Storm watch

Years ago there was a funny commercial for a now defunct airline that satirized local news and their panicky Storm Watch weather segments by showing a storm cloud that looked like this one.

Now, making fun of consistently warm and sunny weather in the City of Angels isn't exactly a new idea. But it's always a sure bet. And an easy laugh.

The minute there's a mist (a real mist, not like Stephen King's The Mist - that would be another kind of "watch" altogether) or drizzle in L.A., news programs immediately shift gears and start competing frantically for ratings.

They don't waste any time breaking out their state-of-the-art, scientific, grotesquely expensive Doppler Radar. Mega Doppler Radar. Doppler Radar 2018. And Doppler Radar So Accurate It'll Make Your Head Explode.

As I write this, it's raining outside. Not a hard rain—light and steady. Just like my high school girlfriend. And in a curious case of life imitating wanna-be art, the news weather people—excuse me, meteorologists—are all on Storm Watch for real right now.

It's as if the city was populated entirely by relatives of the Wicked Witch of the West, and newscasters feel they have to get the word out before water hits any of them.

One of the best commentaries on L.A. weather and the way residents react to it was in Steve Martin's L.A. Story. Martin played a whacky weatherman (aren't they all?) who always tried to find entertaining ways to report weather in a city where the weather never changes.

Until one day, it took a terrible turn for the worse.

Random comment: even though it has nothing to do with rain or Storm Watch, the Prius key joke in La La Land is one of my favorite L.A. jokes. Ok, back on point.

Anyway, rain. L.A. You see where I'm going here. I was thinking I'd wrap up this post by writing my way into an end line like a hard rain's gonna fall. Or who'll stop the rain. Maybe rainy days and Mondays. Something like that.

Instead I've decided to abandon the whole Storm Watch/L.A. thing, and leave you with one of my favorite rain-related songs ever.

Dry humor? You're all wet? Nice day if it doesn't rain? How about a ripped from the headlines one like Stormy Daniels. No, I didn't think so. Oh well, I tried. Not hard, but I did try.

Please to enjoy Flight of the Conchords I'm Not Crying.

Ugly sweater

I'm a cold weather kind of guy. Anything above seventy degrees, and I start sweating like I'm carrying a backpack filled with lead uphill through the rainforest.

I was in Austin this past weekend, visiting young Mr. Spielberg, and checking out how much return we're getting on that out-of-state tuition. We also had the pleasure of seeing my longtime friend and writer extraordinaire Cameron Day and his wife Debbie, and all going to watch Holland Taylor perform in ANN, which she's brought to the lucky theater goers of Austin for a few weeks.

When the show was over, we stepped out of the theater into the night, and it was just as exceptional as the days had been on this quick turnaround: low 70's, mild breeze, clear blue Texas skies. Since I wasn't going to be there long, I figured the weather would hold until I came home today.

Well, not so fast there Mr. Sweaty Face.

When I went outside this morning, it was ninety degrees and muggy. Really muggy. Steamy, salt-sweat in my eyes muggy. To add to the drenching, I had to carry not only my suitcase down two flights of Airbnb stairs, but also a large suitcase my son had packed up for me to bring home so he wouldn't have to do it in a couple weeks when summer break starts.

Always happy to help my boy, but by the time I got both of them downstairs I looked like I'd just stepped out from under a hot shower. I tried to wipe myself down, but that only lasted for a minute or two.

Wait, what's that? A gentle, cool breeze? Oh thank God. What?! What do you mean it's over?! Crap.

The topping on the cake was I was standing in front of the building, and my Lyft driver pulled up on the side street and waited for me there. So I had to take the two suitcases and drag (roll) them almost half a block to him. Alright, maybe it was a hundred yards. Ok, feet. But still, the end effect was the same. I was a walking puddle.

Having come from the mean streets of West L.A., north of Wilshire, I always loved going to cities that had what I like to call real seasons. Where the temperature changed, and you don't really know from one minute to the next what it'll be. To my point of view, that's the way nature intended it, not this continual perfect, dry weather year in and year out.

But after this morning in Austin, I've reconsidered my opinion and decided I love the predictable, pleasant, dry weather here just fine, and I'm never going to complain about the lack of seasons again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some serious laundry to do.

Change in the weather

It occurred to me that agencies have a lot in common with the weather. No matter how hard you try to predict it, you really can’t be sure what it’s going to be from one day to the next.

