever it happens - and it happens on a daily basis - the ball's in your court. Do you sit on the horn the second the light changes? What's the new etiquette? How long should you wait before letting them know you'd like to get where you're going before Social Security kicks in?

I think the right answer is only as long as it takes to realize what they're doing. On the horn-honking equivalency chart, texting equals fifty putting-your-make up ons, twenty-five changing the radio stations, fifteen eating in the cars and thirty-seven reading somethings.

Texting is by far the most egregious offense. So honk away Merrill (Signs movie reference. Now you know).

This isn't the first time I've posted about texting and driving. That was here. And it probably won't be the last. But it never ceases to amaze me how oblivious drivers can be. In the military, awareness of the environment around you is called situational awareness. When someone's texting at a red light, it isn't called anything because it doesn't exist.

Of course, just as icing on the texting cake, once they realize the light is green thanks to your horn rightfully blaring at them, they usually give you a hearty and friendly wave as their way of saying "thanks conscientious driver behind me for bringing to my attention the fact I was being selfish and rude by texting and thereby being inconsiderate of every other driver's time, also possibly endangering them by my lack of attention to the road. I'll try to do better."

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya. They usually return the favor with a one-finger salute, or by speeding away as if it'll reverse the time space continuum and make up for the extra time you had to sit at the light.

Which is ridiculous, because only Superman can reverse time by flying counter clockwise around the Earth. True fact. Look it up.

If you feel you have to text while behind the wheel, just don't.

Remember, beat is just three letters away from beating.

Waiting

I'm in a bad way this evening.

I'm waiting on some inevitable news about my friend Paul, who just went into hospice care 1200 miles from where I am. Obviously the news when it comes will not be good, except in the sense that Paul will begin the next part of his journey free from the pain and suffering he's had to endure.

So tonight, no funny lines, snappy endings or snarky comments.

Just prayers and love for someone who has meant the world to me for over 35 years. Someone I'm sure you'll know more about soon.

I know you don't know my friend. But send him your best thoughts and prayers anyway.

He could use them tonight.

What the hell happened to Joe Pesci

You read a lot about how hard it is for women over 40 in Hollywood. And no doubt it is. It's a town and business that eats its young, which explains all the nipping and tucking going on.

But seriously, what the hell happened to Joe Pesci. He's looking like My Grandpa Vinny.

I know the realities and ravages of time, but I simply don't want to think of Pesci looking this old. In my mind's eye, he's still cousin Vinny. Joey in Raging Bull. Tommy in Goodfellas. Nicky in Casino.

I guess the beauty of film is that in a moment captured in time, he'll always be those guys no matter how old he is. And they'll always be as close as Netflix.

Looking at the glass half full - which if you know me is exactly the way I operate - I suppose his age and different look will now open up a range of new parts that wouldn't have been available to him earlier in his career.

Maybe Richard Gere and Tommy Lee Jones can give him some pointers about that.

Still, it's somewhat jarring. We all have different markers for time passing. Kids growing up, friends getting older. For me, one of the strongest is seeing an actor I haven't seen in awhile who's seemingly aged suddenly.

I say suddenly, because it's not as if I'm getting any older. I can't figure it out.

Clock in

Every clock in my house reads, acts and sounds different from the other ones.

Not unlike my high school girlfriends, some are fast, some are slow. Some are loud, some are quiet. Some are easy to read, others not so much.

My friend Kelly Kliebe posted a picture of the Word Clock on his Facebook page awhile ago (although interestingly, he didn't mention what he had for breakfast, which team he was rooting for, or how I could get free tickets on Southwest).

The minute I saw it I had to have it.

For obvious reasons, it's a real writer's clock. And if I ever run into a real writer, I'll make sure and tell him about it (who of us didn't see that one coming?). Because the time is in words, there's no mistaking what time it actually is. I don't have to make an educated guess about the proximity of the hands to the numbers. There's no annoying ticking while I'm trying to sleep. And it serves a dual purpose: it also makes a great nightlight.

I ordered it from Doug Jackson at Doug's Word Clocks in Australia. I ordered it at the beginning of December, and actually forgot that I did until it arrived today.

Time gets away from me like that sometimes.

On his page you can see some of the variations in colors and materials you can order. I know it'll come as a surprise to all who know me that I chose black. Each one is custom ordered and hand-made, which makes it even more special. And more expensive.

I can see from the clock on the wall that IT IS TWENTY MINUTES PAST EIGHT.

An excellent time to wrap this up.