In fact, there are some weather terms that can just as easily be applied to the agency culture as well as the inhabitants. For example:

Jet Stream

You know when the creative director, account supervisor, planner, junior account executive (in charge of the carry-ons) and research director board a plane together to fly to yet another Adweek seminar on Digital Creativity Strategies and Better Banner Ads in the Caribbean? The one you told them about and wanted to go to, except there was no budget for you? That’s the Jet Stream.

The Mean Temperature

Agencies are notoriously angry places. It doesn't take much to set them off. Someone's work sold and yours didn't. You weren't invited to a meeting you should've been at (don't worry-meetings are like buses). No one brought in bagels. Someone looked at you the wrong way. People at agencies have thin skins and long memories. They're not exactly rays of sunshine to begin with, but when they feel they've been wronged they're meaner than a junkyard dog having his anal glands expressed. When you figure out exactly who's mad at who, and how mad they are, that's the Mean Temperature.

High Pressure System

These kind of systems can be created in a number of ways. An approaching deadline. A meeting with HR. Finding out what someone else makes. The creative director wants to "talk" about his/her "idea." These systems can be found daily in the ever changing environment of the agency world.

Unstable Air

This is usually found in meetings where planners are involved. They're almost always telling you their insight that just isn't quite insightful enough. Usually they know it, and as a result aren't making the point as confidently as they'd hoped. Hence, unstable air.

Wind Chill

What you get when that joke you made about the creative director gets back to them.

Warm Front

The new receptionist. That's all I'm sayin'.

Of course, there are many more terms that apply, but I'll leave them for another post. After all, many of you reading this still think of advertising as a fun, glamorous, star-studded business to be in.

And I wouldn't want to rain on your parade.

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.

Grandma got screwed

And now for an update on the patient.

You'll remember back in October I published this post talking about how my mother-in-law had fallen on our top step, broken her arm and was about to have surgery. Well, a lot's happened since that post.

For starters, as you can see by her x-ray, grandma got screwed good and hard four times right after her fall. Given her age and the position she was in, it was exactly what she needed.

Yeah, I'm making sexual innuendos at the expense of an 85-year old woman. Deal with it.

At her recent doctor visit, he was very pleased at her progress. Her arm had regained more movement than he would've expected from someone her age so soon.

She's also lost more than twelve pounds since she's been staying with us because she's eating much better thanks to my wife's cooking and not munching on all the chocolate she has lying around her house.

I don't know what the hell my excuse is.

Where she used to walk up our driveway so she didn't have to climb four steps, she, well, she still walks up the driveway. Except when I'm with her I make her walk the steps. She's a bit set in her ways and severely exercise resistant. Going up the steps is good for her. And of course, making an 85 year old woman work harder is just one of life's great joys.

My living room couch is her bed, and she has everything she needs pretty much within arm's reach - the good arm. And while I can't parade around half-dressed as I'm prone to do, I can still watch the flat-screen late into the night because Grandma drifts off fairly early and her hearing isn't what it used to be.

She'll have her driving privileges back soon, and then I imagine she'll be moving back to her house which she visits once a week after church to pick up a bag full of an obscene amount of junk mail I can only hope for the sake of our forests not all seniors are getting.(Yes, that sentence had 54 words - let's see you do it.)

Every once in awhile Grandma complains about the unfamiliar ache in her arm. Having had a steel plate and five screws in my arm from an auto accident years ago, I completely understand the feeling. It's a unique kind of pain, only made worse when the weather gets chilly or it rains. But it does have its benefits. I used to love setting off the metal detector at the airport. In a pre-9/11 world it was a lot of fun.

Anyway, I make a point of cutting off her complaining at the pass, because it doesn't help us or her in the long run. Instead, what I do is remind her she's not the first person to have a broken arm and she won't be the last (although this is the first broken bone she's ever had).

What I should do is tell her about the great racehorse Barbaro, and the 27 screws he had to endure. And then tell her in that gentle, compassionate, caring way anyone who knows me knows I have, the four little words that would make it all better.

You got off easy.

The Perfect Storm

Looking east

Looking west

Not usually one to post about the weather, but I must admit the way the sky looked on my block at sunset yesterday has brought out my inner Al Roker (yes, all of you who thought I was actually a bald, black man with glasses were right).

As you can see, the contrast between clear skies to the east, and the gathering, nuclear-glow looking storm to the west was quite spectacular. It was hard to tell whether to break out the deck chairs or the lead shields.

While the family and I were having dinner on our patio, it started to rain. Warm weather, crisp, fresh rain.

Not only the perfect storm. The perfect dessert.